I grin back and bounce on my toes, hearing the roar of the crowd as the support act finish their final track.
It's time.
And I'm ready. All thanks to Elijah, the bodyguard who goes the extra mile.
7
BEN
I finish the backstage check just as the MC is announcing that it's time for the main event. Touching my lapel, I call in confirmation that my side is clear. Asher comes into view, confirming the same. Mo and Jax are upfront, and Connor and Elijah are waiting to escort Luna safely onto the stage.
The lights begin to flash, a deep beat pulsing from the huge speakers, and I hear Connor confirm that Luna is on the move.
My heart is in my throat as I gaze into the almost black expanse of the stadium. There are people out there. Thousands of people screaming Luna's name. Thousands of ordinary people worked into a frenzy by their love of the way she sings or the way she looks. Among them there will be the fans who are obsessed. The ones with the unhealthy psychologies who invent stories about how close they are to Luna. Maybe they think they should be dating her. Maybe they want to touch her in real life because of the words of a song that some middle-aged music executive came up with.
Scientists estimate that one percent of the population are psychopaths, but in my life experience, I'd put that number higher. Yes, there are probably one percent who are the real terrifying fuckers, but there must be at least another five percent who are the ones who function in day-to-day life without slaughtering animals, who fly under the radar, but exist with no conscience. They’re the ones who worry me more.
I don’t know how Luna has the confidence to exist in the public eye. She’ll go out there and stand in front of all of those people, singing and dancing as though it’s the easiest thing in the world. I’d rather somebody emptied a Glock into my temple.
The beat begins to rise, the lights flashing so rapidly that it's hard to see. I stand, braced for anything, knowing that my team are doing the same. The men of Steel 7 are my brothers.
Just thinking about them that way makes my throat burn. We should have been Steel 8 and we would have been if Hudson's twin, Hartley, hadn't caught the worst of an IED.
Seven is supposed to be a lucky number, but for us it's just a reminder of how dangerous the world is, and how unfair.
For the companies that hire us, seven is always justifiable because we share a flat fee and are willing to take on the work that a personal assistant can do. There’s always a way to encourage a company to take us all on. Working apart just wouldn’t be an option.
"Five seconds." Connor is a little out of breath in my ear.
And then there she is, bounding onto the stage. Luna’s dancers follow and they start the first number, a rousing tune about Luna getting over her ex. It's stupid, but every time I hear her sing about the douchebag who broke her heart, I want to punch the fictional asshole in the mouth.
The crowd go crazy, almost obliterating her voice with their cheers, and then they quieten to listen to Luna's crystal-clear melody. They hold up their phones to capture her perfect performance.
My eyes scan the section of backstage that I can see. At the front, Mo grabs hold of an overenthusiastic fan who's desperately trying to scale the barriers onto the stage. He puts the girl down as gently as possible and holds his finger up in warning. I scan the stage, finding Luna hitting every beat with a dance routine that seems too taxing to manage while singing at the same time. Backstage, I spot Marcus, one of the lighting techs, watching Luna as though he’s in a trance-like state. There’s a smirk on his lips. At least, it looks like a smirk rather than a smile.
My eyes flick back to Luna, checking that all is okay. When I glance back, Marcus has moved on.
The song comes to an end and Luna stands, her chest rising and falling, gazing out into the sea of shadowed faces. "How are you doing BERLIN?" she yells the last part and the crowd go crazy again. "This next one is my favorite from the album. I hope you enjoy it."
The band starts to play a track about first love, and Luna begins to dance slowly, her male dancers coming one by one to grind with her suggestively. My eyes meet Elijah's across the stage, and he grimaces. I'm not sure what's driving the response. This music isn't exactly his style so it could be that. Or it could be Luna's hand trailing over the muscular chest of yet another man with perfect rhythm.
That's how I feel.
Jealousy is a fucked-up emotion. It's fucked up at the best of times, eating through perfectly healthy relationships, but it's even worse when you feel it and have no right to.
Luna's not my girl. She can touch any man anyway she wants and feeling anything about it is way outside of my remit, but I can't help it.
The girl is just too pretty, too funny, too sassy, and too perfect.
She's everything that lights me on fire and more, wrapped up in a ball of dynamite.
And I'm her bodyguard.
Could this be more cliched?
I feel like I'm replicating a nineties movie, except my feelings aren't replicated.
"You okay, Ben?" Connor asks, his voice raspy through our equipment.
"All good," I say, but he must have noticed my mind wandering, my concentration lapsing. And that's why thinking about Luna is dangerous. I need to keep my mind clear.
She wouldn't want me, anyway. If she was going to break the rules with any of the Steel 7, it would be with one who still had all their own limbs.
As if my stump can feel me thinking about it, it begins to ache where it rests in my prosthetic. Things have come a long way with technology, but even with all the gel covers and ergonomically shaped equipment, there is still discomfort.
Luna continues her performance, and I manage to keep my eyes on her and all the places in the stadium that I’m responsible for keeping clear. She's sweating and out of breath but killing every song and the crowd are lapping it up.
As the final song comes to an end, Connor tells me to make my way around. I guess things must be getting busy on his side and he wants extra backup to escort Luna back to her dressing room.
"Thank you, Berlin. You've been awesome," Luna shouts, kissing her palms and blowing it into the crowd. She bends at the waist, her cute little skirt rising high enough to see her panties through her red fishnet stockings. My cock stirs in my pants, an image of her bending to rest her palms on the dining table in our suite flooding my mind. I'd love to show her how deep I could fuck her; how good it could be. In that position, she'd never have to see the place my leg used to be. She'd never have to see that I'm not whole.
I'm almost around as Luna jogs off stage, pulling the fabric of her tube top a little higher. Damn, doesn't she know that adjusting boobs in front of men just gets us thinking about boobs.
"On the move," Connor says, just as I take position next to Luna, holding her arm at the elbow.
There are people everywhere, standing around drinking and laughing. Most have lanyards around their necks, official backstage passes. We don't have far to go but it's tight in the hallways. I keep a watch behind us, swiveling every so often to check we're not being tailed. By the time we get to Luna's dressing room, I'm sweating and out of breath.
Asher throws the door open, scanning the room before he allows Luna to enter. Connor follows, and so do I, leaving Elijah to stand outside.