“Shit. I didn’t realize it had been so bad.”
“I didn’t want to make a big deal with everything Shelby went through. Don’t bother telling her, either. It’s not something she needs to worry about.”
Well, at least halting the tour makes more sense now. And my respect for him grows.
“I’ve got a guy from California who handles security. He and his team come highly recommended. He’s, like, written the book on celebrity safety or something.”
“Okay.” I’m still waiting for him to get to the point.
“He’s going to do a complete risk assessment for me. But he also offers security training. I’m having all my guys take it. I thought you and”—he waves his hand toward the conference room— “the scary one might want to join in.”
The biker in me wants to scoff and ask if he really thinks I need to learn how to kick someone’s ass. The man who wants to protect his girlfriend at all costs is the one who answers. “Yeah. We’ll do that. Thanks.”
“All right.” He slaps my shoulder. “Whoever else you got coming on the road with you can join too. We can talk more about it later. Let’s go eat.”
Apparently, Dawson has been busy. The hotel has a buffet set up for our party. I recognize members of his band and road crew. A few nod to me or stop and shake my hand.
I spot Jigsaw sitting at a round table way in the back of the room. He’s keeping his eye on Shelby and her mom but stands as I approach. “Startin’ to wonder what happened to you, brother.” He slaps my hand and pulls me in quick, thumping my back.
“Stopped to talk to Dawson.” My gaze shifts to Shelby. “You all right?”
She barely glances up from the slab of prime rib she’s demolishing. “Happier than a possum eatin’ a sweet potato pie.”
“Do possums like sweet potato pie?” Jigsaw asks.
Shelby side-eyes him but doesn’t bother answering.
Lynn pats her daughter’s back.
Laughing, I nudge Jigsaw. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“Made sure the girls were content first.” He glances at Lynn and the two of them share a smile that’s unsettling as hell.
“All right then.” I point myself in the direction of the buffet and pick up a plate.
By the time I return to the table, Greg’s planted himself in the chair next to Shelby’s mother. I take the one next to Shelby, and Jiggy drops into the one next to me.
Greg leans over the table to focus on Shelby while I eat. “Are you ready to talk about the CMAs a little?”
She flicks a glance at her mother and sets her fork down. “Yeah.”
He rubs his hands together. “A few designers have expressed interest in dressing you for the awards.”
Shelby lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t say?”
“Nothing crazy, Greg.” Lynn’s worried gaze lands on the haggard manager. “She should look like a princess not an experiment. And some of the designers these days…”
“Shelby has a good sense of what she likes and doesn’t,” Greg answers in a neutral tone.
By her blank expression and the way she’s stirring her spoon through her coffee, I think Shelby’s checked out of the conversation. Under the table, I rest my hand on her leg.
“This should be fun stuff, no?” I ask quietly.
She lifts one shoulder. “I guess.”
“You want to go upstairs?”
Her red-rimmed eyes meet mine and she nods once. “I’m beat.” She pats her stomach. “And stuffed like a Thanksgiving bird.”
I shove my chair back and stand, dropping my napkin on the table. “We’re heading upstairs.”
Greg glances at Shelby. “We have rehearsal—”
I spear him with a pointed look, and his mouth snaps shut. “Unless something is physically on fire, don’t call us in the morning. I’ll let you know when Shelby’s up and ready.”
Jigsaw cough-laughs into his fist.
Greg opens his mouth, probably to object.
Trent places his hand on Greg’s arm. “We’ve got plenty to work with. Ain’t like Shelby forgot the words to her own songs.”
Ignoring Trent’s perfectly reasonable tone, Greg glares at me. “All right.”
I nod a quick thanks at Trent.
“Lynn, do you need anything?” I ask.
She glances at her coffee cup. “I’ll stay down here. I’m not tired yet.”
I flick my gaze at Jigsaw, silently asking him to look out for Lynn, and he responds with a quick nod.
Lynn walks out of the room with us, stopping at the elevators to hug Shelby tight. “Get some rest. My flight isn’t until late afternoon. We’ll talk before I go, okay?”
“Night, Momma.”
Lynn stares up at me for a few seconds, then leans up and kisses my cheek. “Thanks, Logan.”
“Sure.”
The elevator dings. Inside, Shelby rests her body against mine while I punch the button for our floor. I wrap my arm around her, keeping her close. “Tired?”
The only answer she gives is a gentle nod against my chest. An overwhelming urge to pick her up and carry her to our room barrels down on me. When the elevator chimes and opens, I sweep her up.
She sighs and settles against me, wrapping her arms around my neck. At our door, I fumble to slide my hand in my pocket while bracing her body against the wall so I don’t drop her. It takes a few seconds.
“I can walk.” She wriggles for me to put her down just as I finally press the card to the door sensor.
“I got you.” I kick open the door, turning us sideways to slide into the room, then tap it shut with my boot. “See?”
“Hmm.”
“Want to go right to bed?”
“No.” She picks up her head and yawns. “I need a shower in the worst way.”
“All right.” I carry her into the bathroom and set her down in front of the sink. “I’ll grab your stuff.”
I hesitate to leave. All she does is stand there sort of swaying, not really looking at anything. But she bobs her head once and I hurry to grab her bath stuff and something for her to sleep in.
When I return, she’s checking out the bathtub and shower combo, adjusting the water.
“You want help?” Shit, why do things feel so awkward all of a sudden?
She blinks up at me almost as if she feels it too. “Can I have a few minutes by myself?”
Remembering what the doctor said, I’m not offended by Shelby’s request. “Yeah, sure. Of course.” I set her stuff down.
“I promise not to drown or anything.” She forces a small smile.
“Yell if you need me.” I close the door with a soft click and enter the bedroom. Edgy and restless, I pace the thick tan carpet for a few seconds before pulling a few things I need for the night out of my bags. I don’t risk turning on the television or radio, worried any extra noise could mask a cry for help from Shelby.
The running water switches to the shower spray. None of the familiar little singing or humming noises Shelby usually makes accompany the pitter-patter. I stretch out in an oversized armchair by the window and reluctantly switch on my phone. The stories about Shelby’s kidnapping are on every major news site and every celebrity blog.