No Official Reason - 1. Chapter 1

The music pounded beneath the screams of twenty thousand teenage girls.

From the wings, Mike Cooper watched Shane Kelly launch into the final chorus of the final song of the tour. Shane had already thrown his guitar pick into the audience and was standing at the front edge of the stage, one boot planted on a speaker, singing his heart out like he had not performed the same song forty-seven times over the past three months.

This was finally it.

The last song of the last set of the last stop.

The Dream Boys were the hottest boy band on the charts in the summer of 1999. They had two platinum albums, a sold-out tour, their own line of clothing, and enough merchandise to fill a department store.

Unlike some of the competing groups, the Dream Boys actually played instruments. Shane sang lead and usually played guitar. The other four boys ranged from seventeen to twenty and provided backing vocals while playing drums, keyboards, bass, and rhythm guitar.

But Shane was undeniably the front man.

He was the one whose face appeared largest on the posters. He was the one interviewed first. He was the one management placed in the middle of every photograph.

At five feet nine and barely one hundred thirty pounds, Shane was not physically imposing. The stage lights and colorful clothes made him look larger than he was. His pale skin, jet-black hair, and soulful blue eyes did the rest. He knew how to look straight into a television camera and make every girl watching believe he had chosen her.

At least, that was what the record label paid him to do.

Mike knew better.

He had figured it out shortly after joining the tour.

He had also figured out that knowing was absolutely forbidden.

There were too many people making money from Shane Kelly. The label, the promoters, the managers, the sponsors, and an entire army of people selling everything from concert tickets to Shane Kelly pillowcases depended on millions of teenage girls believing he might someday fall in love with one of them.

Nobody wanted to discuss what would happen if those girls discovered he never would.

Mike’s uncle knew too.

That was why strings had been pulled, and Mike had been hired as Shane’s live-in security. The official explanation was that Shane needed more protection after several fans broke into the band’s hotel in Chicago.

The unofficial explanation was that Shane needed to be watched.

Mike had spent four years in the Marine Corps, most of it with the military police. At twenty-three, he was not much older than the members of the band, but he carried himself differently. He stood six feet one and weighed just under two hundred pounds, most of it hard muscle. His light brown hair remained cut in a high and tight even though nobody required it anymore.

The job was simple on paper.

Keep Shane safe.

Stay close.

Know where he was at all times.

Report anything that might become a problem.

Mike’s attention snapped back to the stage as the song ended.

The five boys came together at center stage, joined hands, and bowed while the arena erupted around them. Camera flashes sparkled through the darkness. Handmade signs bounced in the crowd. Several girls near the barricade were crying.

The band ran offstage, laughing and shoving each other from the adrenaline.

Shane came directly to Mike.

“Are we done?”

His stage smile had already disappeared. Without the lights and the crowd feeding him, he looked nineteen again.

“Yeah. No guests backstage tonight. Great job out there.”

Shane gave him a smaller but more genuine smile. “Thanks. I really need a shower. Should I do that here or wait for the hotel?”

“They want us out before the crowd starts moving. Towel off and change. You can shower when we get where we’re going.”

Shane’s eyes brightened slightly. “They approved it?”

“Eventually.”

“My manager actually agreed?”

“My uncle convinced him.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“It cost me several favors and a promise that I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

Shane looked at him for a second longer than necessary. “I don’t mind that part.”

Mike ignored the strange tightening in his chest.

“Dressing room is clear,” he said. “Move.”

Shane obeyed without complaint.

Mike entered first, checked the connecting bathroom, the wardrobe area, and the second door leading into the corridor. Once he was satisfied, he gave Shane the nod.

Shane changed quickly. He had enough practice stripping in and out of stage costumes to do it in under two minutes.

The bright red leather pants and sleeveless silver shirt disappeared into a wardrobe bag. Shane replaced them with simple black jeans, a black T-shirt, a black hooded sweatshirt, and a New York Yankees cap pulled low enough to hide most of his hair.

He looked like an ordinary college kid.

That was the point.

“Ready?” Mike asked.

Shane nodded.

“Your bags are already in the SUV. The other guys are taking the bus to the official hotel. We’re slipping out through the private parking area and heading the opposite direction.”

“When do we meet them?”

“Monday afternoon. Rehearsals for the next leg start Tuesday.”

“So I get two whole days?”

“Assuming you don’t do anything stupid.”

“What would I possibly do?”

Mike gave him a flat look.

Shane smiled. “Fine. Nothing stupid.”

