Traitor Page 4

  “Shane, you stick with the car until the cops turn up,” ordered Big T. “Charley and I will get Ash to the hotel.”

  As the three of them emerged from the wrecked SUV, they were assaulted by a hailstorm of camera flashes.

  “Ash, you’re hurt!” cried one photographer, not with concern but glee at the chance to get a dramatic shot. He shoved the camera in Ash’s face to snap away at the blood seeping from his cut.

  “Who was driving?” another scruffy photographer asked. “Are you responsible, Big T? Or Wildcat here?”

  Big T pushed through the ring of cameramen, brushing them firmly aside. He kept an arm around Ash, ensuring his charge remained steady on his feet.

  “Ash, I thought Wildcat was your bodyguard now,” teased a pap.

  Big T scowled at the man and pushed him from their path.

  “Ooh, touchy!” taunted the pap. “Worried you’ll be out of a job? You’re pretty old for this game, aren’t you?”

  Big T turned sharply on the man. “Want to meet my old fist?”

  Surprised to see her mentor losing his cool, Charley urged the veteran bodyguard on. “Ignore the idiot,” she hissed. Taking Ash’s arm, she helped escort the dazed rock star toward the hotel entrance.

  Gonzo suddenly appeared amid the pack, eyes gleaming. “Does she hold your hand at night too, Ash?” he goaded with a grin.

  Charley had wondered where the despicable rat had been all this time. The taunts wouldn’t have been the same without him. Ignoring the loaded question, she headed for the sanctuary of the hotel with Ash and Big T. Cameras continued to hose them down with flashes as they were heckled every step of the way. Charley found it hard not to respond to the offensive comments, but she knew that any answer she gave would only stir them up more.

  Bundling Ash through the hotel doors, they left the hungry paparazzi in the street. Cameras flashed through the glass, and their taunts, though muffled, could still be heard.

  Charley glanced back at the mob of photographers. How was she expected to keep a low profile now?

  10

  “So there you have it, folks,” said the TV show host, flashing her crystal-white smile at the camera. “Ash’s guardian angel wasn’t just a fan, after all. The Wildcat, as we’ve all come to know her, was a PR intern on his team. It seems that protecting a rock star’s image nowadays takes more than the ability to type up a press release. You have to be a ninja!”

  A picture of a black-hooded assassin flashed up on the studio monitors, and the sound of clashing swords and the shouts of kiai were overdubbed.

  Charley stood off camera with Big T and Zoe, watching Ash’s interview from the darkened wings of the recording studio in Dallas, Texas. Kay had agreed with Zoe’s suggestion that their best PR strategy was a straight exposure of Charley by Ash on national TV. This, they all hoped, would bury the story, and the news agencies would move on to the next celebrity scoop.

  Charley felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She glanced at the glowing screen. Following the porter incident in Miami, she now routinely fitted an Intruder device outside Ash’s hotel room, so she thought it could be a surveillance alert. But it wasn’t. It was a text from Blake:

  Can you talk?

  Outside the official report-ins, it was always difficult to find time to chat, and Charley sensed something was on his mind. She thumbed a reply:

  Can’t speak now. In TV studio. Will call later. Promise

  The host swung her beaming smile back toward Ash and concluded her interview. “Thank you for coming into the studio, Ash. I’m glad the paparazzi didn’t run you off the road like they did in New Orleans. And good luck with the concert tomorrow. I hear it’s sold out!”

  “It sure is!” Ash replied with enthusiasm, the cut above his left eye now healing and hidden by makeup. “I can’t wait to see all my Dallas fans go WILD!”

  “Well, judging by the crowd outside our studios, they can’t wait to see you either. Now, I believe you’re going to play us out with your biggest hit, ‘Only Raining.’”

  Ash nodded, then joined his band on the opposite side of the studio. The cameras moved in for a close-up as he began the opening riff to his worldwide smash.

