Wicked Force Read online

  Michel is there to put an arm around my waist, not to hold me up, but to give me a squeeze of excitement. “Joslyn... another fantastic show.”

  Yes, it was and that brings a smile back to my face because despite all the fears and insecurities, I freaking love singing to people. I wrap my arm around his waist and we walk together back to my dressing room.

  Michel is my hair and makeup guru and has been for the past nine months since I signed a one-year contract to perform here in Vegas. He’s also my closest friend, and that’s not something I’ve had a lot of over the past few years.

  His real name is Michael Brubank and he’s from New Jersey. At the tender age of twenty, he completed cosmetology school and moved out to L.A., where he changed his name to Michel.

  Not Michel Brubank.

  Just Michel.

  Like Madonna or Cher.

  After several years in L.A. working his way up the ladder of famous and semi-famous stars, he came to Vegas because he was in love with an interior designer he’d met online and dated long distance.

  Sadly, he and the interior designer didn’t work out but Michel fell in love with Vegas and stayed. I’m only nineteen and Michel is now thirty-one, yet the vast age difference between us hasn’t interfered with our friendship. We’re both in show business, he loves to gossip and I love to listen, and he’s got a heart the size of Texas. He’d do anything for me and I for him, and thus we’re the best of friends.

  “Be warned,” he leans over and murmurs as we approach my dressing room. “She’s not in a good mood.”

  “What did I do now?” I mutter as my body tightens with defensiveness.

  “Who knows,” he whispers back, afraid to let his voice carry any further than our little cocoon as we stop outside the door. The name Joslyn Meyers in gold letters with a gold star underneath usually makes me smile, but not right now.

  Taking a deep breath—pushing past the tightness now in my chest—I release my arm from around Michel’s waist and give him a confident smile. “I’ll call you later after I get home, okay?”

  There’s no hiding the worry in his eyes. “You sure you don’t want me to go in there with you? I’ll get your makeup off and brush your hair out.”

  I go to my tiptoes because Michel is quite tall and give him a kiss to his cheek. “I’m fine. I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay,” he says doubtfully and chucks me under the chin with his knuckles. “And no matter what happens in there, just remember you are fabulous.”

  “You’re the fabulous one,” I say and he preens from the compliment.

  Laughing, I watch as Michel heads off and then take another deep breath as I turn toward the door to my dressing room. Exhaling slowly, I open it and step across the threshold with my head held confidently high.

  “You put me in a really bad position, Joslyn,” my stepmother says as she taps a manicured nail against her chin.

  I take her in.

  All of the glory of Madeline Meyers as she leans back against my dressing room table.

  Maddie to her dear friends, which number zero, because like me, she doesn’t really have any. Also like me, her life has been overtaken by show business as she manages my career. She’s statuesque, with glossy brunette hair she wears in a long bob, a flawless complexion, and an incomparable sense of style. She wears the title of Manager to Joslyn Meyers like it’s a superhero cape and she takes her job almost too seriously.

  Before I devote another thought to my stepmother, please let me make it clear. She’s not evil or wicked. On the contrary, she’s been so very good to me for much of my life and I love her.

  But she is... trying.

  Frustrating.

  Overbearing.

  Good intentioned but often tormenting because she’s a bulldog in her tenacity to make me famous.

  I consider playing stupid with her, but that will only piss her off to the point we’ll get into a terrible argument and then I’ll feel wretched over it. So I go ahead and admit my perfidy.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her with true feeling. I am regretful to have done something she was firmly opposed to, because I know it causes her stress. But I have no qualms about what I did, because it was the right thing to do and because it brings me joy. “This was really important to me, Mom.”

  Yes, I call her “Mom” because she’s always been that to me, except when we are in front of others for business dealings. She thinks it weakens her position to shine light onto our personal relationship.

  Her lips purse and she regards me through unhappy eyes. “You ruined a very nice deal I was putting together for you. It was going to be a stepping stone to the next level in your career. You’ve taken a lot of hard work that I had put into it and totally disrespected my efforts by accepting the Cunningham Falls event.”

  “I know,” I say softly. All true accusations against me but I’ve already made my apology.

  “Joslyn,” she snaps at me and my spine stiffens. “That’s all you have to say? Do you understand how hard I work for you? The promises I have to make and the back scratching that goes on to get you ahead in this world?”

  I remain silent because there’s no argument to be made.

  Her voice goes almost shrill. “I have only your best interests at heart and everything I do is for your happiness and success. And I can’t continue doing that if you undermine me. You’ve made me look weak now to people in the industry and you’ve made it a hundred times harder for me to negotiate anything on your behalf. Because now everyone will think I have a willful, bratty diva daughter who can’t be controlled. No one will want to work with you.”

  Biting hard on the inside of my cheek, I let the anger wash through me but I refuse to engage with her. My mom has a sharp tongue and an even greater ability to throw massive guilt on my shoulders that makes me feel so weighted I can’t breathe.

  The source of this disagreement is my acceptance to headline a charity concert back in my hometown of Cunningham Falls, Montana. My mom did not want me to do this because—as noted—she was putting together a much better deal for me that conflicted.

