“Did you sleep with her?” I asked.
Brady looked offended, but I noticed that Lee was waiting for the answer to my question. Brady was shaking his head. “No. Never.”
Lee went back to his computer, and I wondered if that was the actual answer or the answer they’d agreed to with their nondisclosure agreement. In truth, it didn’t matter at the end of the day because Fiona obviously had a thing for him, regardless.
When we got into Tallahassee, Brady got his way, and we stopped at the Mexican restaurant he’d ranted and raved about. It was a little hole-in-the-wall that clearly wouldn’t fit the whole crew, but as many of the team were going with the buses directly to the venue or the hotel, it was just two SUVs that pulled up to the curb.
Marco and Trevor went in first, made sure the restaurant seemed clear, and radioed that we were good to come in. Nash was more alert than ever, scanning both sides of the street, the rooftops, and, once we were inside, the people who were already sitting there.
If I hadn’t had a knife stabbed through my favorite jacket the night before, I probably would have given him a hard time about it.
Nash and two other bodyguards didn’t sit down to eat. Instead, they took positions throughout the room. Tanner, Marco, and Trevor took their spot closer to us. Even with his beanie pulled down low in disguise, people soon recognized Brady because of the obvious security. Lunch was interrupted with a string of people asking for pictures and autographs, including the owner and chef. Brady, as always, was gracious and kind.
I left to go to the restroom in the middle of it all, but when I got back to the table, the food had arrived. Marco quietly asked the people to let Brady eat.
I took a sip of my iced tea and frowned. “What’s wrong?” Brady asked.
“It tastes weird. Too sweet or…” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Probably their mix into the soda machine isn’t right.”
We didn’t think anything of it. I ate my tacos and devoured the warm, freshly made tortilla chips. Brady was right. The food was definitely good. Simple but perfect at the same time. Brady ordered a second round of tacos while we waited for takeout for Alice. She had the hardest job of anyone, in my opinion. Part travel agent, part janitor, part set designer, and part runner. She made sure everybody and everything got to where they needed to be for the concerts.
As we were waiting, my stomach lurched, twisting so violently I froze. Instead of subsiding after a moment, it got worse, and I knew I was going to be hurling up every single molecule I’d eaten. I made a mad dash back to the restroom. My sudden movement had Nash flying after me, but I didn’t stop at the door. I burst in, found a stall, and had just thrown up when I heard his footsteps entering behind me. His steps were quiet, hardly audible, but somehow I was getting used to them.
Just as I emptied my stomach, my bladder and intestines twisted. I slammed the stall door shut and barely made it onto the toilet in time. My face flamed. Not exactly the way you want any human being to see…hear…or smell you. Even though I couldn’t help it—it was just a bodily function—it was still awful.
“Dani?” Nash asked, feet stopping outside the stall.
I was going to hurl again. There was no way I wasn’t. I needed a basket or a garbage can so I didn’t have to move.
“Is there a small trash can or bag out there?” I asked, my voice wavering as I held in the contents that were set to come purging out of me.
Nash moved away, I heard some pounding, and he came back, sticking a can that must have been removed from one of those under the sink baskets. I took it gratefully, trying not to think about the layer of germs that were probably coating everything. Trying not to think of Nash being on the other side of the door.
Then, I was vomiting again, and all I could think about was trying to stay alive.
“Jesus,” Nash said on the other side. “Can I come in?”
“No,” I said as I heaved again.
“I need to make sure you’re not going to pass out.”
“You come in here, and I’ll find a way to kill you in your sleep,” I said. But talking was the last thing I needed. I was sweating profusely, needing cool air. Needing loose clothing and a wet towel on my neck.
Another wave hit me.
There was a knock on the restroom door, and Nash’s feet traveled to it. There was a hushed discussion I couldn’t bother to understand as I fought to gain some control over my body. Except, my body was winning.
I wasn’t sure how long I was in there—a good thirty minutes, maybe—with Nash standing on the other side, not leaving, not groaning about the smell or the sounds. Just waiting. For a while, I forgot he was there until the waves had slowed.
He handed some wet paper towels under the door. “See if this helps you cool off.”
I grabbed the towels; they did feel good. I closed my eyes as I wiped at my neck, relieved that I’d worn my hair up. Grateful I wasn’t fighting the long strands in a bathroom that had been clean but now smelled like a waste plant.
Eventually, I tried to stand on very shaky feet, putting myself together the best I could. I opened the stall door to find Nash leaning on the sink, both hands at his sides, the knuckles white with how tight he was clutching the counter.
He immediately began assessing me. Head to toe and back. Behind him, in the mirror, I could see my face. Pale, eyes bruised, and I hated that it reminded me of the bathroom at The Oriental. Hated that most public bathrooms did it to me, but