They moved through a maze of service corridors Mike had explored earlier. The route led behind the loading docks, through a storage area, and into a private parking structure used by performers and arena executives.

A black Chevrolet Suburban waited near the exit.

One of the other security guards handed Mike the keys.

“Full tank,” the guard said. “Bags are in the back. Hotel knows you’re coming.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s what the overtime is for.”

Shane moved toward the rear passenger door, stopped, and then changed direction. He opened the front door and climbed into the passenger seat.

Mike rolled his eyes but did not argue.

Letting Shane ride shotgun probably helped their disguise. Famous singers usually sat in the back of chauffeured vehicles. They did not ride beside a young man in an SUV that looked like it had escaped from a federal motor pool.

They left the arena without incident.

The highway was busy, but most of the traffic was heading toward downtown or the official hotel. Mike took the first exit north and settled into the right lane.

“There should be a TripTik in the glove box,” he said. “Find it.”

Shane opened the compartment and pulled out the folded pages prepared by AAA.

“People used to cross the country with these?”

“People still cross the country with them.”

“They look like someone photocopied a map and attacked it with a highlighter.”

“That’s because somebody photocopied a map and attacked it with a highlighter.”

Shane laughed quietly.

It was the first time Mike had heard him laugh without one of his bandmates standing nearby in several days.

“The hotel gave us a suite,” Mike continued. “Private entrance, small kitchen, one bedroom.”

“One bedroom?”

“I’m on the sofa.”

“You don’t have to sleep on the sofa.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m working.”

Shane folded the TripTik and put it on the center console. “You’re always working.”

“That’s the general idea.”

“I just need to get away from the crowd. Thank you for doing this.”

“I don’t mind. You’ve been respectful, and you usually listen when I tell you something. That makes protecting you a lot easier.”

“My bandmates don’t listen.”

“Your bandmates are reprobates.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“One of them jumped from a second-floor balcony into a swimming pool last week.”

“Dylan was drunk.”

“That doesn’t improve the story.”

Shane smiled again, then leaned his head against the window.

“It’s funny,” Mike said. “The biggest rock star in the band acts the least like a rock star as soon as the crowd disappears.”

“Stage Shane is the act. The roar of the crowd feeds it, but I just love the music. When I’m out there, I get lost in it. Then the music stops, and I’m left hanging on to this insane roller coaster.”

“You could tell them you need more time off.”

“They would tell me I can rest after the next album.”

“Probably.”

“I need this. Just two days without people.”

“I still need to stay nearby.”

“Mike, I don’t mean you when I say I need to be away from people.”

Mike glanced over.

Shane was looking down at his hands.

“I know,” Mike said.

He did not know what else he could safely say.

Shane leaned his seat back and closed his eyes. Within ten minutes, his breathing became slow and even.

Mike kept both hands on the wheel and tried not to think about the fact that Shane had placed him in a separate category from everyone else in his life.

That was dangerous.

Not because Shane was gay.

Because Mike was not as uninterested as he was supposed to be.

---

The drive should have taken a little over an hour, but traffic outside the city added another thirty minutes.

Shane slept through most of it.

The hotel was smaller than the places the band normally used. It sat beside a wooded lake and catered mostly to business retreats, weddings, and wealthy people who wanted to pretend they were roughing it.

Mike pulled around back.

Another security guard was waiting near a service entrance. He handed Mike two keycards.

“Room is swept,” the guard said. “I had somebody stationed inside until ten minutes ago.”

“Anybody know who the guest is?”

“Hotel manager and one desk clerk. Reservation is under Cooper.”

“Good.”

“You owe me.”

“That’s what the overtime is for.”

The guard laughed and walked toward his car.

Mike opened the back of the Suburban and pulled out both bags.

Shane stumbled out of the passenger side before Mike could wake him properly.

“Feel better?” Mike asked.

“We’re here already?”

“Obviously.”

“I meant the drive went fast.”

“Things usually do when you’re unconscious.”

They used the employee stairs to reach the second floor. The suite was at the end of the corridor, away from the elevator and emergency exit.

Mike opened the door and entered first.

The main room had a sofa, two chairs, a dining table, and a television housed inside a wooden cabinet. A doorway led into a bedroom with a king-sized bed. The windows overlooked the lake.

Mike checked the closets, bathroom, balcony, and connecting door.

“Clear.”

Shane dropped his bag beside the bedroom door.

“I’m taking that shower now.”

“Go ahead.”

Shane disappeared into the bedroom.

