Diva (Ironclad Bodyguards Book 2) by Annabel Joseph, Molly Joseph Page B
Authors: Annabel Joseph, Molly Joseph
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a model son.”
“Were they high pressure parents? You could never be good enough?” She eyed him. “That would explain a lot.”
This pink-haired hot mess was going to play therapist? “It’s not that they were high pressure,” he said. “I just didn’t live up to their ideals. I took some wrong turns in my twenties.”
“What kind of wrong turns?”
“The kind of wrong turns that twenty year olds make. I listened to the wrong people and made some destructive choices.” He arched a brow. “Kind of like someone else I know.”
She ignored that dig and started playing a song that was so pretty and complex he lost the thread of their conversation. He was content to listen as her fingers danced over the strings. “My dad could jam like this forever,” she said when she finished. “He came up with songs all day long. Not just the blues. Any melody that sounded interesting. I wish I had half his talent.”
“I don’t know. You’re pretty good. Probably almost as good as him.”
She gave a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I’m good at selling myself. Playing a role. I’m good at making people dance, but he was a better musician than I’ll ever be. He really felt the music.”
“You feel the music.” Ransom waved his arms in a reenactment of that evening’s performance. “I’ve seen you dance during your sets. You’re feeling something.”
“I mean, I feel it. It’s hard not to feel it when it’s beating you over the head, like rave music does. But there’s really only one emotion in EDM, you know?” She plucked a lonely note. “There’s only happy. I mean, that’s what it’s all about. Get happy, get high, lose your mind like everyone else is doing. You never see sad people at raves. If there was someone crying in the audience, what would everyone think?”
She looked past him, at nothing, still plucking random notes on her guitar. You were crying , he wanted to say. You’re sad. What would everyone think?
“Do you know how to play?” she asked.
“No, I don’t play anything. I didn’t have the patience for music as a kid, although I killed on the soccer field.”
She laughed again. She had the brightest, easiest laugh for someone with so much secret pain. “Soccer, huh?”
“I wanted to be an international superstar, but it turned out you had to be pretty good for that. I got too big, too gangly.”
“Poor Ransom. So you went into security instead, and now here you are, looking after a crazy EDM artist.”
There’d been another life between soccer and security, but he wasn’t going into that. “I still dream about getting the call one day. You know, European leagues or something.”
She smiled, and her gaze slid over his shoulders and chest. He supposed she was imagining him as an athlete, perhaps admiring his muscles. He didn’t go out of his way to flaunt his physique, but it pleased him that she noticed.
He should have done more push-ups. He should have stayed out in the other room. This was too close, and she was too sleepy and sexy and complicated and talented.
“Do you want to try?” she asked.
Try what? Try sex? Try putting my cock in your pussy? Yes. No. Help me, God. He realized she was talking about the guitar, holding it out to him.
“Um. No. Probably not. I don’t know anything about music.”
“It’s not hard.”
Next thing he knew, she was on her knees next to him, smiling and shoving the guitar into his lap. She lifted his left hand, showing him how to press his fingers against the strings.
“If you learn a few chords, you can play almost anything. All those classic rock songs people love? They’re made up of, like, three or four chords. Anyone can play them.”
“I don’t—”
“No, look. This is E minor. Two fingers, and they use it in tons of songs. Try it.”
She was kneeling against his back, her arms around his, forcing him to play even though he could think of nothing besides the warmth and feel of her body.
“No,
“Were they high pressure parents? You could never be good enough?” She eyed him. “That would explain a lot.”
This pink-haired hot mess was going to play therapist? “It’s not that they were high pressure,” he said. “I just didn’t live up to their ideals. I took some wrong turns in my twenties.”
“What kind of wrong turns?”
“The kind of wrong turns that twenty year olds make. I listened to the wrong people and made some destructive choices.” He arched a brow. “Kind of like someone else I know.”
She ignored that dig and started playing a song that was so pretty and complex he lost the thread of their conversation. He was content to listen as her fingers danced over the strings. “My dad could jam like this forever,” she said when she finished. “He came up with songs all day long. Not just the blues. Any melody that sounded interesting. I wish I had half his talent.”
“I don’t know. You’re pretty good. Probably almost as good as him.”
She gave a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I’m good at selling myself. Playing a role. I’m good at making people dance, but he was a better musician than I’ll ever be. He really felt the music.”
“You feel the music.” Ransom waved his arms in a reenactment of that evening’s performance. “I’ve seen you dance during your sets. You’re feeling something.”
“I mean, I feel it. It’s hard not to feel it when it’s beating you over the head, like rave music does. But there’s really only one emotion in EDM, you know?” She plucked a lonely note. “There’s only happy. I mean, that’s what it’s all about. Get happy, get high, lose your mind like everyone else is doing. You never see sad people at raves. If there was someone crying in the audience, what would everyone think?”
She looked past him, at nothing, still plucking random notes on her guitar. You were crying , he wanted to say. You’re sad. What would everyone think?
“Do you know how to play?” she asked.
“No, I don’t play anything. I didn’t have the patience for music as a kid, although I killed on the soccer field.”
She laughed again. She had the brightest, easiest laugh for someone with so much secret pain. “Soccer, huh?”
“I wanted to be an international superstar, but it turned out you had to be pretty good for that. I got too big, too gangly.”
“Poor Ransom. So you went into security instead, and now here you are, looking after a crazy EDM artist.”
There’d been another life between soccer and security, but he wasn’t going into that. “I still dream about getting the call one day. You know, European leagues or something.”
She smiled, and her gaze slid over his shoulders and chest. He supposed she was imagining him as an athlete, perhaps admiring his muscles. He didn’t go out of his way to flaunt his physique, but it pleased him that she noticed.
He should have done more push-ups. He should have stayed out in the other room. This was too close, and she was too sleepy and sexy and complicated and talented.
“Do you want to try?” she asked.
Try what? Try sex? Try putting my cock in your pussy? Yes. No. Help me, God. He realized she was talking about the guitar, holding it out to him.
“Um. No. Probably not. I don’t know anything about music.”
“It’s not hard.”
Next thing he knew, she was on her knees next to him, smiling and shoving the guitar into his lap. She lifted his left hand, showing him how to press his fingers against the strings.
“If you learn a few chords, you can play almost anything. All those classic rock songs people love? They’re made up of, like, three or four chords. Anyone can play them.”
“I don’t—”
“No, look. This is E minor. Two fingers, and they use it in tons of songs. Try it.”
She was kneeling against his back, her arms around his, forcing him to play even though he could think of nothing besides the warmth and feel of her body.
“No,
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