"Thank you…you know. For advocating for me. I should have done better at it myself."
"Hey…don't even think about it. You tried. I get why it's hard to stand up to these industry douchebags. They want to do what they want to do. There's no consideration of the person being affected by their choices."
"Except you," I say. "You've been considerate beyond your job role."
He shakes his head, shooting me with a smile that makes my heart skip a beat. "You're forgetting something, Luna. My job is to protect you. Whether it's from psycho stalkers or rabid costume designers or raging tour managers, that's my job."
I grin back and bounce on my toes, hearing the roar of the crowd as the support act finish their final track.
It's time.
And I'm ready. All thanks to Elijah, the bodyguard who goes the extra mile.
7
BEN
I finish the backstage check just as the MC is announcing that it's time for the main event. Touching my lapel, I call in confirmation that my side is clear. Asher comes into view, confirming the same. Mo and Jax are upfront, and Connor and Elijah are waiting to escort Luna safely onto the stage.
The lights begin to flash, a deep beat pulsing from the huge speakers, and I hear Connor confirm that Luna is on the move.
My heart is in my throat as I gaze into the almost black expanse of the stadium. There are people out there. Thousands of people screaming Luna's name. Thousands of ordinary people worked into a frenzy by their love of the way she sings or the way she looks. Among them there will be the fans who are obsessed. The ones with the unhealthy psychologies who invent stories about how close they are to Luna. Maybe they think they should be dating her. Maybe they want to touch her in real life because of the words of a song that some middle-aged music executive came up with.
Scientists estimate that one percent of the population are psychopaths, but in my life experience, I'd put that number higher. Yes, there are probably one percent who are the real terrifying fuckers, but there must be at least another five percent who are the ones who function in day-to-day life without slaughtering animals, who fly under the radar, but exist with no conscience. They’re the ones who worry me more.
I don’t know how Luna has the confidence to exist in the public eye. She’ll go out there and stand in front of all of those people, singing and dancing as though it’s the easiest thing in the world. I’d rather somebody emptied a Glock into my temple.
The beat begins to rise, the lights flashing so rapidly that it's hard to see. I stand, braced for anything, knowing that my team are doing the same. The men of Steel 7 are my brothers.
Just thinking about them that way makes my throat burn. We should have been Steel 8 and we would have been if Hudson's twin, Hartley, hadn't caught the worst of an IED.
Seven is supposed to be a lucky number, but for us it's just a reminder of how dangerous the world is, and how unfair.
For the companies that hire us, seven is always justifiable because we share a flat fee and are willing to take on the work that a personal assistant can do. There’s always a way to encourage a company to take us all on. Working apart just wouldn’t be an option.
"Five seconds." Connor is a little out of breath in my ear.
And then there she is, bounding onto the stage. Luna’s dancers follow and they start the first number, a rousing tune about Luna getting over her ex. It's stupid, but every time I hear her sing about the douchebag who broke her heart, I want to punch the fictional asshole in the mouth.
The crowd go crazy, almost obliterating her voice with their cheers, and then they quieten to listen to Luna's crystal-clear melody. They hold up their phones to capture her perfect performance.
My eyes scan the section of backstage that I can see. At the front, Mo grabs hold of an overenthusiastic fan who's desperately trying to scale the barriers onto the stage. He puts the girl down as gently as possible and holds his finger up in warning. I scan the stage, finding Luna hitting every beat with a dance routine that seems too taxing to manage while singing at the same time. Backstage, I spot Marcus, one of the lighting techs, watching Luna as though he’s in a trance-like state. There’s a smirk on his lips. At least, it looks like a smirk rather than a smile.
My eyes flick back to Luna, checking that all is okay. When I glance back, Marcus has moved on.
The song comes to an end and Luna stands, her chest rising and falling, gazing out into the sea of shadowed faces. "How are you doing BERLIN?" she yells the last part and the crowd go crazy again. "This next one is my favorite from the album. I hope you enjoy it."