Mike hung the Do Not Disturb sign outside, engaged the deadbolt, and checked the connecting door again. He changed into shorts and a T-shirt, placed his pistol in a holster under the coffee table within easy reach, and sat on the sofa.

He turned on the local news and lowered the volume.

For the first time in several weeks, there was no screaming outside the windows, no radio chatter in his ear, and no manager demanding to know where Shane was.

Mike allowed himself to relax.

The shower ran for a long time.

When Shane finally came out, his hair was damp and unstyled. He wore gray shorts and a dark blue T-shirt that hung loosely from his narrow shoulders.

He sat on the sofa beside Mike.

Close, but not touching.

“Thanks again,” Shane said. “I really appreciate this.”

“You’ve thanked me enough.”

“I don’t think I have.”

Mike slung an arm across the back of the sofa.

Shane watched the movement.

Mike knew he should leave his arm where it was.

Instead, he rested his hand on Shane’s shoulder and tugged him sideways.

Shane melted against him immediately.

Mike told himself it was comfort. Shane had been performing for months. He was exhausted. He trusted Mike.

None of those facts explained why Mike’s hand tightened on Shane’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to keep going like this,” Shane mumbled.

“As long as you keep filling arenas, management is going to protect the version of you they’re selling.”

“They’re crazy.”

“They’re scared. There’s a difference.”

“Of what?”

“Losing money.”

Shane was quiet.

Mike could feel the warmth of him through the thin cotton shirt.

“I’m not interested in them,” Shane said.

Mike knew exactly who he meant.

“I know.”

Shane went rigid.

Mike immediately regretted the words.

After several seconds, Shane turned his head enough to look up at him.

“What do you mean, you know?”

Mike considered lying.

The job required him to lie when necessary. He had lied to fans, reporters, hotel employees, and police officers who wanted to know why an unmarked SUV was parked in a fire lane.

He found that he could not lie to Shane while holding him.

“I figured it out.”

“How?”

“You don’t look at girls the way they want you to.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“You look at some of the male dancers that way.”

Shane’s face turned red.

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“Oh God.”

“Nobody else noticed.”

“My manager—”

“Your manager notices numbers. Album sales, ticket sales, and how many seconds you smile during interviews. He doesn’t pay attention to you.”

Shane looked down.

“That doesn’t bother you?” he asked. “That I like guys?”

“No.”

“You don’t think it’s wrong?”

“No.”

“Disgusting?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

Mike tightened the hug briefly.

“You’re a good guy. That’s the part I care about.”

Shane released a breath that sounded like he had been holding it for years.

“I can’t be myself.”

“Not publicly. Not right now.”

“They won’t even let me stop pretending when the cameras are off.”

Mike frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Publicists keep arranging dates. They tell girls to come backstage. Sometimes the girls know it’s just for photographs, but sometimes they don’t. Then I’m expected to sit there while they flirt with me.”

“You could tell management you won’t do it.”

“I have.”

“And?”

“They reminded me how many people depend on the band.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s their answer.”

Mike felt anger rise in his chest.

He had always understood the business arrangement in practical terms. Shane had an image. The label protected the image. Mike protected Shane.

Hearing what that protection felt like from inside the cage made the arrangement harder to excuse.

Shane shifted but did not pull away.

“There are some boys who like the band too,” he said.

“Sure.”

“I found stories about me in the Boy Band section on Nifty.”

Mike looked down at him. “You went looking?”

“I was curious.”

“That was your first mistake.”

“I can’t believe people write that stuff.”

“People are strange.”

“One story said I had a ten-inch donkey dick.”

Mike snorted.

“I don’t,” Shane added.

“I know.”

Shane sat upright so quickly that Mike’s arm fell away.

“What do you mean, you know?”

“If you were carrying something that large around, it would affect the way you walked.”

“I thought you snuck a peek.”

“My job is to protect you, not take advantage of my position to see things you aren’t sharing.”

Shane’s expression changed.

The embarrassment disappeared, replaced by something quieter and more serious.

“What if I wanted to share?”

Mike’s heartbeat kicked harder.

“Shane.”

“I’m asking.”

“I know what you’re asking.”

“Then answer.”

Mike stood.

He crossed to the window and looked out at the dark lake. A few lights reflected from cabins along the opposite shore.

He could feel Shane watching him.

“You’re nineteen,” Mike said.

“I’m aware.”

“I’m responsible for your safety.”

“I’m aware of that too.”

“You’re isolated from almost everybody you know. I decide where you go, who comes near you, and whether you leave a building.”

“You make me sound like a prisoner.”

