The guy in the suit is right, though – the record label would play hardball. They would sue me for breach of contract and take everything I've worked for.
It's funny what happens when you come from nothing. Nothing is the last place you ever want to return.
I'm so preoccupied with my thoughts I don't even hear my stepfather's voice until he waves his hand directly in my field of vision. "Addison."
"Yes."
"The label agreed to this plan. Hendrix will be your new bodyguard," he says, his voice picking up momentum. "Your old one has been removed."
"Dan is fired?" I ask. "It's not his fault I went to the club last night."
"He knows better," the Colonel says, his voice sharp. "There are protocols in place for a reason. He should have pulled you out of there more quickly."
"That's not fair to Dan --" I start, but my stepfather brings his fist down on the table, hard, and the sound makes me jump.
"It's not fair to me, to employ a bodyguard who is so remiss in his duties," he says. "This is done. You need a bodyguard who will not be lax. Especially after the issue with the stalker. I trust Hendrix to not be lax."
"The stalker," I repeat numbly. There was hardly a stalker, merely an obsessed fan who sent me a few overzealous letters. There are always obsessed fans. That's not new. I'm so preoccupied with that piece of what he says that it takes my brain a minute to catch up to the more important part.
Hendrix.
I repeat the name I haven't spoken in years. "Hendrix who?"
Hendrix who, indeed. I know exactly who he's talking about. Is there really any other Hendrix?
Has there ever been?
My stepfather clears his throat and opens his mouth to speak, but the door behind him swings wide and as if on cue, Hendrix walks inside. Immediately, it's like all of the air is sucked out of the room.
I sit there, my heart pounding so loud I think my chest might actually explode as I stare at him.
Hendrix.
My stepbrother.
I was seventeen when he left to join the Marines just as soon as he turned eighteen. That one year age difference between us was everything -- a gulf a mile wide. He was one year older than me and a million times more superior, with dyed hair and piercings and total disdain for authority. He only joined the Marines to piss off the Colonel.
I couldn't stand Hendrix from the moment I met him. I hated him on sight. And then, later, I wanted him, with all the wild lust and longing of a teenage girl. He walked into my life when I was fifteen years old, and at that age, he was the most irresistible thing I'd ever laid eyes on.
I'd like to say I haven't thought about him since he ran off to join the Marines, but that would be a lie. I've definitely thought about Hendrix. But in my thoughts, he's still the irritating, sexy-as-hell teenager I used to know.
Not this.
This is…something else entirely. Five years has changed Hendrix. He's not a sullen teenager anymore. Now he looks like the freaking poster child for the Marines. Except with tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos. They run up the length of his arms, disappearing under the sleeves of the t-shirt that stretch across his biceps, the same t-shirt that pulls across his very well-defined chest. I'm suddenly reminded why, five years ago, my heart would race every time I was near him.
Hendrix stands there, his broad shoulders squared back, looking at me like he dares me to object to any of this. The way he gazes at me sends a shiver up my spine. It's the same way he looked at me the day he walked into my life. "Hey, Addy," he says, one corner of his mouth pulling up slightly in his trademark cocky grin, the one that used to give me goose bumps. "I'm back. Did you miss me?"
I stand so quickly my knees go weak and I feel dizzy. I don't get weak-kneed. I've been in the spotlight for as long as I can remember. Hell, I've performed at Madison Square Garden. I don't get nervous in front of people. I sure as hell don't get weak-kneed over some guy. Especially some guy I don't even like. Hendrix was a total asshole to me when we were teenagers, and he might look different -- hotter, to be sure -- but that doesn't mean he's changed. "I'm not doing this," I say, imbuing my voice with a steadiness I definitely do not feel. I clear my throat. "Fuck this. I'm out of here."
The suit from the agency stands and buttons his jacket. He doesn't look at me, just turns and addresses my mother before he leaves. "This was a concession on our part," he says. "Get her in line."
"Addison," my mother hisses. "Do not ruin this."
"Of course. I wouldn't want to embarrass you, or God forbid, stop the flow of money coming your way." My hands are shaking, and I steady them on the surface of the table. Why do I feel so light-headed? I pointedly ignore the look Hendrix gives me from the other side of the table. His eyes are on me, and I feel naked under his gaze.
Hendrix has always had a way of making me feel that way.
Nothing ever happened between us, but Lord knows I thought about it back when we were teenagers, before he left for the Marine Corps.
"Addison Stone," my stepfather bellows. "We are trying to look out for your best interests."