  Charley found herself bobbing her head in time to the music. As Ash sang, “We all need a shelter to keep us from the rain . . .” her thoughts drifted back to the moment on the beach in California when she’d decided to catch that once-in-a-lifetime wave and become a bodyguard. How her life had changed—from being a surfing beach bum to protecting one of the most famous teenagers on the planet! And, though being a bodyguard wasn’t easy, her life no longer felt empty or without purpose. Yes, Kerry was still a huge hole in her heart, but the memory only stung . . . It didn’t burn anymore. For that she was thankful. She just wished her parents could’ve been around to witness this. But if they had been, of course, she’d never have become a bodyguard in the first place.

  Charley became aware of someone at her side. Glancing over, she did a double take: same quiff of honey-brown hair, identical hazel eyes, dimpled chin, a matching smile. Standing next to her was a carbon copy of Ash.

  “How did you get in here?” hissed Charley, suddenly realizing who it was.

  “The receptionist thought I was Ash!” The clone laughed quietly. “Look, I’ve even got the same tattoo now.”

  Pete pulled back the sleeve of his shirt to reveal an identical phoenix design on his right forearm.

  “You really shouldn’t be here,” insisted Charley.

  “I know,” he said with a charming smile he’d stolen straight from Ash, “but I wanted to see what a TV studio was like.”

  The band brought the song to an end and, after thanking Ash, the host made her closing remarks. As the studio’s red recording light switched off, the producer announced, “Okay, everyone, we’re off the air.”

  “Excellent interview, Ash, and even better performance,” praised Zoe, handing him a bottle of water as she led him from the set.

  “Thanks,” said Ash, lifting the bottle to his lips. But he didn’t get any farther with his drink, literally stopped in his tracks by the sight of his double.

  “Hi, Ash! Check out my tattoo,” said Pete eagerly.

  Ash glanced at it. “Nice tat. Is that real?” he asked in astonishment.

  “Of course!” Pete said, grinning.

  Ash continued to study his apparently identical twin, as if looking in a mirror. “You’re . . . me!”

  Big T came striding over and, after a momentary blink of disbelief, immediately took charge. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said firmly to Pete.

  The doppelgänger held up his hands. “Hey, Big T, I’m no threat to Ash. I idolize him.”

  “That’s more than apparent,” said the veteran bodyguard, stony-faced. “But you’ll still have to go. This is a restricted area.”

  “I understand,” said Pete, shrugging his shoulders as two studio security guards appeared. “See you at the gig tomorrow night, Ash.”

  “Yeah,” said Ash, still shocked by his fan’s devotion. As the guards escorted Pete away, Ash whispered to Charley, “Don’t tell him, but he’s got the tattoo on the wrong arm!”

  Charley stifled a giggle—the poor boy, after the lengths he’d gone to in mimicking his hero. He’d likely be even more dismayed when he discovered that Ash’s tattoo was just temporary.

  “Sorry about that,” said the producer, running over. “I’ll be having a word with our security manager later. But first let’s get you on your way.”

  The producer guided Ash and his entourage out of the studio and down the corridor. Turning a corner toward the reception desk, they caught a glimpse through a window of the heaving throng of photographers and fans packing the studio’s plaza entrance.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Zoe. “We can’t even get out to the car!”

 
Following the assault in Miami and the crash in New Orleans, the paparazzi had intensified their pursuit of Ash and his Wildcat. It seemed every photographer in the United States had descended on the tour, and it was now a challenge just to reach the venues, let alone keep Ash safe.

  “We could try the emergency exit,” the producer suggested.

  A squeal of excitement in the lobby caught their attention. An intern had spotted Pete being escorted away and rushed over for his autograph. Pete signed the girl’s notepad with a flourish, the two security guards barely able to contain their amusement at the case of mistaken identity.

  “I have a better idea,” said Ash.

