The Farther I Fall (9 page)

Maggie snorted. “Let's face it, we're both in a man's business. Was the army better or worse?”

Gwen stopped to think. “It was . . . different. With the RAMC, I at least got the basic assumption that I was competent.” She smiled, taking another long drink from the bottle. “I don't get the same credit here, not automatically.”

“Well if it makes you feel any better, that's not a sexism thing. That's a ‘this industry is full of assholes' thing.”

“I'm . . . not actually sure if that's better or worse.” Gwen rubbed the back of her neck.

“Yeah, me neither.” Maggie grinned, then leaned forward to clink her bottle against Gwen's. “To solidarity against the assholes.”

“I can drink to that.” They did.

“Keep in mind what I said about Lucas,” Maggie added. “You might be surprised.”

The next morning, after roughly two hours of sleep and several cups of decent coffee from room service, Gwen dropped Maggie off at Lucas's room. Her back ached from sleeping—dozing, really—in the chair in Maggie's room. She'd insisted on putting the chair in front of the door and sleeping in it, something she regretted now. Her shoulder was already complaining. It had taken prodding to get Maggie to agree to stay with Lucas before the show, but Gwen finally managed by pointing out that someone had got through a locked door the night before for the sole purpose of destroying Maggie's belongings—how much worse might it have been if she'd been there?

Gwen tried not to think too hard about what Lucas and Maggie might talk about while she worked at the theater. She met Craig in the hotel lobby and he laughed as he handed her another much-needed cup of coffee. “That's quite a scowl for this early in the day, what happened?”

“Don't ask,” Gwen said. “What happened with the sketch artist? You never called.”

“That's because we didn't get back to the hotel until nearly three.” They left the hotel and walked side by side down the street, both clutching paper cups.

“I was still awake.”

“Not much to tell. We have a sketch. I didn't see the guy, but Lucas says it's a pretty good likeness. We can at least give copies to venue and hotel security, but I don't know if it will do much. Cath said it was too dark to get a good look at him. It might not even be the same person—who knows? Maybe he was just flirting.” Something in his voice grabbed her attention.

“You're more worried about that than you are about Lucas. That someone flirted with Cathy.”

“Of course I'm worried about it!”

She stopped walking and caught his arm. “You're saying you'd rather she had talked to a nutter than to someone who flirted with her?”

“It's not that someone flirted with her,” he said. “It's that she might have flirted back.”

She bit her tongue to keep from saying something about color variations between the pot and the kettle. “Do you know for sure she did?”

“She says she didn't.”

“You don't believe her?”

Craig ran his fingers up into his scalp. “She won't marry me. I've asked.”

She blinked at the non sequitur, but then she understood. “Wait, from that you're getting that she's cheating?”

“Why else would she keep saying no? We're happy together, we want to stay together.” The only thing saving him from a good shaking was the lost expression on his face.

She took his arm and started walking again. “Craig, Craig, Craig. Did you think to ask her why?” He looked at her as if she'd told him the sky was yellow. “I'm guessing no.”

“I assumed—”

She laughed and gave him a shove in the shoulder. “Don't assume. Talk to her. Blimey, you people.”

“Uh-huh, and how are things going with Lucas?”

Gwen grumbled under her breath. “There's nothing going on.”

“Yeah, right.” He nudged her. “I'll make you a deal. I'll talk to Cathy if you talk to Lucas. About this stuff. You know, feelings.”

“I'm British. I'm not allowed to talk about my feelings.”

He laughed. “I'm an American male; I'm not either. It'll do us both some good. Come on. ‘Physician, heal thyself.'”

“I hate you,” Gwen muttered.

They'd reached the theater, and Craig pulled open the stage door. “There you go, see? A feeling. That wasn't so bad, was it?”

***

One of the last things Sam had said to Gwen before letting her go face the police the night before was “I'm going to have to notify the Wheeler family. Lee will probably call you to get the full story.”

She was helping Sally set up the merch display when her mobile rang: an unfamiliar number. “Gwen Tennison,” she answered.

“Gwen, I'm glad I caught you. It's Lee Wheeler.” There was no hint of flirting in his voice now. She knew a tone of command when she heard it.

“Ah, yeah. Sam said you might call.” She motioned for Sally to go on setting up without her and walked outside the theater.

