Muscle for Hire(4)

On the other end of the phone, the man who was once the world’s biggest rock star and was now happy to be just a husband and dad laughed. “No, As. It’s not. But let’s be serious, mate, you can’t hang around Murriundah looking out for insane groupies that might come after me or Lauren or Josh. The day I announced my retirement, they started to move on to the next new big thing. When was the last time you had to prevent a fan launching themselves at me? Seriously? Chris on the other hand…” Nick left the sentence unfinished.

Aslin’s gut clenched. Nick was correct. The Blackthorne groupies and fans had tapered off over the last few months, only the odd truly die-hard willing to make the long trip to the small town Nick now called home. When that happened, a state-of-the-art security system kept Nick and his family safe from unwanted guests when they were at home, and the protective residents of Murriundah looked out for their famous neighbours when they were in public. Which left Aslin almost redundant. But if he wasn’t Nick Blackthorne’s bodyguard, what was he?

“Listen, As,” Nick went on, his voice relaxed and calm, and for one brief, stupid moment Aslin longed for the days when Nick was the wild rocker who had no fucking clue what he was doing from one second to the next. “Do what you’re there for—be the bad-arse Pommie commando and tell those Hollywood guys how to do it right. When you’re finished, we’ll talk about what’s next, okay?”

Ending the call after promising to get Chris’s autograph for Josh’s latest girlfriend, Aslin wandered around the film set, charting everything he saw for later consideration. He had to admit to himself, it was a bizarre experience. He’d grown up in the London slums, the middle child of five boys who all knew how to fight by the time they were eight. Aslin joined the British Army at the age of seventeen in a last-ditch effort to avoid ending up like his older brothers—who were already serving time. His years as a SAS soldier, of existing as a vital member of a unit, followed by his life as Nick’s bodyguard had given him little time to exist as an individual. Now here he was, alone, with a possibility before him he was eighty-five percent certain he didn’t want.

But if not a bodyguard to a celebrity, than what? What kind of career options did an ex-bodyguard, ex-commando have?

And did Aslin want any of them?

Do you even know who you are now, boyo? Or are you just muscle for hire?

The question was unsettling. And without answer. At least none presented itself in the time that lapsed as Aslin toured the film set.

Forty-five minutes later, part-frustrated, part-irritated, he made his way to the massive, ostentatious manor on wheels that was Chris Huntley’s trailer.

He stopped a few yards away when he noticed a tall, slim woman dressed in faded denim jeans and a snug black T-shirt trying to jimmy open the door.

Her back was to him, her long, toned legs braced apart as she wriggled something thin and silver between the door and the frame near the lock. A thick ponytail the colour of spun wheat spilled from the back of her baseball cap, fanning over her shoulders and ribcage as she shifted her position, no doubt to put more weight behind her attempt to access Chris’s trailer.

For a quick second Aslin, was struck by the sublime perfection of her physique—the latent strength in her firm limbs, the confidence in her stance. And then the sheer gall of what she was doing hit him and he moved. Fast.

Silent.

He snared her right wrist with one hand, spun her around to face him, his expression set in an intimidating glower—and ended up on his back in a blur of colour as she kicked his legs right out from under him.

Fuck.

A booted heel rammed under his chin, mashing into his flesh as the woman glared down at him, her fists loosely clenched at her face. “Want to explain what you’re—”

He didn’t let her finish. Twisting to his left, he slammed his forearm into the side of her calf, rolling to his feet and driving her back—butt first—against the trailer.

A second later, she dropped into a crouch, escaped his pinning arm and smashed a fist into his balls.

He staggered back a step. But only one. The pain was excruciating, agonizing, but he’d learnt to shut pain out a long time ago. Fixing his stare on the woman’s face, he whipped out his right hand, feigning an attempt to grab her arm even as he swooped his left foot against her right ankle.

And ended up on his arse, again, the wind knocked from him, when she spun off the ground in a tight circle and drove her heel into his chest.

What the hell?

The thought had barely formed in his head when two firm thighs slammed into his ribcage, right under his armpits, squeezing him with phenomenal crushing strength as one fist balled in the front of his shirt and the other bunched behind her head. “Nice try, buddy.” A soft American accent turned the words to a mocking snarl. “But not good enough.” Brilliant blue eyes glared down at him, thick dark lashes framing their obvious anger. “Now tell me who the fuck you are and what the hell you think you’re—”