Read Online Diva (Ironclad Bodyguards Book 2) by Annabel Joseph, Molly Joseph - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Annabel Joseph, Molly Joseph
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wherever she wanted to go, but once she was there, he was on her tail like a fucking deer tick, and nothing could pull him away. She’d been sure she could score some ecstasy from the team of EDM producers she met with on Thursday, but no. An entire day in the studio, and he was at her elbow the whole time. The producers loved his suit and red tie, and thought he was cool because he never talked. They dubbed him Random Ransom, and needled him to give opinions on the tracks they laid down.
She wanted to scream at him to go away.
As long as she agreed to walk with him during the day—ugh, those walks—he let her go out to the clubs at night, but by the third night she gave up and stayed in, because nothing fun could permeate his iron barricade of control.
It was hard to hit on potential sex partners when a man in a suit was standing beside you scowling at them. And of course, he did everything he could to look like a fucking DEA agent in his fucking business suits, so no one carrying drugs would even look her way.
She was in Amsterdam, where they had the best party scene, the loosest laws, the strongest drugs, and she was helpless to take advantage of it. Her mojo was fucked up from lack of sex and she was PMSing hard, and everything in life sucked, and it was his fault. This tour was supposed to be the time of her life. Fame could be fleeting, and youth was definitely fleeting. When she explained this to him, he gave her that judgey look that made her want to punch his handsome face.
“You need to stay healthy,” he’d say. “Don’t party so hard. You have a long life ahead of you.”
Just a few more weeks and she’d be rid of him, and then, fuck, she’d party like crazy. She’d reunite with her L.A. posse and make up for all this lost time, and he wouldn’t have any authority over her anymore because the tour would be done. When she told him that, he joked that he was going to keep coming to her for guitar lessons.
But she hadn’t given him any more lessons because it was too hard to be that close to him when she was starved for sex. Just touching him made her wet. No, just looking at him made her wet.
Which really sucked, because she hated him with the fire of a million suns.
If she couldn’t have sex, she at least needed some happy pills before the Amsterdam show. The whole crowd would be high and she wanted to be high too. She was sure she could get something at the venue. She only needed to slip away from Ransom for five minutes to find a provider and make a deal. She’d watched Marty do it plenty of times. She had a wad of cash in her pocket, and room to store the ecstasy tablets in that same pocket once she bought them. If she could buy a few extra, she’d have some for the next show too.
An hour before her set, Lola was ready to rock Amsterdam—and get high. Her hair was done up in fun pins and twists, her makeup was applied, her bikini top was double knotted, and her shorts had deep pockets that zipped. Once they got backstage, Greg gave her the out she needed, taking her to the restricted area to introduce her to the head sound guy, a pierced, tattooed gargoyle who reeked of pot. She pitched into a discussion with him about the songs on her set list until Greg got bored and wandered away. As soon as he was gone, she asked the guy if there was anyone backstage who could sell her some ecstasy.
His chubby cheeks spread in a smile. “You want Rave Dave.”
“Hell, yeah, I want Rave Dave. I need Rave Dave. Show me where he is. Quickly, please.” She looked over her shoulder, but Ransom wasn’t allowed back here and Greg was chatting up a dude in the VIP area.
Five minutes later, Lola had made the acquaintance of Rave Dave and scored a bonus quantity of the best ecstasy available. It took all her money, but he assured her the tablets were epically pure. “Don’t take too much,” he warned after she popped the first pill. “You’re small. Start with one.”
“I always take two.” She
She wanted to scream at him to go away.
As long as she agreed to walk with him during the day—ugh, those walks—he let her go out to the clubs at night, but by the third night she gave up and stayed in, because nothing fun could permeate his iron barricade of control.
It was hard to hit on potential sex partners when a man in a suit was standing beside you scowling at them. And of course, he did everything he could to look like a fucking DEA agent in his fucking business suits, so no one carrying drugs would even look her way.
She was in Amsterdam, where they had the best party scene, the loosest laws, the strongest drugs, and she was helpless to take advantage of it. Her mojo was fucked up from lack of sex and she was PMSing hard, and everything in life sucked, and it was his fault. This tour was supposed to be the time of her life. Fame could be fleeting, and youth was definitely fleeting. When she explained this to him, he gave her that judgey look that made her want to punch his handsome face.
“You need to stay healthy,” he’d say. “Don’t party so hard. You have a long life ahead of you.”
Just a few more weeks and she’d be rid of him, and then, fuck, she’d party like crazy. She’d reunite with her L.A. posse and make up for all this lost time, and he wouldn’t have any authority over her anymore because the tour would be done. When she told him that, he joked that he was going to keep coming to her for guitar lessons.
But she hadn’t given him any more lessons because it was too hard to be that close to him when she was starved for sex. Just touching him made her wet. No, just looking at him made her wet.
Which really sucked, because she hated him with the fire of a million suns.
If she couldn’t have sex, she at least needed some happy pills before the Amsterdam show. The whole crowd would be high and she wanted to be high too. She was sure she could get something at the venue. She only needed to slip away from Ransom for five minutes to find a provider and make a deal. She’d watched Marty do it plenty of times. She had a wad of cash in her pocket, and room to store the ecstasy tablets in that same pocket once she bought them. If she could buy a few extra, she’d have some for the next show too.
An hour before her set, Lola was ready to rock Amsterdam—and get high. Her hair was done up in fun pins and twists, her makeup was applied, her bikini top was double knotted, and her shorts had deep pockets that zipped. Once they got backstage, Greg gave her the out she needed, taking her to the restricted area to introduce her to the head sound guy, a pierced, tattooed gargoyle who reeked of pot. She pitched into a discussion with him about the songs on her set list until Greg got bored and wandered away. As soon as he was gone, she asked the guy if there was anyone backstage who could sell her some ecstasy.
His chubby cheeks spread in a smile. “You want Rave Dave.”
“Hell, yeah, I want Rave Dave. I need Rave Dave. Show me where he is. Quickly, please.” She looked over her shoulder, but Ransom wasn’t allowed back here and Greg was chatting up a dude in the VIP area.
Five minutes later, Lola had made the acquaintance of Rave Dave and scored a bonus quantity of the best ecstasy available. It took all her money, but he assured her the tablets were epically pure. “Don’t take too much,” he warned after she popped the first pill. “You’re small. Start with one.”
“I always take two.” She
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