“Sometimes that’s exactly what this job makes you.”

Shane stood slowly.

“Is that what I am to you? A job?”

Mike did not answer.

Shane came closer.

“You stay outside every dressing room. You sleep in every hotel suite. You know when I’m tired, when I’m angry, and when I haven’t eaten enough. You know I’m gay when I’ve never said it out loud to anyone.”

“That’s why this is a bad idea.”

“Because you know me?”

“Because you trust me.”

“I thought that was supposed to be a good thing.”

“Not when I’m being paid to stand between you and the rest of the world.”

Shane stopped a few feet away.

“What happens when the tour starts again?”

“I keep doing my job.”

“And I keep pretending I don’t want you?”

Mike closed his eyes.

There it was.

The thing he had known without allowing himself to name it.

Shane had not arranged these quiet conversations because he needed company from just anyone. He had not chosen the front seat because he hated sitting in back. He did not lean into Mike because Mike was conveniently nearby.

Mike turned around.

Shane looked terrified but did not retreat.

“You don’t know what you want,” Mike said.

“That’s insulting.”

“You’re exhausted and trapped. I’m the only person management allows you to be alone with. That can make things feel like something they aren’t.”

“You think I’m confused?”

“I think I’m in a position where I could take advantage of you without meaning to.”

“Then don’t take advantage.”

Shane stepped closer.

“Let me choose.”

Mike should have moved.

Instead, he remained still as Shane reached up and rested a hand against his chest.

The touch was light.

Mike felt it everywhere.

“I know what I want,” Shane said.

Mike placed his hand over Shane’s.

For one reckless second, he considered closing the distance between them.

The telephone rang.

Both men jumped.

Mike released Shane and moved toward the table.

The phone rang again.

Nobody outside the hotel manager and Mike’s security team should have known the room number.

Mike picked it up.

“Cooper.”

His uncle’s voice answered.

“How is our boy?”

Mike looked at Shane.

“Exhausted. He’s resting.”

“Any trouble?”

“No.”

“Has he tried to contact anyone?”

“No.”

“Any requests to leave the hotel?”

“We just arrived.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Mike turned away.

“No. He hasn’t asked to leave.”

His uncle paused.

“Did he say anything?”

“About what?”

“Don’t play games with me, Michael.”

Mike’s hand tightened around the receiver.

Shane moved back toward the sofa.

His uncle continued.

“The purpose of this little excursion was to give him room. People reveal things when they believe they’re safe.”

Mike stared at the wall.

“You approved this to test him?”

“I approved it because he has become attached to you. That makes you useful.”

Behind him, the sofa cushion shifted.

Mike lowered his voice.

“I’m his bodyguard.”

“You are whatever the label needs you to be.”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“The deal was that you keep him from becoming a liability.”

Mike glanced over his shoulder.

Shane was no longer sitting on the sofa.

The bedroom door stood partly open.

Mike could not tell how much he had heard.

His uncle spoke again.

“Has he admitted it?”

Mike’s stomach tightened.

“Admitted what?”

“You know what.”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“And the attachment?”

“He trusts me.”

“Good. Keep it that way. We have another album to record, and the label wants no surprises.”

Mike swallowed his anger.

“What happens if there is a surprise?”

“Then we control it.”

“How?”

“That depends on the problem.”

“You’re talking about a nineteen-year-old kid.”

“I’m talking about an asset worth several hundred million dollars.”

“He’s a person.”

His uncle sighed.

“This is why I gave you the job, Michael. You care enough to keep him safe, but you understand discipline. Don’t disappoint me.”

The line went dead.

Mike held the receiver for several seconds before replacing it.

The bedroom door opened.

Shane stood there with his shoes on.

His expression had gone completely blank.

“How much did you hear?” Mike asked.

“Enough.”

“Shane—”

“You brought me here to test me?”

“No.”

“That’s what he said.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I knew why I was originally assigned to you. I didn’t know this weekend was a trap.”

Shane crossed the room and grabbed his cap from the table.

“You knew why you were assigned.”

Mike did not attempt to deny it.

“My uncle suspected you were gay. He wanted somebody close enough to prevent a problem.”

“And you agreed.”

“I thought I could protect you better than whoever they sent next.”

“You thought you could control me better.”

“No.”

“You report to him.”

“I’m supposed to.”

“Do you?”

Mike hesitated.

That was enough.

Shane laughed once, but there was no humor in it.

“Of course you do.”

“Most of my reports are about security.”

“Most?”

Mike felt every excuse collapse before he could say it.