  One that involved a paycheck. I’m sure part of her discontent is that I’m doing the concert for free, but mostly I knew that by accepting this event I was going to be ruining other plans she was deep into the process of making for the benefit of my career.

  Putting her palms to the edge of my dressing table, she pushes off and pivots away from me. I watch silently as she walks to the small refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of coconut water. I grimace as she twists the top off and hands it over to me. I step forward and reluctantly take it.

  She nods toward it, her voice soft and solicitous. “Drink up. You know it’s good for you.”

  Funny how everything she thinks is good for me and pushes on me—be it coconut water, beet smoothies or kale salads—is all stuff that I can’t stand.

  When I raise the bottle to my lips, allowing just a tiny bit of the foul liquid in my mouth, she gives me a soft smile as she inclines her head. “You know I only want what’s best for you, right?”

  I nod, and I truly believe that.

  “And do you trust that the decisions I’m making for your career are for your sole benefit?”

  Another nod, because again... I believe her intentions are pure. She’s done an amazing job so far in managing my career and has worked relentlessly to get me where I am.

  My mom’s voice gentles even more. “Then please trust me when I say the Cunningham Falls concert is a bad idea and you need to send your regrets. Tell them you have a schedule conflict you didn’t realize when you accepted or something like that.”

  I shake my head, my expression both apologetic but resolved. “I can’t. I made a promise but more than that, I want to do this. This is personally important to me.”

  Her visage turns wounded, the corners of her mouth pulling down. Tears form in her eyes. “You don’t think that charity is important to me too? After everything I went through with your father?
After everything I did, you don’t think I would really love you to do that concert for charity?”

  And there it is.

  The guilt trip. It strikes me true and deep, causing my stomach to cramp and my heart to constrict.

  My birth mother died in childbirth so I never knew her. Only stories from my dad and a brief history of photos he had from their all too short relationship. He married Madeline when I was six years old and she joined forces with him to raise me. I was so hungry for a mother figure, I called her “Mom” from the moment they got married.

  My dad adored her and she him. She adored me and I her. We were a good family together, even if her tendencies to be overbearing were always something my dad and I had to accept. She was the boss in the family and we did what she told us to do. My dad was a pushover and I followed his example.

  Regardless, she was a good mom as I grew up and she’s the one who encouraged me to pursue my passion for singing. She took me to lessons and competitions and sewed me fancy costumes. She researched the best foods and supplements to make sure I stayed healthy and monitored my diet and exercise with the vigilance of a drill instructor. Madeline Meyers is very much the reason I’m standing where I am today.

  But more than anything—the real reason I will be truly grateful to her and will usually always, always bend to her will—is that she cared for my dad while he died from cancer. She drove him to all his treatments, monitored his medications, did endless research for alternative therapies, and when things got really bad at the end, she was the one who did everything. She was the one who never left the side of the hospital bed set up in our living room by hospice. She emptied his catheter bag and cleaned him when he soiled himself. She gave him baths and changed his sheets and rubbed ice over his lips. When he slipped into unconsciousness, she kept up an endless stream of dialogue so he knew that she was still there.

  I was there too. I did some of those things and helped her with much of it. But I also had breaks. I went out with friends to get away. I was able to have some respite, but not my mom. She was there 100% with him to the very end and I owe her everything for it.

  Except for this. I’m doing this charity concert—benefiting cancer research—and I’m doing it because my father loved Cunningham Falls passionately. While it was too small to suit me or my stepmom for long term purposes, it was a part of who my father was, as his family had lived there for generations.

  “Mom,” I say quietly. “You will never know how much I appreciate everything you do. I couldn’t be what I am without you. But I am doing this concert. It’s important to me and I’m not going to budge on it. I’m so sorry for the extra work this will cause you, but I also know you will figure a way to salvage whatever you were working on or in the alternative, find something even better.”

  Her lips flatten as her shoulders slump in defeat, knowing that even the memory of what a saint she was with my father isn’t going to sway me this time. She knows that I’ve had a very rare win in a battle against her.

  “Fine,” she finally says with a long sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper but the smile she gives in return is dull.

  Eyes filled with disappointment, she nods at my water. “Now drink up and let’s get you home. Don’t forget we have an early meeting tomorrow with that security company I want to hire.”

  I’m so relieved she’s given up fighting me on the concert that I put the coconut water to my mouth and start to suck every nasty drop of it down.

  Chapter 3

  Kynan

  I pace the lobby of our office building waiting for my 10AM appointment to arrive. I was forced to put on a suit today which I hate, but Jerico asked me to meet with a new prospective client because he was otherwise tied up in meetings in Washington, D.C. I’m waiting in the lobby because we have not hired a receptionist yet. Our client base is too small at this time to justify the expense, but that’s about to change.

  Jerico told me he had financial backing to start this business in addition to the huge casino contract we’ve been working on for the last three months since he convinced me to move to Vegas to work for him. He’s been in D.C. a lot so I have to assume some of the financial backing is coming from that part of the country. My guess is he’s been hired to assist in some type of covert operation—with most likely the CIA—and thus I’m here meeting clients.

