11. Luna

Two days down, twenty-eight to go…

The silence was unnerving. Apart from the dog snoring in the corner, the only sound in the bunkhouse came from the waves crashing on the shore. And the whole moonlight thing was spooky too. I was from Vegas—wasting electricity was a way of life. Mom couldn't sleep without the TV on, and Jubilee had a weird body clock that meant she got up at five thirty every morning to do yoga.

I'd never been a good sleeper. Well, not since I was sixteen. Some nights, I used to sneak out of whatever hotel I was staying in and walk for hours, because if I wasn't in bed, then he couldn't find me. In those days, I'd been able to stroll around unnoticed, but now I couldn't get ten yards away without the whispers starting. Is that Luna Maara? Wow, she's so tiny. Hey, Luna, can I get a picture? This was a Good Thing, Mom said. I had the name recognition to do anything I wanted.

As long as what I wanted fit into her Long-Term Plan, obviously.

Through the window, I caught the glimmer of light on the water, sparkling against the night sky. The photographers had gone. Three of them had bugged out when the idiot from celebgossip.com found himself stranded on the reef—he'd nearly drowned trying to save his camera—and the rest had left before dinner. I could go for a walk. Just to the edge of the sand, no farther.

Jubilee slept like the dead, and Caro had to be tired after yelling at the photographer earlier. I knew firsthand how confrontation sapped your energy. Acting nasty left me permanently exhausted, but the alternative—letting people get close to me—was worse. The dog watched from her blanket as I tiptoed to the door, but she didn't move. I wasn't sure whether I liked her or not. I'd never had a pet, and Mom said dogs were dirty, smelly creatures. But Mom talked a lot of trash, so maybe Tango was okay?

I pulled a sweater on over my camisole. The door creaked, but nobody stirred. I brought my notepad with me, and perhaps if the light was bright enough, I could sit for a while? Write a few words? Words I'd never be allowed to sing because they didn't fit my image, but words I needed to write nonetheless.

The beach was bathed in a soft glow, and I picked my way carefully down the rocky steps. Who knew putting sunglasses on a turtle could bring me to such a beautiful place? It hadn't even been my idea, but I was strangely grateful to Kory for suggesting it, and to Jubilee for cropping and filtering and posting it on Insta. She had come to help with the punishment, so I couldn't even be a little bit mad at her. I perched on the bottom step and looked out at the sea. That was quite close enough to the water, thank you very much, but the sound of the waves was strangely soothing.

"Hey."

Holy crap! I jumped out of my skin as Ryder jogged silently down the steps and sat beside me. Ryder, but he looked different. Where had his beard gone?

"You jerk! You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Sorry about that. What happened?"

"What happened to what?"

"Why are you up at three a.m.?"

"Because I couldn't sleep. Why are you up at three a.m.?"

"Figured I'd go skinny-dipping."

What?"Are you serious? It's freaking dark. What if there are sharks? What if you drown?"

"No, I'm not serious. You triggered a motion detector when you left the bunkhouse."

Oh.

"Nobody told me there were motion detectors."

"We put them in place to keep you safe. You didn't hear the yelling last night?"

"What yelling?"

"One of the reporters we escorted off the property didn't take too kindly to being told to leave."

"I took a sleeping pill last night."

"You need those? They're not a good idea, little moon."

"Little moon? Are you making fun of my size?"

"No, I…" He shook his head. "Forget it. I don't even know why I said that. But if you're drowsy and there's an emergency, it makes our job harder."

"Then you'll be thrilled to hear I don't have any more. Jubilee forgot to bring them from the yacht."

Last night, I'd taken the emergency pill I kept in my purse. The rest were in a little silver box in my cabin, so Kory had no doubt given them to his friends by now. They'd take any pharmaceutical product that might lead to a good time. He was probably snoozing in the Bahamas, wasted at the Blayz Festival. The organisers had billed it as a hedonistic paradise, and since they'd promised to let me sing rather than lip-sync, I'd been looking forward to going on stage. But now I was here instead. There would be plenty more festivals, and if Mom and Julius had anything to do with it, I'd be expected to perform at all of them.

"You don't sleep well?" Ryder asked.

"Not without the pills. And don't ask if I've tried meditation, herbal tea, warm milk, or yoga. Yes, I have. No, they don't help."

"I was gonna suggest Jack Daniels."

I gave an unladylike snort, then thanked my lucky stars that nobody was filming me. The last time I'd hiccuped, it went viral on TikTok.

