GRAY WAS trying very hard not to look at Rig, who stood openmouthed, and Gray tried not to feel… smug? He knew Seb was good, but he hadn’t bothered to say that to Rig. He’d just asked for a favor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two techs both pause on the stage with equal looks of surprise on their faces, and then another three men all came into view, walking past the security staff and coming to a standstill. Gray instantly put his hand on his weapon, but Rig met one of their surprised gazes and grinned. Gray relaxed but kept his eyes on them. They would have to be approved to get in here in the first place.
Gray let Seb’s singing wash over him. He wanted to close his eyes and really listen, but that wasn’t his job, and even in a secure space like this, he still had to be careful.
Seb let the last notes fade and turned immediately to look at Gray just as Rig and the men by the door all started to clap. Seb noticed, blushed, and lowered his gaze. Then everyone fell silent as Ethan Devlin walked back out onstage and straight up to Seb.
Gray took a step and touched Seb to see. When Seb lifted his head and saw Devlin, he jumped to his feet. “Sorry,” he started, and Devlin extended his hand. Seb took it in awe—like it was made of gold—and Rig shot him a gleeful look. Devlin smiled, acknowledging Gray, but immediately started asking Seb if the song was his.
Seb suddenly glanced at Gray, panic on his face, and Gray guessed immediately what was wrong. Ethan Devlin had a strong Irish brogue, and Seb was struggling to read him. That and the full mustache and beard were making it impossible. “Mr. Devlin,” Gray interrupted. “Seb’s deaf. He can lip-read, but—”
Gray stopped abruptly as Devlin turned back to Seb and immediately started signing. This time it was Gray’s turn to be stunned. He felt Rig nudge him. “Ethan’s mom is deaf,” he explained. Gray just nodded in awe as he watched Seb’s face break into a delighted smile and his hands move. Gray had never seen Seb use sign language. To his complete shame, he’d never even thought about it.
And for some reason, he’d always thought people who could hear spoke while they were signing. Devlin was silent. So was Seb. They were having a completely private conversation, and Gray wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
No, no he was. He didn’t like it. He was Seb’s bodyguard. He should know everything that was being said to Seb. His lips tilted up at the corners despite himself. You’re jealous. And he wondered how long it would take someone to learn to do that. With a pang, Gray answered his own question. Longer than this job will last.
“Gray?” Gray automatically shook the hand Devlin thrust at him. “Good to see you.” He turned to Seb. “Gray has looked after me a few times. You’re in good hands.” Gray suddenly wondered if Seb had mentioned any reason why Gray was protecting Seb. Devlin knew Rawlings only did emergency and short-term contracts. He itched to know what they had spoken about.
“I understand you’re only here for one night?” Gray fished.
Devlin spoke and signed at the same time. “Yes, but I was just telling Sebastian—”
“Seb,” Seb interrupted.
Gray smiled ruefully. He’d noticed Seb only encouraged the diminutive form of his name with the people he liked. Gray’s insides seemed to warm briefly, but he ignored the feeling.
“Seb.” Devlin corrected himself without missing a beat. “I kick off the new album tour in Atlanta in April. I’m going to give three new acts a chance to demo one single before I come on and”—he looked at Seb—“I’d really like you to be one of them.”
Seb went so still, Gray took a step toward him in case there was something wrong. Devlin chuckled, watching Seb’s face. “Well, I hadn’t actually got to that part of the conversation, yet,” he admitted.
Rig grinned and elbowed Gray. “That’s great.”
Seb seemed frozen, and Devlin chuckled again. He waved over one of the guys who stood behind him who Gray had thought was security. The man introduced himself as Randy Cartwright, Devlin’s assistant, and he asked for Seb’s contact details.
Everyone looked at Seb, waiting for him to say something. Gray opened his mouth to suggest Randy get in touch with Rawlings for Seb’s contact details, but Seb stopped him. He looked at Devlin. “Mr. Devlin—”
“Ethan,” Devlin interrupted, amused.
“Ethan.” Seb stopped, and Gray instantly knew Seb was going to turn him down. He laid a hand on Seb’s arm.
