“That’s all you have?” Paisley stared dubiously at the two duffel bags squatting in the center of the big bedroom.

I shrugged one shoulder. “I like to travel light.”

It was almost the truth. In reality, my winnings weren’t enough to cover Jeanne’s rent for the month, and I’d sold everything that was worth anything to make up the difference. She’d accepted it this month, but told me she wouldn’t accept a second gesture. Billy knew what he was getting into, she’d said. All that meant to me was that I would have to find an anonymous way to help her.

“Oh, I understand that,” Paisley sighed as she walked to the window. Pulling back the blue curtains, she looked out over the expansive property. “I always have to bring more than I want to. It’s just a hassle, you know? Carrying all that stuff around. Even with help, it still feels like a weight. A ball and chain.”

I cocked my head at her. Abandoning my stuff on the floor, I wandered over to look out the window beside her.

“That doesn’t really fit with the whole material-girl persona,” I commented neutrally.

Her lips quirked wryly and she shook her head. “Don’t tell anybody. You have to play the game, you know?”

“Why?”

Simple enough question, but she jerked her head sharply as if I’d slapped her. Her big blue eyes widened, then she laughed.

“Because you do,” she said. “It’s the only way to get your words out there. You want to write about, I don’t know…societal ills, you turn it into a song about love failed. Want to talk about mental health issues, you turn it into a bittersweet celebration of party life. Want to comment on the idiocy of excess, write a song about excess and make it hollow.” Her eyes flashed as she spoke, intelligent and just a touch angry.

“You can’t just say it straight?” I asked.

“Of course not,” she said, rolling her glittering eyes. “It’s like… Hm. Okay, so back in high school, my best friend was on the boxing team. When I watched him fight, I saw the same kind of thing. You can’t just go in for the hit, you’ll project your intention and you’ll get blocked. It’s the same thing with music. Or any kind of art, really. You can’t just say what you want to say. You have to cloak it in acceptable pop culture.”

A dimple flashed on her cheek for a brief second, making something tug deep in my gut. My fingers itched to brush the mahogany curls off of her shoulder, to slide around the back of her soft neck and pull her toward me.

She intercepted my gaze and nibbled her plump lower lip. I cleared my throat and looked away, scanning the property for weak points. Every point was weak. It was a damn good thing she didn’t actually need protection.

“What is it you want to say?” I asked.

“What?” she asked a little breathlessly.

I slid a sideways smile at her. “In your music,” I said, letting amusement bleed into my voice.

“Oh.” Her face reddened, and she cleared her throat. “That’s kind of my problem right now. I don’t know what I want to say.”

“I don’t believe it. I think you know what you want to say and you’re tired of shielding it behind lyrical fluff.” Dance. Test jab.

“I wish,” she said with a little laugh. Blocked. “But I feel like I’m out of interesting thoughts. Everything I could possibly have to say has been said a thousand times before. I can’t even write an album about writer’s block, because that’s been done too.” She sighed heavily and turned those heartbreaking eyes up at me. “What would you do?”

“I wouldn’t write,” I said wryly.

“Okay, well ignore the actual writing part. Let’s say you have to come up with some kind of creative idea. Any kind of idea. But you can’t think of anything. What do you do next?” The intensity of her gaze told me she really wanted to know.

She must be desperate.

“I don’t think my methods would work for you.”

“Try me.”

The set of her jaw said she wanted a challenge. The gleam in her eye said “please.” How could I resist?

“All right, put ’em up,” I said, raising my fists and dancing away from her.

“What?” She laughed.

“You want to know what I do; this is what I do. When my brain stops working, I start fighting. Come on, you want to get past this or not?”

She hesitated, and I jabbed the air in front of her.

“Nah, you won’t do it. It’s not fancy enough. Tell you what, I’ll go call a masseuse and a celebrity therapist. Maybe order you some bonbons so you can perch on your throne and cry about how hard writing songs is.”

Her eyes narrowed and I grinned, dancing back and forth in front of her. She took a stance—a terrible, terrible stance—and raised her fists.

“All right, let’s go!” she said, bouncing from foot to foot.

“Hold on, hold on,” I said. “Gotta have the right music for this.”

I set up my little portable stereo and flipped through my phone for the right song. Heavy rock, a fighting beat. My body reacted immediately, loosening and heating in response. It was what I trained to.

“Nice,” she said appreciatively.

I looked at her in surprise. “You like this? It’s not really your kind of thing.”

“It’s not what I sing,” she said, sticking her tongue out at me. Careful where you point that thing. “I think that’s why I like listening to it so much. I don’t have to dissect it, I can just let it tear through me.”

“Watch your phrasing.” The suggestive warning in my voice made her flush red, and I bit my lip. “All right, put ’em up. Come at me.”

I took her down in four seconds, gently. She lay breathless on the floor, staring at the ceiling, pinned under my arm. “Nice try. Get up.”

“How did you do that?” she gasped as I pulled her to her feet.

“I’ll show you. In slow motion this time. Throw a punch, slowly.”

Her tiny fist came at me, projecting and over-extended. I grabbed her wrist and twisted.

“So you see right now, you’re balanced on your toes. Your whole back is arched. All of your weight is over empty air. You’re not coming back from this, you’re going down.”

I pulled her back up and spun her away.

“Okay, so what? Don’t throw punches?” she asked.

“Yep, if you can’t do it the first time, you quit,” I said sarcastically.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, shoving me lightly. “Come on, teach me.”

“I’m not a teacher, I’m a bodyguard.”