“I told him when you tried to leave the hotel in Phoenix.”

“To go to a bookstore.”

“You didn’t tell anybody where you were going.”

“Because nobody lets me go anywhere.”

“There were threats against the band that week.”

“What else?”

“I told him you were having trouble sleeping.”

“What else?”

“That you were frustrated with the publicity dates.”

Shane’s face hardened.

“So I finally find one person I can talk to, and he writes reports about me.”

“I never told him you were gay.”

“You didn’t have to. That was why he hired you.”

“I was trying to keep them from assigning somebody who would hurt you.”

“And you decided I didn’t deserve to know.”

Mike stepped toward him.

Shane moved back immediately.

The reaction hurt more than Mike expected.

“Don’t,” Shane said.

Mike stopped.

“I should have told you.”

“Yes.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t trust me.”

“You were right.”

Shane reached for the door.

Mike moved between him and it.

Shane’s eyes flashed.

“Get out of my way.”

“I can’t let you walk into the hallway without knowing where you’re going.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“You could be recognized.”

“Then I’ll be recognized.”

“This isn’t the time to make a point.”

“No, this is exactly the time.”

Shane pulled the Yankees cap lower.

“I came here because I had something to do.”

Mike frowned. “What?”

“I have a telephone number.”

“For who?”

“An attorney.”

Mike stared at him.

“One of the songwriters gave it to me in Los Angeles,” Shane said. “She said if I ever wanted someone to review the contracts without reporting everything to management, I should call him.”

“You planned this?”

“I planned to call when I was away from the band, the managers, the publicists, and every hotel employee who knows my real name.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Shane gave him a cold look.

“I was trying to determine whether I could trust you.”

Mike absorbed the words.

“Apparently we were both running tests,” Shane continued. “The difference is that mine didn’t involve reporting your private life to a record executive.”

“Where is the number?”

“In my bag.”

“You can call from here.”

“No. Your uncle called this room directly. I’m not discussing contracts on a telephone he can reach.”

“He may not be monitoring it.”

“Do you honestly expect me to take that chance?”

Mike could not.

“There’s a pay phone in the lobby,” Shane said.

“You can’t use the lobby.”

“There was a gas station about half a mile down the road.”

“You noticed that?”

“I wasn’t asleep when we drove past it.”

Mike looked toward the window.

The hotel grounds were quiet. The service stairs would take them to the rear entrance. They could reach the gas station without passing the front desk.

Then another telephone rang.

This one was Mike’s cellular phone inside his bag.

He pulled it out.

His uncle again.

Mike answered without speaking.

“We’re sending Paul to relieve you,” his uncle said. “He’ll be there within the hour.”

“Why?”

“You sounded compromised.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Then you won’t mind being relieved.”

Mike looked at Shane.

Shane understood from his expression that something had changed.

“Paul will take the boy back to the official hotel,” his uncle continued. “You can return home. We’ll discuss whether there is another position for you.”

“You’re firing me?”

“I’m removing you from the situation before your judgment becomes a larger problem.”

Mike knew Paul.

He was competent, obedient, and entirely loyal to the label. Shane would not be allowed to make an unmonitored telephone call. He might not be allowed out of his room until rehearsals began.

“When does he arrive?” Mike asked.

“Forty-five minutes.”

The line went dead again.

Mike closed the phone.

“They’re sending another guard,” Shane said.

“Yes.”

“To take me back?”

“Yes.”

Shane’s shoulders slumped.

For the first time since the confrontation began, the anger gave way to something worse.

Resignation.

Mike hated it.

“What happens if I refuse?” Shane asked.

“They’ll tell you that you’re violating security procedures.”

“And if I still refuse?”

“They’ll contact your manager. He’ll threaten you with the contract.”

“Then nothing changes.”

Mike looked at the hotel door.

He had spent his entire adult life following a chain of command. In the Marines, orders had provided structure. They determined where he went, what he carried, and what he was expected to do.

Even after leaving, the habit remained.

Protect the assignment.

Follow procedure.

Report problems.

But Shane was not an assignment.

Not anymore.

Mike reached beneath the coffee table, retrieved his holster, and secured it beneath his shirt.

“What are you doing?” Shane asked.

“Getting you to that telephone.”

Shane searched his face.

“Why?”

“Because you asked to go.”

“You said you couldn’t let me leave.”

“I was still working for them when I said that.”

Mike picked up the room telephone and dialed the front desk.

“This is Cooper in the Lakeside Suite,” he said when the clerk answered. “We’re checking out.”

