Diva (Ironclad Bodyguards Book 2) by Annabel Joseph, Molly Joseph

moods.
    He walked back over to her bedroom door and stood outside, listening. They were on the highway, so there were no stops or starts, just smooth, uninterrupted cruising. He didn’t hear any more crying. He thought she might be sleeping, but then he heard a soft, melodic strum. A guitar?
    He sat at the end of the velvet-cushioned bench nearest her room and listened to her aimless noodling. He didn’t play guitar himself, but he recognized capability. Interesting. Lady Paradise could do more than push buttons and move levers. Why hadn’t she told him so when he’d mocked her?
    He decided he’d better check on her since she’d been crying. It was his job to supervise her, to make sure she was safe. He wasn’t one to coddle and comfort a sobbing client, but now that she seemed to have her shit together, he ought to poke his head in and see if she needed anything.
    Oh, you want to poke your head in, all right.
    He ignored his all too savvy conscience and went to the kitchenette to grab more water and some kind of healthy snack. Finding nothing on the bus that qualified as “healthy,” he grabbed a box of crackers instead, and headed back to her room. She was still messing around on the guitar, plucking out a hesitant melody that sounded both wistful and sweet.
    He knocked when the meandering notes came to a stop. Her abrasive “What?” was in direct opposition to her soulful playing.
    “It’s me,” he said.
    “Go away.”
    “I have food and water. Are you dressed?”
    She slid open the narrow pocket door without getting up, and glared out at him from her bedroom, which was really just a compartment built around a queen sized bed. The sheets were rumpled, and the back of the platform was piled with pink pillows that matched her pink plaid pajamas and pink hair. Her eyes were still red.
    He held up the water and crackers, and she reached for them. “Give me. Then go away.”
    “Are you playing the guitar?”
    She still had it cradled in her lap. She gave him a withering look. “What, are you listening at my door?”
    “I can hear it from out there.” He flicked a thumb over his shoulder. “It sounds nice.” He paused. “Is everything okay?”
    “Everything’s fine,” she said too quickly. “I was just winding down.”
    “Must be hard to wind down after those sets. They’re pretty loud and intense.”
    “Yeah.”
    He leaned against the narrow doorway, thinking of topics that might engage her. If he could bond with her, even a little, the next few weeks might be easier for both of them. She gave her light wood guitar an accidental strum as she opened the box of crackers.
    “You going to eat those in bed?” he asked. “Cracker crumbs in your sheets will make it even harder to sleep.”
    “I never sleep on the bus.” She pulled out a sleeve of crackers, tore it open, and started popping them in her mouth. “I mean, I try buh I’ff nefer—”
    He held up a hand as she spewed cracker crumbs. “Swallow first. Then talk.”
    She finished what was in her mouth and twisted open the water bottle. “I try, but I’ve never been able to drift off without…” She grimaced. “Pharmaceutical help.”
    He shook his head when she offered him some crackers, and tried to tune his anti-drug message to her wavelength. “Pharmaceuticals can help in the moment,” he said, “but long term, they can really mess you up.”
    “I know, Mr. Life Coach. Do you think I don’t know that?”
    He nodded at her guitar before she could work herself into another sass attack. “What came first?” he asked. “The sound console or the guitar?”
    She studied him as she pounded a couple more crackers, then scooted sideways and gestured to the bed. “If we’re going to talk and shit, it would be more comfortable if you weren’t towering over me.”
    “We can sit in the other room.”
    “I never sit in there. The couches suck.”
    He agreed that the couches sucked, but it would be unprofessional to lounge on her bed