“He’ll get in touch. He just needs a minute to process.”
Seb turned, but Gray knew he had missed what he had said. “I said you’d be in touch.” Gray knew he was being heavy-handed. Seb was an adult and perfectly capable of making his own decisions. It was nothing to do with Gray, as they wouldn’t be protecting Seb in five months. Hell, it was unlikely he would be protecting him in five weeks. He just wanted Seb to get a chance to think before he turned down such a fabulous opportunity.
“Can I ask something?” Seb was looking at Devlin. He pointed to his scar.
“My nephew has one exactly like it. The only reason he isn’t opening one of my concerts is because he’s fourteen.” Devlin shrugged. “That, and the fact he can’t sing for shit.”
Rig laughed and so did Randy. Gray’s focus was still on Seb. “Ethan?” Randy looked at his watch. “You have to get ready, and the press will be here at five. Then you have the competition winners—”
Devlin held up his hand, and then he shook hands again with Seb and Gray before he followed his assistant backstage. Gray drew in a breath. “You ready to go?”
Seb didn’t answer, still seeming awestruck. Gray said goodbye to Rig, and Rig said he would follow up on the equipment. Gray thought he had better see what Rawlings wanted him to do.
“So, opening for Ethan Devlin, huh?” He nudged Seb in a teasing manner as they got in the car, but it didn’t have the effect Gray was hoping for.
Seb shook his head and lowered it. Gray touched his arm in the automatic gesture they both knew was asking for Seb’s attention because Gray wanted to say something. For the first time, Seb didn’t respond. Gray took in the slumped shoulders and the lowered head. It was as if the kid couldn’t catch a break. Without thinking, Gray pushed a knuckle insistently but gently under his chin to get Seb to raise his head. Seb allowed Gray to lift it until Gray was gazing into his watery eyes, a flush staining his cheeks. Seb jerked away from Gray’s fingers and brushed a hand over his face in embarrassment.
Gray was at a loss. His instinct was to offer comfort, and that shocked the fuck out of him. Seb was a client. Gray had done this a hundred times, a few where he knew the client, albeit female, would have welcomed Gray getting a whole lot friendlier. Some in a purely lustful way—women seemed to find the whole bad-boy bodyguard image attractive—and some simply because Gray was seeing them at their most vulnerable. People said all sorts of things when they thought they might die, and in most of those occasions, Gray was usually front and center, and then clients confused gratitude for other feelings. Kids were the hardest. One precocious nine-year-old daughter of a diplomat decided she wanted Gray to look after her all the time after he stopped a kidnap attempt by a disgruntled ex. Deirdre had been cute. It had been hard to say goodbye then.
He always knew to keep a professional distance, but he’d had to touch Seb. Right from the get-go they had needed a way to communicate. He had spent that night curled up in his bed.
“Seb,” Gray whispered more for his own benefit, and touched his arm again. Seb didn’t move.
What am I doing?
He cautiously nudged Seb again, and Seb turned to look at him. “Are you going to do the concert?”
Annoyance flashed over Seb’s face along with a healthy dose of frustration. “How? How can I?”
“He doesn’t care about your mark.”
Seb chewed his lip for a second before letting it go. “What if I get sick?”
“We have time,” Gray encouraged. “You’ve only tried the exercises for what, a few days? Plus, we’re going to follow up on the nutrition.”
“I can’t.” Seb shook his head and then turned away, his shoulders slumping further. It seemed to be the end of the discussion.
KESWICK WAS sorting through the mail as they walked in, and immediately he handed a handful of envelopes to Seb. Mrs. Pickering came bustling out of the kitchen and smiled at them both. “Just to let you know, I’m going to my sister’s on Wednesday as usual, and I’ll be back on Friday.”
She paused and looked at Seb, waiting for some acknowledgment. Gray touched him on the arm slightly in case he’d missed she was speaking. Seb dragged his eyes from the letters. “Sorry.”
“I’m going Wednesday as usual,” she said in a softer voice. “I’ll leave enough food.”
“Have a good time,” Seb offered and turned to the stairs.