  Our offices are definitely unique. The interior is all dark paneled walls, cream marble flooring, and high-end furniture. The outside looks like a fortress.

  He bought a three-story building in downtown Las Vegas that was in foreclosure. The outside is composed of white concrete and to the casual observer driving by, it looks like there are no windows. Just solid concrete from top to bottom.

  On closer inspection, though, there are rectangular windows that go floor to ceiling on each level that are frosted on the outside to match the exterior.

  It looks strong and intimidating on the approach, but step inside and it’s elegant and warm. I’m guessing Jerico wants his civilian clients to feel comfortable and since most of them are extremely wealthy, he paid a great deal of money to an expensive interior designer to make it so.

  My favorite part, though, is a small, discreet silver sign on the main lobby door that reads “The Jameson Group - International Security Services.” It reminds me that in addition to babysitting pop princesses, I will be doing some adrenaline-inducing jobs as well.

  I glance at my watch, noting that our very first client could be walking in the door at any minute. For the past three months, we’ve been working non-stop on the casino properties. After hiring me and another marine buddy of his, Jayce Barnes, he went on to recruit another twelve security professionals to join his business. But that project is going to be winding down and he wants to start building up a name in domestic protection services.

  Yay. I get to be a bodyguard.

  Glancing at my watch again, I wonder if Joslyn Meyers is punctual or doesn’t care about wasting people’s time. My preconception about any star—be it actor, singer, or politician—is that they mostly don’t care about keeping others waiting.

  I did my research before today’s meeting because I wanted to know what I’d be facing. Jerico wants to land this contract and even though he has a strong personal recommendation behind him, it’s going to be up to me to seal the deal.

  Joslyn Meyers is an interesting story, no doubt. Nineteen years old and probably on a trajectory to stardom. She won a national talent competition—one of those ones that are on TV with celebrity hosts that help them to compete against others week to week—and scored a recording contract. She put out an album but sadly, it had lackluster sales and she wasn’t offered a second one.

  She wasn’t defeated though. Joslyn was offered a Vegas contract to perform at one of the major theaters here, where she puts on a show that appeals to a broad base audience. She sings some of her own songs and does amazing covers of legendary artists, and somehow manages to combine in unparalleled choreography with a slew of backup dancers. I understand it’s quite an entertainment spectacle.

  So that’s her story. My guess is she’ll move on from Vegas at some point, but here she is now. And apparently needing security services, although I can’t understand why. It’s not like she’s a huge mega star or anything.

  When the front door opens, spilling in a little morning light across the creamy marble foyer, I brace myself. That’s because in my research of Joslyn Meyers, the most disgruntling thing I learned about her was that she was a stunningly gorgeous creature with immense talent. If you weren’t swayed to fall in love with her voice, you only had to take one look at her face and body to succumb.

  She’s got platinum blonde hair, so light it’s almost silvery. It falls in long, wavy lengths to the middle of her back and swoops down across her forehead, highlighting the angelic lines of her face. It’s absolutely perfect. Not a single thing out of place that would make her seem a bit more real and less like a fa
irytale princess. Joslyn has the bluest of eyes, pale and shimmering. Her lips are full and inspire a million dirty thoughts. Her body is slamming and I know this because in the research I did, I watched videos of her Vegas act and there’s little left to the imagination when it comes to her costumes.

  In totality, she’s the perfect woman and I’m a sucker for such things. The only thing I can hope for is that her personality sucks so I won’t be attracted to her. Despite what many women think, it’s not all about looks.

  Not that I’m overly worried about it. I mean, she is just a job.

  A job that I am absolutely prohibited from banging, no matter how much I might want to because she’s fucking hot as hell.

  I shake my head and force my thoughts out of the gutter and back into business mode. But then she steps into the lobby and my body goes tight upon seeing her. She’s half turned away from me, talking to someone walking in behind her. No clue who it is because I can’t take my eyes off Joslyn.

  That amazing silvery blonde hair is in a high ponytail and she’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, but the T-shirt is molded to her body. I can tell by the slight sway to her tits as she steps inside that they are 100% natural and I bet would feel fantastic in my hands.

  Fuck. I shake my head again and concentrate.

  “I just don’t know why we need to hire a bodyguard for me,” Joslyn is saying to what I now see is a woman walking in behind her.

  That’s right. Her mother, Madeline Meyers. Jerico told me she’d be attending this meeting and from those few words, I know that Joslyn isn’t here because she wants a bodyguard. Her mom does.

  And that means she’s probably not a diva, but I’ll reserve judgment for now.

  “I’m not going to argue with you about this,” her mom says as she steps inside and the door swings shut. Madeline sees me standing there and that causes Joslyn to turn my way.

  Jesus. She’s more beautiful staring at her head on. She looks at me with wide, unblinking eyes and to my horror, her eyes slowly travel down the length of me and then back up again. It’s not done with a sexualized appreciation, more like she’s stunned by what she sees and can’t help but to look closer. When she meets my eyes again, her face flames beet red and her gaze drops to the floor.