"I hate hangovers. Sometimes, going for a walk helps. At least it takes my mind off things."

"What things?"

"You're a bodyguard, not an agony aunt."

Ryder held up both hands. "Didn't mean to overstep."

And now I felt like a shrew. As usual.

"I struggle to sleep in strange beds, okay? I guess… I guess I worry that somebody's going to come into my room."

"Has that ever happened?"

I closed my eyes and drew in a calming breath. Of all the questions to ask, he picked that one? The obvious solution would be to lie. Lie and change the subject. That's what I usually did. But for some reason, I found myself telling the truth, at least partially.

"That's in the past, but it still gives me nightmares." Before I realised what I was doing, I lifted a hand and traced a finger along his jaw. "You shaved off your beard?"

"I didn't want you to be uncomfortable." Damn, his smile was pretty without all that hair in the way. "Nobody's gonna get near you, moon, not with Knox and me here. You can rest easy."

We'd graduated from "little moon" to just "moon"? Weirdly, I found I didn't hate it. My nicknames were usually much less complimentary.

"So I have to go back to bed now?"

"Not if you don't want to."

"If I stay, you'll just sit here with me?"

"That's my job."

Of course. His job.

"Usually, the bodyguard would be hovering over there somewhere." I waved a hand toward the main building perched on its rocky outcrop. "They don't like getting too close."

"Can't take a bullet from fifty yards away."

"You'd take a bullet for me?"

"It's my job."

"That's not an answer."

"Yeah, it is. But I hope it doesn't come to that. Getting shot sucks."

"Have you ever actually been shot?"

"I got winged by an asshole I can't talk about in a country I wasn't supposed to be in." He inched up the bottom of his shorts, and in the wash of light from the full moon, I could make out the puckered skin that scarred his inner thigh. "Damn lucky it wasn't three inches higher."

"Your boyfriend would have been devastated."

"Right. Yeah, he would. So, are you planning to sit out here all night?"

He'd think I was a freak if I said yes. Who did that? Who sat outside all night waiting for their demons to leave? Jubilee claimed she never remembered her dreams, and Caro struck me as the type of woman who'd punch a nightmare in the face if it dared to disturb her.

Damn, paradise had its downsides. In Vegas, I'd head someplace bright and busy because monsters hid from the light, but even if I was allowed to leave the turtle sanctuary, the bars in this part of the world closed at nine p.m. I was stuck here with my thoughts, but at least I wasn't alone.

Ryder wouldn't hurt me.

Not that way.

"What choice do I have? I'm not going to lie in the bunkhouse listening to the dog snoring, and there's nothing to do here. No room service, no TV, no bars, no shows, no gym. How do people live like this?"

"Not a fan of solitude, huh?"

"In my experience, it's never been enjoyable." Then curiosity got the better of me. "Do you like being alone?"

"After you've spent most of your twenties living in barracks, tents, or worse, submarines with a bunch of other motherfuckers, you learn to appreciate a little alone time."

When he put it that way…

"What do you do when you're alone?"

"Run, hike, shoot. Take my motorcycle out for a ride. Sit in a park and read a book. What do you do?"

"Order room service and watch a movie."

And write songs. Pour my pain onto paper and wait for the door handle to turn. Even though I'd bought an alarmed doorstop to use in hotel rooms at night, I'd still catch my gaze drifting in that direction, feel my pulse racing at every sound in the hallway.

"Not a fan of the great outdoors?"

"Not a fan of sunburn, bugs, being chased by the paparazzi, getting lost in unfamiliar cities, or being chided by my management for disappearing. Oh, and I don't want to get kidnapped by a psycho stalker either."

Ryder ticked off the points on his fingers. "Moonburn isn't a thing, most of the bugs are asleep right now, the paparazzi's cameras are a hundred feet down, this island's too small to get lost on, and your mom's in jail. Want me to give you some space? I can keep watch from the tree-line, and you'll still be safe enough."

If Ryder had been from the last bodyguard company, I would have said "yes, get the hell away from me." They'd been painfully polite, at least to my face, but somehow managed to look disdainful the whole time. Whenever they followed me around, I could feel them silently judging my lifestyle.

"The ‘hundred feet down' part, did you have anything to do with that?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny."

Which had to mean he'd sunk the boat, didn't it?

"Thank you," I said softly. Nobody had ever fought in my corner like that. Oh, sure, Mom pretended to, but over the years, I'd grown to realise that she was only out for herself. But by then, it was too late to escape this life I was stuck in. All I could do was double down and be the person everyone expected me to be.