The clerk protested that the reservation had been prepaid.

“Keep the money.”

Mike hung up.

He picked up his cellular phone and dialed his uncle.

This time his uncle answered immediately.

“What?”

“I resign.”

Silence.

“Don’t be stupid, Michael.”

“I’m no longer responsible for Shane Kelly.”

“You don’t get to make that decision.”

“I just did.”

“You walk away from this job and you walk away from the family.”

Mike almost laughed.

“You placed me inside his life because you thought being family made me easier to control.”

“You owe me.”

“I owe you for getting me an interview. I don’t owe you another man’s freedom.”

“This isn’t about freedom. It’s business.”

“That’s the problem.”

“Put Shane on the phone.”

“No.”

“Michael.”

“He’s safe. That is the last report you’re getting from me.”

Mike ended the call and removed the battery from the phone.

He placed both pieces on the table.

Shane stared at him.

“You resigned.”

“Yes.”

“Because of me?”

“Because I should have done it before now.”

“What happens next?”

“Next, you decide where you want to go.”

Shane glanced toward the door.

“You’re not going to stop me?”

“I’m not your bodyguard anymore.”

For some reason, saying the words made Mike feel as if the floor had shifted beneath him.

Shane’s expression softened, but only slightly.

“What are you, then?”

“Right now? A guy with car keys.”

---

They took the service stairs.

Mike carried the bags while Shane kept his hood up and followed closely behind. They reached the Suburban without seeing another guest.

Mike opened the passenger door.

Shane stopped beside it.

“I thought I was supposed to sit in the back.”

“You’re not supposed to do anything.”

Shane climbed into the front.

They left the hotel and drove toward the gas station.

The parking lot contained three cars and a tractor-trailer. Fluorescent lights hummed beneath the canopy. A bored clerk sat behind the counter reading a magazine.

A pay phone stood beside the ice freezer.

Mike parked where he could watch the road and the hotel entrance.

Shane held the scrap of paper containing the attorney’s number.

His hands were shaking.

“You want me to stand with you?” Mike asked.

Shane considered the question.

“No. I need to make this call myself.”

Mike nodded.

He remained beside the Suburban while Shane crossed the parking lot.

Shane dropped coins into the telephone, dialed, and turned his back.

Mike could not hear the conversation.

That was the point.

For once, Shane was speaking to someone without Mike listening, evaluating, or preparing a report.

A pair of teenage girls came out of the store carrying sodas.

Mike moved so that his body blocked their view of the telephone.

They glanced at him, giggled about something, and drove away.

Shane remained on the call for nearly fifteen minutes.

When he finally returned, his face was pale.

“What did he say?” Mike asked.

“He wants to meet tomorrow morning.”

“Where?”

“His office is about two hours from here.”

“Then that’s where we’re going.”

Shane looked at him carefully.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“You gave up your job.”

“I noticed.”

“Your uncle sounded like he could cause trouble.”

“He probably will.”

“And you still want to help me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Mike leaned against the side of the Suburban.

He could have given several answers.

Because Shane was young.

Because the label had gone too far.

Because Mike had failed him and needed to repair some of the damage.

All were true.

None were complete.

“Because I care about you,” Mike said.

Shane looked down at the pavement.

“That’s what makes this complicated,” Mike continued. “I don’t know how much of what happened between us was real and how much happened because I was the only person you were allowed to trust.”

“It was real to me.”

“I believe you.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that an hour ago I controlled whether you could leave a hotel room.”

“You don’t anymore.”

“No.”

Shane stepped closer.

“What happens after I meet the lawyer?”

“That depends on what you want.”

“I meant with us.”

Mike released a breath.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not a very satisfying answer.”

“It’s the honest one.”

Shane frowned but nodded.

“Fine. Honest is new. I’ll take it.”

Headlights appeared on the road behind them.

A black sedan turned into the hotel driveway.

Mike recognized Paul behind the wheel.

“We need to move.”

They climbed into the Suburban.

Mike pulled onto the highway and headed north.

Paul’s sedan reappeared behind them several minutes later.

“He’s following us,” Shane said.

“I see him.”

“Can he make us stop?”

“No.”

“Will he try?”

“Probably not. He’ll call the label and let them know where we’re going.”

“What do we do?”

Mike looked at the TripTik on the center console.

“Find the next exit.”

Shane unfolded the pages.

“Three miles.”

“What’s there?”

“A county road, two small towns, and what looks like a lot of nothing.”

“Perfect.”

Mike took the exit.

The sedan followed.