“I heard about what happened last night. How's Lucas holding up?”

“He's . . . fine.”

Now with a trace of warmth: “How are
you
holding up?”

“I'm fine too.”

“I have a proposition for you,” he said. “Hear me out before you decide.”

She frowned and leaned against the theater's stone facade. “All right. I'm listening.”

“I know about the notes.”

“How—no, never mind, I don't want to know.”

“He's my brother, Gwen. I keep an eye on him.”

She felt uneasy, wondering what “keeping an eye on him” entailed.

“I saw the police reports. The sketch might be useful, but I don't imagine they're going to track down the guy based on a first name that might've been fake to begin with,” he continued.

Private security, my arse,
Gwen thought.

“Of everyone involved in the tour,” he went on, “you're the one with the most useful set of skills in this situation. I want you to use those skills to keep Lucas safe.”

“I was a medic.”

“You were a
combat
medic,” he corrected. “You have instincts and training no one else there does.”

“You're asking me to be Lucas's bodyguard.” The absurdity of it hit her hard, and she laughed. “You can't be serious.”

“Deadly serious. Since tour management is unwilling to pay for extra security, I will of course pay you for the extra work—”

“Money doesn't come into it,” she said. “I couldn't take money for this. Why me?”

“If we bring in someone from the outside, they'll have to win Lucas's trust. He already trusts you. He likes you.”

“Lee, I owe you an apology—”

“No you don't. I saw the way he looked at you. Even if you weren't interested in him, I couldn't do that to him.” He only paused for a moment before going on. “Someone from the outside would be a red flag that we're onto this person.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “No one will suspect you.”

“That's because I'm not equipped to do this!” she protested. “I'm not trained for close protection.”

“Even without the specialized training, I trust your instincts,” he said. “I've seen your records. You not only managed to keep yourself alive in a war zone; you defended several of your patients as well.”

She took a deep breath. “If you saw those records, you know that I failed pretty damned badly a few times. Do you want to take that chance with your brother's life?”

“Gwen, I need you. Lucas needs you.”

She slumped against the wall, hand automatically going to pinch the bridge of her nose. “What does he have to say about this?”

“I've learned not to ask him if he needs help.”

“Wait, you're going to expect me to lie about this too?”

“No, I would never ask that,” he said. “You just might not want to tell him it was my idea.”

“I'm not armed,” she finally said. “I don't have any equipment.”

“There's already a courier on the way to bring you what you need.”

“You bastard. You knew I'd say yes.”

“I hoped,” he said. “You'll be good for him, you know.” He didn't mean her role as manager or pseudo-bodyguard. “He's always been a lucky son of a bitch.”

Gwen couldn't think of what to say. So she fell back on the manners her mum had taught her. “Thank you.”

“Courier'll be there in about two hours,” he said. “I'll be checking in.”

He rang off before she could ask him anything else.

***

By the time Lucas and Maggie arrived for sound check, Gwen was fighting back the ragged edge of exhaustion with nothing but adrenaline and caffeine. She'd got used to sleep deprivation in Afghanistan, but there the potential of being shot tended to keep one alert. Lee's courier had arrived as promised, and one of the gifts he'd sent now rested uneasily in a shoulder holster hidden under her jacket. A Sig Sauer P226, it had come complete with ammo and permits to carry a concealed weapon. Gwen didn't think too much about how Lee might have managed that, but it intensified her suspicion that “private security” was a cover story for what he really did.

When the concert started, Gwen didn't even make it through the first song before she dropped into a doze in the booth with Craig and Cathy. Even so, she couldn't relax. She kept jerking awake to scan the crowd for anything suspicious. Logic said that Liam, or whoever had trashed Maggie's room, would keep a lower profile now, but logic had nothing to do with the tension in her gut. The analytical part of her brain pointed out exactly where the stage's vulnerabilities lay, exactly where a sniper could hide. Finally she gave up trying to chase down a nap and shoved the stool away, rising to give in to the urge to stand guard.

During the last encore, she leaned over to Craig, speaking in his ear over the music. “Do me a favor. Can you take care of things backstage? I don't want to send Lucas into the crowd to sign autographs alone.” Craig raised an eyebrow. “I know I'm probably overreacting, but what if I'm not?”

Craig nodded.