Gray immediately went to follow him but saw the look on Mrs. Pickering’s face out of the corner of his eye. Keswick acknowledged him and then disappeared into the study. He caught sight of Armitage at his desk before the door closed, and on a whim he turned to Mrs. Pickering. “I was just going to get some lunch for us both.”
She beamed. “I made some pineapple teriyaki chicken that Seb likes. I was going to put it with some salad in a wrap.”
“Sounds fabulous,” Gray said, feeling hungry just thinking about it and followed her into the kitchen.
She immediately walked to the large fridge and pulled a dish out and another bowl of prepared salad. Her hands stilled on the door as she closed it, and she looked at Gray. “You must think I’m awful.”
Gray blinked. What had he missed? “I’m sorry, why—” And then he wanted to slap his head. Thursday. Thanksgiving. Although why spending time with her sister was so bad, he had no clue.
“I tried staying, but Mr. Armitage insisted in the end.”
Gray was still at a loss to know why it was such a big deal. In the past fifteen years, he could count the number of times he’d celebrated Thanksgiving on one hand. Of course it had been different when his parents were alive, but even so, most people got some sort of time off on the holidays.
“I’m sure they manage,” Gray reasoned.
“You know he’s on his own, though?” She went to the sink and washed her hands.
Gray thought. “Seb?”
“Mr. Armitage visits friends and gives Joseph the long weekend off. To be fair he tries to get Seb to go, but that would mean driving….”
“Seb is here on his own?” Gray asked sharply.
Mrs. Pickering shook her head. “Technically no. Andrew lives here, as you know.” She glanced at the closed kitchen door. “Seb insisted on giving Arron the day off.”
He couldn’t imagine Derwent and Seb sat around eating turkey.
“Thanksgiving is so hard on Mr. Armitage because that was when Mrs. Armitage died. She volunteered at a shelter at lunchtime and was on her way home. There was a three-vehicle pileup, but she was the only fatality.”
But surely it would be hard on both of them? The death had been mentioned briefly in the family notes, but he hadn’t associated it with the holidays. “Where does Mr. Armitage go?” If it was family, surely Seb could go with him?
“Skiing.” Mrs. Pickering deftly rolled the wraps out and arranged them on a plate. The one-word answer wasn’t elaborated on, but her disapproval rang out loud and clear. Seb’s dad went on vacation, and he went somewhere Gray imagined was crowded. Not only did Seb’s enhanced status make that difficult, but Seb’s sickness and reluctance to go anywhere made the choice a near impossible one. Armitage would fly there.
Gray took the plate and the water, thanked her, and headed back upstairs. He paused just before he reached the door, thinking how many times his sister had tried unsuccessfully to get him to visit for Thanksgiving, and her phone call he still hadn’t replied to.
The room was silent when Gray entered. The bedroom door was firmly closed, and Gray sighed and put the wraps and water down on the table. He noticed Seb had taken his laptop into his bedroom and frowned. Had the thought of not going to the concert upset him so much, or did he just want some time on his own? He needed to eat. Decision made, Gray opened the door cautiously. If Seb was in bed or the bathroom, he would leave the water and go do some reading or something. The bedroom was empty, and the bathroom door was closed. Seb put the water bottle and one of the plates conspicuously on the nightstand and turned to leave. He paused at the door just as he heard a small sound from the bathroom. Then Seb coughed and cleared his throat. Then he cleared his throat again.
Was he sick? Gray listened intently but didn’t hear anything. Not the toilet flushing, and definitely no sounds of Seb being sick. The shower was equally silent. Gray was torn. Torn between respecting Seb’s privacy and knowing he had no way of getting his attention other than walking in there. He glanced at the bed where Seb had tossed his phone and the laptop. Gray didn’t like indecision. He wasn’t used to it, and in his experience, indecision cost lives. And which was more important? Pissing Seb off or making sure he was okay?
After another few seconds of absolute silence, Gray walked to the door and opened it. Seb sat with his back to the wall in the same manner he had the first night after he had been sick, but his head was bent and buried in his arms, which were resting on his knees. Gray took in the shaking shoulders and knew exactly what he was looking at. Seb was crying. Silently and privately, so no one would know. No, so Gray wouldn’t know. Gray was the only person in his rooms. He took a step back. I should leave. But it was so hard, and then Seb lifted his head. The immediate look of horror on his face when he saw Gray standing there told Gray he should have gone with his first instinct and left Seb in peace. Then Gray saw a crumpled piece of paper clutched in Seb’s hand, and he changed his mind.