He turned onto the county road and drove through several miles of darkness. The Suburban handled the curves easily, but the road was narrow enough that Paul could not pull beside them.

“This is beginning to feel like a bad movie,” Shane said.

“If it were a movie, somebody would be shooting.”

“That doesn’t help.”

Mike glanced in the mirror.

The sedan remained several car lengths back.

“They aren’t going to hurt us,” Mike said.

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but I know Paul. He follows orders, and the label doesn’t want headlines about its security team running its lead singer off the road.”

“What if the headline was an accident?”

Mike looked at Shane.

“That was a joke,” Shane said quickly.

“It wasn’t funny.”

“I’m nervous.”

“So am I.”

“You don’t look nervous.”

“Training.”

The road entered a small town.

Most of the storefronts were dark, but a motel sign glowed beside a twenty-four-hour diner.

Mike pulled into the diner parking lot.

Paul followed and stopped several spaces away.

Mike switched off the engine.

“What are you doing?” Shane asked.

“Making this public.”

He opened the door.

“Stay here.”

“I thought you weren’t giving orders anymore.”

“Fine. I strongly recommend that you stay here while I speak to the man sent to drag you back.”

“That’s better.”

Mike crossed the parking lot.

Paul got out of the sedan.

He was in his mid-thirties, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a dark suit despite the late hour.

“You made this difficult,” Paul said.

“I resigned.”

“Your uncle told me.”

“Then there shouldn’t be any confusion.”

“My orders are to take Shane back.”

“He doesn’t want to go.”

“That isn’t your decision.”

“It isn’t yours either.”

Paul looked toward the Suburban.

“Management is responsible for him.”

“He’s nineteen.”

“He’s under contract.”

“A recording contract isn’t ownership.”

“You know how this works.”

“I know how they want it to work.”

Paul lowered his voice.

“Walk away, Mike. You’re emotionally compromised, and everybody knows it.”

Mike felt anger flare but kept his hands at his sides.

“Is that supposed to embarrass me?”

“It’s supposed to remind you that this can become ugly.”

The passenger door of the Suburban opened.

Shane got out.

Mike almost told him to return to the vehicle but stopped himself.

Shane walked over and stood beside him.

“I’m not going back tonight,” Shane said.

Paul’s expression shifted immediately into the calm, patient look adults often used with celebrities they considered difficult.

“Shane, your manager is concerned.”

“My manager is concerned about the next album.”

“He is responsible for your career.”

“It’s my career.”

“You’re upset. We can discuss this at the hotel.”

“I have an appointment with an attorney tomorrow morning.”

Paul’s face went still.

“Who?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It becomes our business when it concerns your contract.”

“Then my attorney can speak to the label’s attorneys.”

Paul looked at Mike.

“You put him up to this.”

“No,” Mike said. “He planned it before we left the arena.”

Shane folded his arms.

“I’m not asking permission.”

Paul stared at them for several seconds.

Then he stepped back.

“You know they’ll bury you if you break the contract.”

“They’ve spent four years telling everyone I’m irreplaceable,” Shane said. “I’m ready to find out whether they believe it.”

Paul’s mouth twitched.

For a moment, Mike thought he might smile.

Instead, he returned to the sedan.

“I’ll report that you refused transport,” he said.

“Make sure you spell my name right,” Shane replied.

Paul drove away.

Mike waited until the taillights disappeared.

Then he looked at Shane.

“That was reckless.”

“You were about to do the talking for me.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“I know.”

“That doesn’t make it wrong.”

“No. But I needed to say it.”

Mike nodded.

“You did.”

They rented a motel room under Mike’s name.

It had two double beds, faded wallpaper, and an air conditioner that rattled loudly enough to cover any conversation.

Shane sat on one bed while Mike locked the door.

“There are two beds,” Shane observed.

“I can count.”

“You’re still keeping your distance.”

“For tonight.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow you meet with the lawyer.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

Mike sat on the other bed.

“I know.”

Shane studied him.

“I’m still angry.”

“You should be.”

“I don’t know whether I can trust you.”

“I understand.”

“But I also know you just gave up your job and stood between me and the label.”

“I didn’t do it to earn something from you.”

“That sounds like something a person says when he wants credit for not wanting credit.”

Mike smiled despite himself.

“You’re exhausting.”

“You’re the one who wanted to protect me.”

“I’m beginning to understand why the other guards drink.”

Shane smiled too.

The tension eased slightly.

After several seconds, Shane looked down at his hands.

“I meant what I said at the hotel.”

“About wanting me?”