A self-centred witch.

Most of the time, it felt as if I were wearing somebody else's skin, and that skin was itchy as all get-out. A onesie made from centipedes, and the shoes weren't too comfortable either.

"All part of the service, ma'am."

"Ugh, don't call me ma'am. I'm twenty-six, not fifty."

"Understood."

I studied him. He had to be nearly a foot taller than me, muscly but not all veiny like those assholes who took steroids and lived in the gym, the ones who approached me in clubs expecting me to fall at their feet. No, Ryder was just strong. Strong with the kind of smile dentists charged a fortune for and lines around his eyes that could have come from laughter or too much sun or both. Now that he'd shaved his beard, I saw that he hadn't grown it to hide a weak chin like Julius, so maybe he'd been telling the truth about needing to blend in overseas?

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Didn't you read my résumé?"

"I think we've already established that I only looked at the pictures."

He chuckled. "Twenty-nine. I'll be thirty in May."

Older than me, but not too old. If only the circumstances had been different. If Ryder had been straight and if I didn't recoil at a man's touch, then perhaps I'd have asked if he wanted to have dinner with me or see a show or just hang out. But circumstances weren't different, and I was an idiot for even dreaming of a normal life. No man wanted to date me. Not genuinely. They'd use me to show off to their buddies or further their careers, sure, but nobody liked me for…well, me. Kory was the closest thing I had to a friend—at least he wasn't after my money—but even he had an ulterior motive. His dad was a homophobic bigot, and if Crawford Balachandran found out his son was gay, Kory would probably end up having conversion therapy. Rumours of an on-again, off-again relationship suited both of us.

"Twenty-nine? So you're practically ancient, then."

"Almost prehistoric. That's why I'm a good swimmer—it's not been long since my ancestors crawled out of the primordial sea."

"How old were you when you learned to swim?"

"Six months. Mom took me to baby lessons at the pool on base."

"On base?"

"My dad's in the Navy. Did you take swimming lessons?"

I shook my head.

"Can you swim at all?"

Once again, I shook my head. It was a fact I usually kept to myself, but Ryder had signed an NDA, and I found I wanted to tell him the truth.

"But you took a vacation on a yacht?" he asked.

"They're statistically very safe. And if I fell in, you would have saved me, right?"

"Always. Don't you have a pool in your yard, though?"

"More background research?"

"Our team is thorough."

If only mine was. Then maybe I wouldn't have ended up with a pervert like Julius Whitlow as my agent, and I'd be able to kiss a man without cringing.

"I do have a pool, but I've never used it. Jubilee likes to swim."

"You've never wanted to learn?"

"Do you always ask this many questions?"

"Only when I'm interested in the answers."

Why? Why was he interested? He couldn't sell the information to the papers because I'd sue him. If his background research had been as thorough as he claimed, he'd have to know I'd taken my former housekeeper to court—and won—after she told a reporter that I'd been seeing a therapist. News of my impending breakdown had made every gossip site, and the therapist hadn't even helped. No, she'd basically told me I needed to loosen up when it came to sex and then tried to treat me for an eating disorder I didn't even have. Just because I'd puked after a creep of a talk-show host fondled my boobs didn't mean I was bulimic.

So why did Ryder want to know my secrets? Finally, I decided to simply ask him.

"Why?"

"Why am I interested in the answers?"

"Yes."

"Because underneath the sharp tongue and the attitude, I don't think you're the porcupine of a pop princess that you make yourself out to be."

"Did you…did you just call me a porcupine?"

"There are those prickles again."

"You've got some nerve," I muttered, but I was busy processing his words. He saw through the act? But…but nobody ever noticed the real me. Nobody ever cared enough to look.

"Am I wrong?"

Ryder saw me."Don't you dare tell anyone."

"Your secret's safe with me. So, do you want to learn to swim?"

I shuddered.

"Are you sure? The judge said this month was meant to be a learning experience."

"He said nothing about drowning."

"You think I'd let you drown?"

Probably not, but my mom wasn't meant to let me drown either. And yet she almost had.

I shrugged.

"Luna, what happened to you with water? Did you fall in when you were a kid?"

"How do you know anything happened?"

"Because your hands are shaking."

Damn the stupid moonlight. I glanced down, and Ryder wasn't wrong. There were so many horror stories squashed into my head that sometimes it was hard to keep up.