“What is it?” Gray nodded to the piece of paper.
“The reason I can’t sing,” Seb snapped and practically flung it at Gray. Gray picked it up, unfolded it, and scanned the two typed lines on the plain paper.
You were warned.
Stay away or this time your father gets more than his tires slashed.
Gray read it a second time and cursed because he’d touched it without thinking. He knew better than that. He also knew the cops were dismissing it as a random act of violence against a nice car. The man who’d damaged the car had a hoodie covering his face, and traffic cams had caught a similar act of vandalism on a BMW. Seb scrambled up. “Wanna see another? Wanna see why I know Monsieur Dubois got hurt because of me?”
He swiped his arm angrily over his wet face, stumbled into the room, and yanked open the desk drawer. He pulled out a blue file and tossed it haphazardly on the bed. Three more sheets spilled out, and Gray stared in horror, recognizing the same plain paper and the same short typewritten messages. He picked up the top one with the edge of his shirt, being careful not to touch it.
Stay out of sight or you will have more than one scar on your face.
And another, but this time it was accompanied by a photograph of Mrs. Pickering browsing some stalls at what looked like a farmer’s market with the words:
Bad things can easily happen.
Then the last one with a photograph of the paint-sprayed car and the words:
You were told to stay away.
“You haven’t shown the cops these.” It was a rhetorical question.
“No,” Seb whispered miserably.
“The detectives need to see them,” Gray insisted. “There’s all sorts of tests they can run, not least DNA if someone was dumb enough to lick the envelopes.”
Seb looked at him incredulously.
“You’d be surprised how stupid people can be,” Gray said. He looked in the file. “Envelopes?”
“I only have the one from today.” He nodded to the trash, and Gray fished it out using the corner of his shirt again, so he didn’t touch it.
“Does anyone know?”
Seb hesitated almost imperceptibly and with a flash of insight, Gray knew. “Arron?” Seb lowered his head, which was as good as an admission.
Gray sat down heavily on the bed, and Seb sank down next to him. Gray tapped Seb’s shoulder, and Seb raised his head, misery stark in his eyes. “How long have they been arriving?”
“Five months,” Seb whispered. “There were two more that I gave to Arron.”
Gray swore quietly to himself. “What did Arron do?”
“He was going to talk to a detective friend of his but said if I stopped the lessons and just lay low for a while, things might smooth over. He said there’s a team of enhanced in Florida—SWAT or something”—Seb frowned—“who are making a lot of waves, and people are getting real nervous.”
“FBI,” Gray corrected.
“Yeah, they saved a judge. Arron says it means things are changing, but that it also paints a target on my back.”
Gray’s heart sank. Not for what had happened to Arron, because as far as he was concerned, the man had been a fool, but Gray didn’t like coincidences even if on the face of things the suicide looked genuine. He didn’t like that Arron seemed to be trying to keep things quiet. Or had he? Had the man told someone else who couldn’t be trusted, and it had gotten him killed? Maybe Gray was misjudging him.
Gray also didn’t like blaming this on some supposed hate group. Not that they weren’t powerful, because he should know and had the scars to prove it. He just wasn’t convinced someone would go to all that trouble to pick on some kid who lived like a recluse because of a scar on his face. He thought it was something much simpler. And in particular, fourteen million of them. He picked up his phone to call Rawlings. It might be an idea to watch both Mrs. Pickering and Seb’s dad while they found out what the actual fuck was going on.
The words to ask Seb why he hadn’t told him were on his lips, and Gray had to forcefully swallow them to stop them escaping. Seb had known him less than one week. He’d known Arron for nearly three years, and Arron had been killed. Seb was blaming himself. He was mired in secrets and enough problems that would drive most people nuts. He was also doing his best to protect himself and didn’t know who to trust. Gray didn’t blame Seb for not telling him.