  11

  Sunglasses on, Ash emerged from the TV studio into the teeming plaza. The crowd erupted with screams and surged forward. A strobe of camera flashes lit up his exit as the paparazzi swarmed around their target. With his arm protectively over the shoulders of the young rock star, Big T forged a path through the ocean of hysterical fans and in-your-face photographers. The rest of Ash’s entourage followed in his slipstream.

  It took almost ten minutes to reach the car, even though it was parked only fifty yards away. Unwilling to disappoint his fans, Ash spent time signing autographs and posing for numerous selfies. Eventually Big T bundled him into the back of the car and they drove away from the studio. The paparazzi immediately piled into their vehicles and set off in hot pursuit.

  Their idol gone, the fans dispersed and the plaza emptied.

  “That worked like a dream!” said Ash, emerging from behind the reception desk with Charley.

  “Pete certainly lived up to his role,” agreed Charley. The plan had been that Pete would go straight to the car with Big T, but the boy had obviously been swept up in the thrill of adulation and exploited his sudden stardom to the max.

  “I’ll have to employ him full-time as my decoy,” continued Ash. “I’ll get Big T to give him a backstage pass.”

  Charley frowned. “Are you sure that’s wise? You hardly know him.”

  Ash laughed. “Of course I know him. He’s me!”

  Charley gave him a hard look. “Seriously, Ash, what normal fan goes so far that they get the same tattoo as their idol?”

  Ash waved away her concerns. “Thousands of people copy their heroes. Girls are always imitating their favorite pop stars. Why should it be any different for a guy? Pete is just super dedicated. And if he can fool the paparazzi, then I’m all for it.”

  “We should at least run a background check on him,” insisted Charley.

  “Fine, whatever. But look outside.” He pointed to the deserted plaza. “No paparazzi!”

  He grabbed Charley and did a little jig in the lobby. Charley couldn’t help smiling. His joy was infectious, and she too felt a weight lift from her. The constant surveillance and taunts had made her more tense than she’d realized. It would be a welcome change to walk outside without cameras being thrust in her face.

  “Your car’s here,” announced the receptionist.

  Ash danced his way through the revolving doors as a second vehicle drove up to the studio entrance. Charley followed him out and jumped in the back with him.

  “Time to celebrate my newfound freedom.” Ash tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Take us to the best restaurant in Dallas.”

  “Big T said we should go straight to the hotel,” Charley reminded him.

  “Come on, Charley, live a little! Besides, what could possibly go wrong? I’ve got the Wildcat to protect me!”

  12

  “I’m sorry, sir, we’re fully booked for dinner,” the bow-tied, straightlaced maître d’ at the door of the ultra-chic restaurant in downtown Dallas informed them. His hair was a splash of oil slicked to his scalp, his hands manicured to a high sheen and his shoes polished to within an inch of their lives.

  “But I can see a free table in the window,” said Ash.

  “That’s reserved for special guests,” the maître d’ replied haughtily. “Perhaps I can recommend the burger bar down the street?”

  Ash ignored the man’s snub. “How special do you need to be? I’m Ash Wild.”

  The maître d’ looked down his thin nose at him. “And who’s he?”

  “Who’s Ash Wild?” exclaimed a gruff voice from behind a velvet curtain that separated the restaurant’s entrance from the dining area. “Only the greatest songwriter since McCartney!”

  Pushing through the curtain, the head chef, with flushed cheeks and a reassuringly ample belly, bowled over to greet Ash with a warm handshake. “My word, it is you! My daughters loves your music. And I must admit I’m a real fan too. Just adore ‘Only Raining’! I was so disappointed when I couldn’t get tickets for your concert. But you’ve come to my restaurant, and it’d be an honor to cook for talent like yours.”

  “Why, thank you,” said Ash, startled by the gushing praise. “I’m sure that my publicist can arrange tickets for you and your daughters.”

  The chef’s face lit up. He turned to his maître d’. “Show Ash to the best table in the house,” he ordered.