"I…I didn't fall in. Mom put me in the tub, one of those big ones with the whirlpool jets. And I was playing with the bubbles, and I…I don't know exactly what happened. Maybe I hit my head? But the next thing I remember is being on the bathroom floor while she gave me CPR." The memories were like blurry photographs—bath, bubbles, being unable to breathe, the terror on Mom's face—but they'd replayed for most of my life. "I was three or four, I think? When I was older, I asked her about it, and she said it never happened, that I have an overactive imagination, but I'm almost certain it did. And that's why I don't like water, okay?"

When Ryder didn't comment, I began to regret sharing something so personal with a virtual stranger. A secret I'd never told anyone but Jubilee. And of course, Jubilee had given Mom the benefit of the doubt.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"

"Just working out what to say, moon. That's fucked up."

"Welcome to my life."

"Have you…" Ryder paused. "Have you talked to anyone about it?"

"Yes, you."

"I meant like a therapist."

"Therapy is overrated."

"You tried it?"

"My therapist told me that if I just put on a few pounds, I'd feel better about life. Like, I'm here because I have intimacy issues, but hey, thanks for telling me that my weight is the problem. We didn't even get as far as the water thing."

"You have intimacy issues?"

Darn it! This was what happened when I got lost in the moment—my big, stupid mouth went rogue.

"That's not what I said at all. You must have misheard."

More silence. Then, "Sure, moon. If that's what you want to go with, I'll play along."

"Don't be so condescending. Just because you're too tough to see a therapist doesn't mean other people don't need help."

"I've talked to a therapist."

"Like, in a bar or something?"

Or on Grindr? It was hard to believe a man as strong as Ryder would seek out a psychiatrist, but again, he surprised me.

"In an office with a couch."

"Really?"

"Saw some real shit in the Navy. Plus Blackwood hired a shrink last year. The folks in charge figured the doc could consult on cases for part of the time and run sessions if anyone wanted to talk."

"And do they talk?"

"Yeah, she's always fully booked. But when it comes to nightmares, I found that what helped the most was making good memories to push out the bad ones."

"There's no hope for me then. For every good memory, I have ninety-nine bad ones."

"Being a world-famous singer isn't all it's cracked up to be?"

"The singing part is okay. It's the other stuff that makes me want to crawl into a hole."

"If you hate it, can't you quit?"

"You try quitting on my mom, tell me how it works out. One time, I refused to go to some stupid awards show, so she sent me to rehab instead."

"The anger management thing?"

Great. He knew about that. The official statement said I was being treated for exhaustion, but somehow, a new story leaked out, probably also from Mom. She told everyone I needed a break, but she was the one who threw a hissy fit if I didn't get a million likes before breakfast.

"See? Literally none of my life is private."

"I'm beginning to understand that. But this month, we're going to keep you out of the public eye, so let's focus on making good memories, okay?"

"Are you secretly a therapist?"

"Nah, I'm just an asshole who's good at swimming."

I was beginning to suspect Ryder Metcalfe was so much more than that. More than once, Jubilee had asked, "Why are the good ones always gay?" and I'd shrugged because Kory was a bit of a dick and so were most of his buddies. I hung out with them because firstly, I wouldn't wake up to them climbing on top of me in the middle of the night, and secondly, they weren't as mean and backstabby as the girls I'd tried being friends with in the past. If I had something stuck in my teeth, they told me. They didn't let me do a livestream and then giggle about it afterward.

But now I realised there might be a glimmer of truth in Jubilee's words.

"Sure, I'll look back fondly on weeks spent scooping turtle poop out of a pool."

Poop.I always had to say "poop," never "shit." Mom hated swearing.

"Forget the turtles; I have a better idea."

"Oh, really? Last time someone had a ‘better idea,' I ended up puking on a zip line."

When the pulley jammed, I'd gotten stuck over a river in my version of a living hell. A guy had to slide out on a harness to rescue me. At least when Mom threatened to sue the operator, they'd deleted all footage of the incident.

"Take off your flip-flops."

"What? Why?"

"I realise asking you to trust me is presumptuous, but I promise I won't let anything bad happen."

Oh, gross, was he going to give me a foot massage? The last man to do that—an actor who hid his sleazy side under a squeaky-clean veneer—had quickly worked his way up to my thighs. But Ryder was gay, so what was his angle?

"I don't like people touching my feet. If I want a massage, I'll go to a professional."

He snorted quietly. "I'm not planning to touch your feet, moon. Although the sand will do a better job on your skin than any foot file, so my sister says."

