3. Three

My head throbbed as the plane touched down on the private runway at Port Columbus. It'd been four days since Sam decided I needed this little vacation, and I'd spent it as a John Doe in a private clinic while they monitored my vitals. Detox had been a trip through hell, but I had a feeling my misery was just getting started.

I grabbed a ginger ale from the fridge on my way off the plane. It was no vodka, but I'd gotten addicted to the stuff in detox.

The sun battered my retinas through my sunglasses as I stepped out of the plane, my carry-on bag in hand. Heat waves shimmered in the air above the tarmac where a black Chevy Tahoe was parked. The airline staff rolled my luggage over and placed it in the back seat, so I assumed the Chevy was my ride.

I scanned the tarmac for the bodyguard that was supposed to be picking me up and halted when my gaze fell on the biggest, beefiest beauty of a man I'd ever seen. The dude had to be pushing seven feet tall with biceps that could crush logs. His immaculate white dress shirt clung to his body in all the right places to be sexy, but that ugly striped, red tie… It had to go .

Unless it was the only thing he was wearing. Actually, no. You can keep the tie . Only the tie.

He waited at the bottom of the stairs, straight-backed, arms folded, and his aviator sunglasses sitting high up his nose. "Mr. Deluca?"

My God. That sexy British accent had all the blood pumping to my dick. Maybe this wouldn't be the worst month of my life after all.

I tipped my sunglasses down my nose. "I'll be whoever you want me to be, kitten."

His jaw clenched at the nickname, and he thrust a stiff, meaty hand forward. "My name is Christian Bishop, but you'll refer to me by my code name: Church."

"Oh, you're the bossy type." I took his hand and yanked him down. In a straight up battle of strength, he'd have me beat, but he wasn't expecting the move and I easily pulled the giant off balance to give me access to his ear. "We'll see about that."

I snickered as he squirmed away and gave me another once over with an even deeper frown.

"Mr. Deluca—"

"Dante," I corrected and shoved my bag at him. "And I hope all those gorgeous muscles aren't for show because I'm sure as hell not carrying anything. It's hard enough carrying a tune for my bandmates all the damn time. Get it?"

I grinned and elbowed him, but he didn't return my smile. I was starting to wonder what it'd take to get him to break. Maybe he'd never smile, but I'd settle for something other than the permanent scowl fixed on his perfect lips.

I pushed past him and gestured to the Tahoe. "That your ride? Not the sexiest car, but it'll do." I pulled open the front passenger side door only to have him come over and slam it shut.

"You ride in the back," he gritted out .

"Let's get one thing straight, kitten," I said, poking a finger into his chest. "If you want me to ride your back, I can do that anytime, but I have control issues."

His mouth twitched. "Control issues?"

I peeled the sunglasses off my face and flipped my hair over my shoulder. "You heard me. I like to be in charge, kitten."

He pressed his lips into a thin line, considering me in a brief pause before speaking. "Call me Church, not kitten, and you can sit wherever you please."

A negotiator, huh? I could work with that.

I gave him a quick look up and down. "Lose the tie and I'll call you whatever you want, sweetheart."

I didn't think he'd do it. Most guys wouldn't, especially men who were bigger than me and in positions of power. They'd take one look at me and think they could throw their weight around to get me to do whatever they wanted. I'd learned early on how to advocate for myself, and how to push back. Size wasn't everything, whether it was the size of someone's dick or their bank account. I was willing to go however far it took to get the upper hand in a negotiation.

But Church surprised me. He let out a low growl that had my skin prickling and my dick twitching. He yanked off his tie before pulling open the door. "Satisfied?"

Far from it, but a bargain was a bargain. "Thank you, Church ," I said and slid back on my sunglasses before sinking into the front passenger seat.

The drive from Port Columbus to the vacation rental Sam had secured was an hour and twenty minutes long according to my maps app .

Church seemed content to spend the entire drive ignoring me. That lasted almost twenty minutes before I got bored and reached to turn on the radio.

The next thing I knew, the chorus for "Rebel Heart" blasted through the car. I cringed. God, I was so sick of that song. The one thing no one tells you about having a multi-platinum album is that you'll never escape having to play the same five singles for all eternity. It'd become its own little version of hell. Electric Love Song wasn't even our best album, but it was the one that put After Atom on the map and the one everyone knew.

Thankfully, Church quickly reached over to turn it off.

"Awkward," I commented. "So, you're a fan?"

"Hardly," he huffed. "My boss said I should listen to your music, but it's not my cup of tea."

"Really?" I tilted my head to the side, looking over at him. "What do you like?"

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

"Of course it fucking matters," I said, shifting in my seat. "What's your favorite genre of music?"

He didn't answer, apparently preferring silence.

I crossed my arms. "Okay, I'll guess. You're too serious for pop, too posh for rap… Are you into classical?"

He shot me a look that said I should shut up and let him drive, but what was he going to do? Turn around and take me back? He was stuck with me, so we might as well find some common ground.

"Okay, not classical then." I tapped my chin. What else was there? "Europop?"

"I don't like music," he said gruffly.

I stared at him, mouth agape. "Everybody likes music."

"Not me."

That had to be a lie. I'd never met anyone who didn't have at least one song they liked. What sort of monster hated music?

"Maybe you just haven't heard the right band," I said and reached for the radio again.

Church caught my wrist and held on tight, giving me an even more serious glare. "No music," he insisted before slowly withdrawing his hand.

"I'm a musician and I have to practice, so you won't be able to avoid it forever."

He didn't answer me, fixing his attention forward. Normally, I would have poked at him a little more, but something told me I shouldn't. Maybe it was the distant stare, like he was seeing the road without looking at it, or the tone of his voice. I had the strangest urge to put my hand over his and squeeze. Maybe tell him everything was going to be okay, though I had no idea what was wrong.

I crossed my arms and settled into the seat for the long ride, scrolling on my phone. Whatever his problem was, it didn't matter. In thirty days, we'd go our separate ways and forget all about each other. I just had to make it that long without booze or blow, and only my hand for company.

God, this really was going to be the worst thirty days of my life after all.