12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

C andy

I was quiet during the ride from the venue to our hotel and didn't worry about explaining myself because Courage reads me so well. He probably knows my thoughts have circled back to Baker's offer.

We part ways in the hall with Courage's soft, "Remember, I'm right next door if you need me." He spears me with his penetrating gaze and reaches out to touch my shoulder, then thinks better of it and yanks his hand back.

I'm half dazed as I shower and brush my teeth. Although I optimistically bring my guitar to bed, thinking I can work on the bridge of the ballad I'm composing, the instrument lies accusingly on the spread as I pointedly refuse to pick it up.

After ten minutes of having a staring contest with an inanimate object—in which the inanimate object is winning—I give up, turn off the light, and try to sleep.

Although I don't manage to fall asleep, I'm relaxing in increments when my phone pings. I gasp as every muscle in my body tightens.

The phone is on the nightstand, still illuminated from the call. It's well after midnight. I'm not sure who would call me at this time of night. Certainly not my parents; I've been no-contact with them for two years.

I have to give credit to the therapist Maury coaxed me into seeing. She may not have cured my penchant for getting into trouble, but she helped me realize my parents were toxic narcissists who used me as a cash cow my entire childhood.

The call could only be Maury, Courage, or whoever is threatening me. Although I could sit here and conduct an inner debate until the cows come home, I put myself out of my misery and simply pick up the phone—my heart pounds as I read the words on the screen.

I know what really happened at KEN. Keep your mouth shut, or everyone will know what a dirty little slut you were. Do you think your crotch shot almost sank your career? That was a drop. What I can tell the press is more like an ocean. Sam Raskins, KEN, and the crew send their regards.

My heart feels paralyzed and I have to order my lungs to suck in air. It's as though I'm thirteen again, trapped in that dressing room with Sam's hands all over me, his hot breath on my neck as he tells me how pretty I am.

People have asked me dozens of times about Sam and dozens of times I've denied he did anything. Besides, he never pushed it farther than getting handsy, not like he did with Samantha Adair and Veronica Trudeau, who are going public in the documentary. I didn't have it that bad, right?

If that's true, though, why am I trembling and why is my throat convulsing to keep from vomiting? Bending at the waist until I'm almost folded in half, I hug my stomach and breathe like I'm doing LaMaze—had to do that for a skit once.

The whole time I'm pulling it together, my brain is flashing me pictures of Courage. The male couldn't be more than twenty feet away. Part of me is convinced he could make this all better, although I don't know how that's possible.

After sipping the bottled water at my bedside, and without making a conscious decision to do so, I grab the bathrobe off the hook on the bathroom door, slip my key card into the robe pocket, and pad to Courage's door.

He must have leaped out of bed because he opens the door no more than two seconds after I knock. His eyes are rounded in his face, fear written all over it as he grips my shoulders and demands, "What's wrong?"

My mouth is working, but no words come out. As he pulls me into the room and shuts the door, I hand him the phone, which is still clutched in my hand.

"Fucking bastards!" His words are angry after he reads the text, but the look he gives me is so full of compassion that it cracks through my fear and pierces me with its warmth. "Candy, tell me. What can I do to make it better?"

He's the bodyguard. I'm just… fuck! What am I? An actress? Singer? Victim? All of the above?

When I don't respond, he tucks me close, his palm on the back of my skull, places his lips at my ear, and murmurs, "I don't need you to tell me how to keep you safe, Candy. That's my job. I want to know how to handle… you. What can I do for you ? Right now?"

Looking up at him. I shake my head, having no idea what will make me feel better. Maybe that's why I keep getting in trouble in such a public way. My therapist said I need to self-soothe, but, despite her best efforts, I still haven't a clue how to do it.

He effortlessly lifts me into a bridal carry and, as he approaches the bed, hot fury lances through to my very soul. Fucker! I trusted him and he's going to make a move on me now ? When my mind is throwing me a running movie of every shitty thing that happened to me during my four years at KEN? He wants to have sex with me now?

I'm just about to pound on his fucking perfect naked chest when he carries me past the bed and sits in the overstuffed chair in the corner. He tucks me against him, one arm banded around my back, the other cinched against my hip, and… rocks me. Like a baby.

And I melt.

With his chin on the top of my head, he gently sways back and forth, soft, reassuring words streaming from his lips.

"It's going to be okay… I'm here. I'll always be here… No one's going to harm you, not on my watch. You're safe. I swear I'll keep you safe."

I've never been this close to him before, but I cuddle closer, my fingers burrowing through the thick, soft-as-silk pelt at his shoulders as I clutch my hands together behind his neck. His gentle words and the rhythmic rocking lull me, soothe me as the frightening pictures scrolling through my thoughts slowly disappear.

My mind is still on high alert, but my tight muscles stand down as I breathe in the scent of him—fresh air, almost as though he produces his own ozone. As I press my ear to his hot chest and focus on his breathing, trying to match my frantic heart rate to his calming rhythm, he sings.

His deep bass voice is one of the prettiest things I've ever heard. It's soft, intimate, as he sings to me in Wolven.

" Ardrawl, shamash, angtah, adme. Brintawl trintu."

Although I have no idea what he's saying, from the tune, I imagine it's a lullaby. I may have been a KEN star for much of my childhood, but my first love has always been music. That's why I'm passably good on keyboards, drums, and harmonica. Music speaks to my soul. And this music? This lovely simple melody laced with Courage's vocals, is as though I'm bathing in magical refreshing waters.

I nestle closer, my fingers gripping his downy pelt, my nose nuzzling the delicious scent that's stronger in the crook of his neck.

"Better now?" His lips are at my ear, the words so soft they're barely breath.

Suddenly, I feel five years old and want to beg him not to send me to bed alone. Perhaps he senses it, or maybe it's that I'm clutching him tighter, my fingers in a desperate death grip on his pelt. He simply sings another song, another lullaby, crooning, "The moons and I will watch over you, little one." Then he returns to wolven.

I think I nodded off, but when I shake myself awake, this wonderful male is still singing, though he had to have known I dozed off. Constant even in the darkness. That's Courage.

In the span of an hour, I've gone from terrified to furious to sad to sleepy. All of those emotions peaked and then faded. Now I'm overwhelmed with two things—affection and attraction.

I wiggle, changing my position, and face him directly for the first time since I entered the room.

Placing my thumb on the hinge of his strong jaw and curling my fingers around his nape gives him permission to stop serenading me. Only when his gaze is captured in mine do I say, "I'd like to kiss you, Courage."

Sometimes my thinking gets turned around—hence leaving my panties in the drawer when embarking on a night on the town. But I could swear he's been signaling that he wouldn't turn down a kiss. That's why the flash of surprise laced with reluctance in those piercing blue eyes stuns me.

He loosens his grip on my hips just enough to lean back a few inches and says, "I've been dreaming about that for days, Candy, but you're not in a good place. Is now the time to decide that?"

If he'd phrased that question differently by even one word, I would have wanted to peel off his lap and slam out of his room. If it's one thing I hate, it's someone doing my thinking for me, telling me what to do. But his question was so concerned, so gentle.

"You're right." I nod earnestly. "Now isn't the time to tear off our clothes and jump into bed—though I can't say I haven't thought about it. But now's the perfect time for a kiss."

When he lifts one arched brow, needing confirmation that I'm certain, I add, "Just one."