"You have a sister?"

"She's two years younger than me, and she lives in Naples with her husband, their kid, and a dog named Boris."

"Living the dream, huh?"

"People have different dreams. Flip-flops off, moon."

"You want me to…walk on the sand?"

"No, I want you to walk in the water."

"In the water? Are you crazy? There could be sharks."

"If there's a shark in six inches of water, I guarantee it's in more trouble than you are."

"Six inches?"

"Today, we'll stay right at the edge. I won't let you drown, moon. I'm not going to take my eyes off you. But if you can face your fears, little by little, they won't seem so scary anymore."

I didn't want to walk in the water. And I didn't have to. Ryder worked for me—I could just say "no" and go back to bed.

But Ryder didn't have to do this either. He was trying to help me, but why? What was his ulterior motive? The only thing I could think of was that he needed more work and wanted me to extend the contract. Would that be such a bad thing? Usually, I hated bodyguards following me around, but I felt weirdly comfortable with him in my space.

And I never felt comfortable around men.

When I told Ryder I'd picked Knox as my bodyguard because he was fierce, I'd lied. In truth, I'd picked him because he looked at me with such disgust that I knew he'd never hit on me.

But here I was.

On the beach with a man hotter than all of my backup dancers put together.

"Okay, fine. But if I drown, you're fired."

I kicked off my flip-flops and followed Ryder to the water's edge. The sea looked black in the moonlight, and I shuddered involuntarily.

"What about jellyfish? There might be jellyfish."

"Jellyfish season has barely started."

"But it has started?"

"I'm going to walk on the other side of you, so if anyone gets stung or eaten, it'll be me."

"Have you ever been stung by a jellyfish?"

"Once or twice."

"Does it hurt?"

"No worse than a wasp sting. One more step, moon."

I'd never been stung by a wasp either, mainly because I didn't go outside much. As soon as I was old enough to walk, Mom had taught me that sunshine meant wrinkles, and having wrinkles was a Very Bad Thing, according to Amethyst Puckett. I'd gotten my first spray tan at the age of four, right before my first beauty pageant. Sometimes, I went out without sunblock as a tiny act of rebellion. Yes, yes, I knew UV protection was good for me, but telling Mom I was wearing factor fifty when I wasn't made me smile inside. If the cost of that was a few wrinkles, so be it.

I dipped a toe into the shimmering water. The sea was colder than I'd expected, or maybe that was just the sense of dread in my belly?

"A jellyfish sting can't be worse than waxing, can it?" I muttered, mostly to myself because Ryder wouldn't know the answer to that one.

But yet again, he surprised me. "It isn't."

"You wax?"

"I lost a bet once. Back, sack, and crack. I'd rather swim through jellyfish soup than go through that again."

"I don't have a choice."

"There's always a choice. You could go au naturel."

I choked out a laugh. If I showed underarm hair in public, Mom would send me to rehab again. Which was ironic, considering she was the one with the drinking problem.

"That's not an option."

The water was lapping over my ankles now. Every instinct told me to run, but I didn't want to look like a fool in front of Ryder. How could he act so relaxed? He didn't seem to care that he was in harm's way.

"You okay?" he asked softly, and the question threw me. Nobody ever asked how I was, not and really meant it. Nobody ever cared. How was I meant to answer? Should I gloss over things the way I always did in interviews? Or tell the truth? Someone much wiser than me once said that the truth will set you free, but if I told the truth, who would believe me? Who would believe that I'd rather be working in Arby's than entertaining fifty thousand people at concerts?

"Luna?" Ryder stopped walking. "Are you okay?"

"I haven't been okay for a long time," I whispered, my voice barely audible above the gentle waves. The words popped out before I could stop them. Ryder's expression morphed into pity, and I didn't want him to pity me. I didn't want him to see the many, many bad decisions I'd made, decisions that had led me to this time, to this place, to this damn turtle sanctuary. "I'm done here."

Eyes prickling, I ran out of the water and up the beach, the pebbles at the top of the steps biting the soles of my feet as I hurried along the path. Ryder followed—I could hear his footsteps and the occasional curse—but I didn't stop. Not until I was back inside the bunkhouse and under my blanket. The dog gave me a curious glance, its head lifted an inch, but Jubilee didn't stir and neither did Caro.

This month promised to be difficult, but maybe not in the way I'd expected.

Soul-searching was hard.

But having a person—a man—look into my depths was harder.