“Thanks,” she said.

She left the booth and went backstage. When Lucas and Maggie came offstage, Gwen was ready for them.

“What are you doing here?” Lucas took a towel from one of the stagehands and wiped his face. “Aren't you supposed to be doing . . . manager things?” They'd hardly spoken since the night before.

“Yes, and tonight one of my ‘manager things' is to keep an eye on you. Or more accurately, to keep an eye on the crowd around you.” She gestured toward one of the copies of the police sketch hanging backstage. “Maggie, are you joining us tonight?” Maggie shook her head. “Right then. We'll be back. Cathy should be down to the green room in a few minutes. Stay with her.”

“This is unnecessary,” Lucas said as they walked through the backstage halls toward the lobby. “No one is going to attack me here.”

“Mm. You expected someone to go after Maggie at the hotel then?” He didn't answer. “I didn't think so. Until we know for sure who we're dealing with, no strangers are getting close to you unless I'm there. No one's going to get a chance to hurt you.”

Lucas stopped in his tracks and caught her arm. He leaned down and kissed her once, hard. “That may be the sexiest damn thing anyone has ever said to me.”

She shook him off, but smiled. “Come on, your public is waiting.”

They pushed their way through the crowd near the merch table as they came through the side door. Fans were lined up at the table looking for the latest T-shirt or poster. Lucas's arrival drew their attention away, and Gwen didn't miss the scowl Sally sent her way. Gwen took position behind him to the left. As much as she wanted to stand at attention, she did her best to stay casual. She leaned against a nearby column, her feet spread, hands resting in the small of her back. Her face fell into a familiar mask: head held high and straight on her neck, eyes moving over the crowd.

She could hear Lucas talking to his fans, and she listened more to the tones of voices than the words; listened for something, anything that sounded off. His fans never expected him to be friendly and enthusiastic—they expected sullen and a bit distant, royalty deigning to mix with his subjects. The people who approached him were a nightmare from a security perspective. Several wore spiked bracelets, giving her a quick image of someone trying to gash Lucas's throat with one. What the hell was venue security for, anyway?

No one seemed to want to hurt Lucas, but all of them wanted to touch him. More than once an overly excited fan grabbed his arm or his wrist—once or twice hard enough to make him wince—and she would step forward and smile up at Lucas. Just the appearance of someone new was usually enough to break the tension. She might be the world's most unlikely bodyguard, but she was pleased she still had enough authoritative presence to do the trick.

She also discovered the true uselessness of the police sketch. The sketch showed a man in his late teens or early twenties with pale skin, blue eyes, and dark hair. Which matched roughly 40 percent of the people in the lobby; 80 if you considered the level of androgyny in the crowd. Hell, it almost matched Lucas
at a glance. Cathy had said the man wasn't as tall as Lucas, so that filtered out a few more people, but there were still too many options left for Gwen's comfort.

Like that one there. Third in line, he shifted from foot to foot, nervous. The man's (boy's?) eyes darted from side to side. He didn't appear to be with anyone, unlike the people around him. Was he Liam? She should have paid more attention that night at the club. The back of her neck prickled, instinct waking and stretching with an internal growl. She loosed her hands behind her, fingers wiggling to restore blood flow.

One more down. The kid was wearing the usual costume of ripped jeans and a concert T-shirt with a leather jacket several sizes too big for him. The jacket—which if security had been doing their job would be in the coat check—hung oddly, pulled to one side. The way it might be if there were a weapon in the pocket. Should Gwen step in now? She waited. The kid reached the front of the line and Gwen zeroed in on him, listening to every word. Lucas didn't show any signs of recognizing him.

“. . . loved the new album,” he gushed. “Can you do something for me? It would mean so much . . .” He reached toward the weighted-down pocket.

Gwen slipped her hand under her jacket and gripped the pistol in its holster.

“Can you sign this for me?” The kid drew out a chunk of what Gwen at first thought was concrete, then realized was part of a plaster cast. “I missed your last tour because I broke my leg.” Lucas signed the piece of plaster with his usual combination of intensity and feigned ennui, and the boy walked away, never knowing how close he'd come to having a gun drawn on him.
Jesus, Tennison. Pull it together.
Gwen relaxed infinitesimally, hands returning to parade rest at her back.