  “My apologies, Mr. Wild,” said the maître d’, a bald patch gleaming in the spotlight as he bowed his head. “I don’t keep up with modern music.”

  “No, I’m sure you don’t,” said Ash politely.

  The maître d’ led them through the curtain and over to the table by the window. He drew back the chair for Charley.

  “We can’t sit here,” Charley said to Ash, still standing.

  “Why not?” he asked with a puzzled frown. “This is the very best seat in the house.”

  “The very best seat is often the worst from a security point of view.”

  Ash looked out of the window. “But we’ve got a great view over the park.”

  “That’s the problem,” said Charley, lowering her voice. “It makes you vulnerable. Anyone could spot you or”—she thought back to the laser at the first gig—“attack you.”

  Ash stared at her. “Wow, you make for a romantic dinner date!”

  Charley tilted her head. “I didn’t know this was a date.”

  Ash glanced at the red rose decorating the table, then met her eye and smiled. “Neither did I.”

  “Mr. Wild, is this table not suitable?” inquired the maître d’, raising a needle-thin eyebrow.

  “It’s perfect,” replied Ash, and sat down. “Listen, Charley, no one knows we’re here, so let’s just enjoy this moment of rare freedom.”

  Charley reluctantly took her seat, but positioned it so that she at least had a view of the other restaurant guests. Besides, it wasn’t quite true that no one knew where they were. She’d texted Big T an update of their location while Ash had been speaking with the head chef. She certainly wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice with the veteran bodyguard.

  The waiter came over with a bread basket, poured them some chilled water and presented the menus. There was a ripple of excitement among the other diners and staff as word spread of their special guest.

  “So what other security advice should we be following?” asked Ash as he browsed the menu.

  “Well, we should have our backs to a wall,” replied Charley. “Then we only have to worry about threats from the front. Also, it’d be better if I had a direct line of sight to the restaurant entrance and any other doors. That way I can keep an eye on who comes in and who goes out.”

  Ash set aside his menu. “They taught you all this in bodyguard school?”

  Charley nodded. “Among other things.”

  “Like how to deck a guy with a single punch!”

  “It wasn’t technically a punch,” replied Charley, sipping her water. “It was a palm strike.”

  “Whatever, you laid that idiot out,” said Ash, grinning at the memory. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his fingers interlaced as if in a confession. “I haven’t thanked you properly for p
rotecting me. The guy blindsided me. I just never expected it.”

  “No one ever does.”

  “But you did. You reacted.”

  “I’ve been trained to,” said Charley. “It’s all part of the job.”

  “Some job!” remarked Ash, shaking his head in amazement.

  A waiter approached and took their orders.

  “To be honest, I thought having you around was going to be a real drag,” Ash admitted once the waiter had gone. “And, after that first gig, I had serious doubts about you. But . . . you’re one amazing girl, Charley.”

  He gazed at her across the candlelit table, his smoldering hazel eyes both sincere and irresistible. Charley felt that spark again, and her pulse raced. Trying to keep her runaway emotions in check, she selected a bread roll from the basket and began to butter it.

  “Don’t get slushy on me,” she said. “I’m your bodyguard. Not your girlfriend.”

  “I know, but it’s really nice having you around,” Ash admitted. “If I haven’t said it before, I’m sorry for the tour prank we played on you. It was the bassist’s idea. I didn’t think you’d—”

  “Forget about it. I have,” said Charley, glancing up with a smile.

  “Well, I haven’t.” Ash held her gaze as he took a sip of water. “Being a rock star isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” he confessed. “Everyone just sees the riches, the fans, the celebrity lifestyle. But life on the road can be so lonely.”

  “You’ve got the band around you,” Charley pointed out.

  “The band and crew are all friends, of course. But it’s different—they’re older. They’re not going through what I am as the frontman. They don’t have to contend with the pressure of fame . . . the haters . . . or the death threats. You see all that. You understand it. I can talk to you about it.”

  “Of course you can,” said Charley.