A bodyguard who was having a really hard time resisting the urge to wrap her up and pin her to the floor. Her soft turquoise yoga pants outlined literally every curve, drawing my eye to the shape of her. Too much more of this and I would blow the whole scheme. Well, somebody would blow something… I shook the thought away.

“So, I’ll pay you for both,” she said, flashing a defiant grin. “Come on, won’t your job be easier if I’m able to take care of myself?”

“I’ll be out of a job if you can take care of yourself,” I pointed out.

“No, because you’re still a big, intimidating man. I’d rather have the stalkers run away before they try anything than have to prove I can fight.” She said it lightheartedly, but I saw the shadow of fear behind her expression.

“You get a lot of stalkers?” I asked casually, putting my fists up again.

“A girl can dream, can’t she?” Paisley grinned, chasing the shadow away. She put her own fists back up, crouching into another unbalanced stance.

Sighing, I dropped my hands.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You’re defeating your own self,” I said with mock irritation. “Your shoulders are all the way over here.” I pushed them back, centering them over her hips. “And your hips are all wonky.”

It was a pleasant wonky, that little feminine tilt curving her waist, but it was completely useless for fighting. I pushed her hip down. Electricity shot from my palm to my crotch. I ignored it.

“And all of your weight is on your toes. You aren’t wearing heels, don’t pretend you are. Pretend you have a ball in the arch of your foot. Keep your feet moving, rolling, so you can anchor yourself wherever you need to be.”

She settled herself on her feet, visualizing what I’d said.

“Good. Now that same fluid feeling, take it up to your knees. Keep your legs moving, they’ll never know where you’re coming from. You gotta keep your weight balanced, but you have to keep that balance moving. Make sense?”

“Like dancing,” she said, nodding.

She started to circle me, keeping her weight centered.

“Good. You’re quick.” And lithe, and curvy…

“I’m normally pretty good with my body,” she said innocently.

“I bet you are.”

She blushed furiously and jabbed with her fist. I put her on the ground again.

“What the hell?” she gasped, frustrated.

“You’re leaning into the punch. You’re giving your balance to me, and I’m taking it.” I helped her up, and she blew out an aggravated breath.

Chuckling, I pushed her gently toward the door. “Let me put my stuff away. We’ll practice later.”

“All right,” she said reluctantly. “I’m going for a run.”

I frowned, thinking that was exactly what I shouldn’t let her do if I was actually guarding her. She saw my look and returned one of thinly veiled annoyance.

“I’ve gone running every day. Nobody’s bothered me yet. Trust me, if something happens, you’ll be my first call.”

“All right,” I agreed, playing up the reluctance. “What’s your route?”

“Two miles up the river, around the cemetery, two miles back along the river.”

“You run around a cemetery every day? No wonder you’re depressed.”

“I’m not depressed,” she objected. “And cemeteries are great. All that emotion, all that old poetry… They’re inspiring.”

“If you say so,” I shrugged. “How long do you expect to be?”

“An hour, hour and a half. Depends on how fast I want to go.”

“Great, then if you aren’t back by eleven thirty, I’m coming to find you.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Yes, Daddy. Have fun unpacking.”

I almost threw the whole plan out the window right then. Her pouting red lips, the little shake of her cotton-clad hips, that random “Daddy”… It was all I could do to keep my hands to myself until she sashayed out of the room.

I watched from the window as she ran across the yard and hit the path beside the river, jiggling in all the right places with every step.

“Set it up, boy,” I told myself. “Make it worth it.”

It would be worth it either way. Her body on mine would be payment enough, but I had bigger fish to fry.

I checked my phone for information about Billy and didn’t like what I saw. Jeanne had set up a crowdfunding page three days ago which had pulled in a whole twenty dollars. I needed that money. Billy and Jeanne needed that money. A payout like this could keep me stocked in basic necessities for the rest of time; or it could cover the cost of living until Billy recovered or died. I’d seen his life insurance policy. Jeanne would disagree, but that boy was worth more dead.

With Billy’s family in mind, I unzipped the big duffel bag. It was filled to bursting with security cameras, the tiny ones which could hide in plain sight. I positioned one in my room, pointing it at the bed. Turning it on, I checked the connection to my laptop. Perfect. Her room should have been next, but an uncomfortable wriggle of guilt turned my stomach and I moved on.

“If I were banging a pop star, where would I do it?” I asked myself.

The piano, obviously.

I shoved a camera into the strange reedy plant she kept in there, pointing it at the piano. You really have to put one in her room, I told myself. If you get this, she’s going to want it on her turf.

Cursing my own logic, I dragged the duffel bag back upstairs. My heart pounded when I turned the handle, making my palms sweat.

“God, it’s not like you’re going to get in trouble,” I snapped at myself. “She’ll never know you were in there.”

Well, she would eventually. For the first time, I realized that she would definitely see the sex tape. It would show up, frozen in a blurred, grainy image on the entertainment channels and rumor mills. Her face would be everywhere. Everybody would see her on me, me inside her. That thought struck a chord, and I found myself uncomfortably turned on.

“Sorry, Paisley,” I said, sticking a camera among the stuffed animals lined up on top of her dresser. “It’ll blow over eventually.”

I didn’t bother checking the camera after I turned it on. Shaking the doubt and hesitation away, I jogged back downstairs.

“All right, where else? Couch. Table. Oh, kitchen…”

Listing off every place where I would potentially screw Paisley freaking Abbott tightened the front of my jeans, distracting me. I should have been paying attention.