“Yes.”

Mike’s heartbeat increased again.

“You don’t have to answer tonight,” Shane continued. “I just don’t want you pretending you didn’t hear it.”

“I heard.”

“And?”

“And I want you too.”

Shane looked up.

Mike held his gaze.

“But I’m not touching you tonight.”

Shane’s eyes narrowed.

“Why not?”

“Because today I was your guard, your watcher, and the person reporting private conversations to your management. Tomorrow, after you speak to the attorney, you may decide you never want to see me again.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know that yet.”

“You’re frustrating.”

“I’ve been told.”

Shane lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

“Will you at least stay until I fall asleep?”

Mike looked at the empty space beside him.

“That sounds suspiciously like touching.”

“You don’t have to hold me.”

Mike stood and crossed the room.

He sat on the edge of Shane’s bed with his back against the headboard.

Shane turned onto his side, facing him.

“Better?” Mike asked.

“A little.”

Within minutes, Shane’s breathing slowed.

Mike remained awake long after that.

---

The attorney’s office occupied the second floor of a converted house outside Philadelphia.

Mike waited in the reception area while Shane met with the attorney alone.

The meeting lasted nearly three hours.

When Shane finally emerged, he carried a thick folder and looked both terrified and relieved.

“Well?” Mike asked.

“The contract is bad.”

“I could have told you that.”

“It may also be unenforceable in several places. They have been charging expenses to the band that they never explained, and some of the image-control language could violate state law.”

“What happens now?”

“The attorney is contacting the other band members and their parents. He thinks the label may negotiate rather than risk an audit.”

“And your secret?”

Shane’s grip tightened on the folder.

“He said they cannot legally force me to come out or remain closeted. But they can make my career difficult.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“That’s allowed.”

Shane looked at him.

“I told him about you.”

Mike blinked. “Why?”

“Because I needed to know whether there was a problem with us.”

“And?”

“He said you shouldn’t work as my personal guard if we’re involved.”

“He’s right.”

“He also said there is no law preventing me from dating an unemployed former bodyguard.”

Mike laughed.

“Did he?”

“Not in exactly those words.”

They walked outside.

The morning was warm and bright. Cars moved along the street. People entered a coffee shop across the road without noticing them.

Mike stopped beside the Suburban.

“I need to return this vehicle.”

“Where will you go after that?”

“Probably home.”

“To your uncle?”

“No. I have an apartment.”

“Where?”

“Virginia.”

“That’s far.”

“Not especially.”

Shane looked down.

The space between them felt different now.

Mike no longer had a radio in his ear. There was no schedule in his pocket, no report due, and no authority telling him where Shane belonged.

For the first time since they met, Mike had no official reason to stand beside him.

Shane reached up and removed the Yankees cap.

His black hair was still flattened from wearing it, but he no longer seemed interested in hiding.

“I have six weeks before the next tour leg,” he said.

“Assuming there is a next leg.”

“The lawyer thinks there will be. Nobody wants to walk away from that much money.”

“Probably not.”

“He also said negotiations could take a while.”

“Probably.”

“I’m going to stay with my parents for a few days.”

“That sounds smart.”

“They live in New Jersey.”

“I know.”

“You’ve read my file.”

“I was your bodyguard.”

Shane gave him a look.

“Former bodyguard.”

“Right.”

“My parents have a guest room.”

Mike looked at him.

“Is that an invitation?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you there.”

“You’re still angry with me.”

“Yes.”

“You still don’t know whether you trust me.”

“Not completely.”

“And you want me to meet your parents?”

“I didn’t say you had to explain everything.”

“That seems like a dangerous omission.”

“My mother believes every man who stands within six feet of me is either security or a bandmate.”

“That has been accurate so far.”

Shane stepped closer.

“Not anymore.”

He reached for Mike’s hand.

Mike let him take it.

There was no crowd around them. No photographer. No manager. No one demanding that Shane smile at a girl or that Mike explain why they were standing too close.

“Are you sure?” Mike asked.

“No,” Shane said. “But I’m choosing it anyway.”

Mike leaned down slowly, leaving Shane enough time to move away.

Shane did not.

Their first kiss was brief and careful.

It did not feel like a bodyguard comforting his charge. It did not feel like a frightened celebrity clinging to the only person available.

It felt like a beginning.

When they separated, Shane smiled.

It was not the bright, polished smile from the stage.

It was smaller.

Real.

“So,” Shane said, “what are you doing here?”

Mike squeezed his hand.

“I thought I’d see where you wanted to go.”