There was no question they needed to reverse their path of destruction. Pamela was positive she could do this. Although she doubted she’d be welcomed with open arms.

Running her hand over hair pulled back into a pristine bun, she saw an approaching car making its way through the massive doors; her nerves practically burned. Taking a deep breath, she stood and straightened her suit jacket and ran her hands down the front of her slacks. Too late to do anything about the wrinkles now.

Here goes nothing. She stopped mid stride when the back door opened before the driver had even gotten out of the car. If she hadn’t seen the many magazine covers and photos of the band, she’d have figured this guy was a member. Drummer maybe? No, no, definitely a bass player. They were always so brooding and mysterious. This man had this look—he was the look.

“And you are?”

Extending her hand to the man, she introduced herself. “Pamela Myers, I was just brought on as a personal assistant for Deep Bend and you are?”

He didn’t take her hand nor did he answer until he turned the chair she had been sitting on around and straddled it backwards. “Chains,” was all he said.

“Excuse me?”

“The name’s Chains.”

After a minute, it registered that this must be the new bodyguard. “Oh, so you’re Damion—”

“Don’t say my given name again. I go by Chains—I answer to Chains. Well, if I’m gonna answer, I’ll answer to Chains.”

Well then, asshole much? “Chains it is then.” Pulling up another chair that sat nearby, she took a seat. Smoothing the front of her slacks, Pamela realized how stupid it had been to wear a linen suit while traveling. She’d hoped to make a good impression on the band, but now her attire practically screamed homeless—minus the seven hundred dollar price tag and designer label of course.

They sat in silence, which gave her the opportunity to size up the man across from her. He sat with his hands folded in front of the chair, and he still said nothing as he stared at the concrete floor. His jeans were torn and threadbare at the knees. Black leather engineer boots with silver toes covered his insanely large feet. Letting her eyes trail due north, she had to smile when she took in the faded Guns-N-Roses t-shirt most likely an original from the 80’s. A couple chains hung from his front belt loop and disappeared behind him…a wallet maybe? When her gaze made it to his face, she paused and took in the full beard that hit him mid-chest before her eyes continued to his face. A face that was looking right back at her.

“You see something you like, Princess?” His laugh was clearly mocking her.

Swallowing her embarrassment at being caught checking him out. “Yeah, I like your shirt.”

She enjoyed throwing him off kilter when he glanced down at the shirt in question. “I’m sure you do.”

That was rude and what did he mean by that exactly? Pamela thought about asking but another car pulled into the garage and unloaded what could only be the members of Deep Bend. Finally. Only two hours late.

“And there’re the performing monkeys now.” Damion—Chains muttered. Reigning in her shock, she stood and approached the band that was walking toward the shiny new tour busses.

“Strut?” she asked as she approached the green haired man who had both arms covered in tattoos.

The man turned and looked her over blatantly from the toe of her Jimmy Choos to the bun that resided near the top of her head. “Depends. You’re not from the IRS are you?”

Dammit! She’d felt the blush from the second the band members broke out in laughter. “No, can’t say I am. I’m Pamela Myers.”

“Okaaaaay and Miss Pamela Myers, who exactly are you?”

Seriously? Had they not even told the band she was coming? “I was hired by Ragged Ruins Promotions as your new personal assistant. Pleasure to meet you.” At least, he shook her hand when she offered it. “All of the members of Deep Bend actually.” Not letting her smile falter as she looked at each member, no matter their confused faces.

“No shit?”

“Excuse me? Didn’t your agent…Mr. Robert Gillstrom inform you of my arrival?”

Inform you of my arrival, really? “Yeah, I knew we were getting a PA, but I didn’t think it’d be someone like you, Patricia.”

“Pamela, Pamela Myers.”

“Pamela, I’m sorry but I expected a man or at least a woman who’s been on the road before.”

“I’ve been on the road before.”

“With who exactly?”

“I can’t share that information. There’s always been a nondisclosure agreement during my employment, but I can tell you that I’ve been under contract with at least three Billboard Top 100 artists in the last six years.”

“Impressive.”

Mister sulking bodyguard interjected. “If you’re so good at your job, why aren’t you still with any of these big shots?”

All of the band members swung from Chains back to her, awaiting her answer. “Because I’m brought in when the trains derailed and needs some guidance to get it back on the tracks and running smoothly.” Knowing her smile was snotty, she made sure the brute got its full effect. “Then, I move on to the next train wreck, if you will.” Not so smug now, huh? “Where are my manners? This is your new bodyguard, Chains.” Nobody batted an eye at the bearded, tattooed, built man who answered to Chains, but they looked at her like she had a second head? Really?

Chapter Three

Three busses and two semi-trailers later, they were on the blacktop with wheels spinning on their way to St. Louis, Missouri. They had a two-show gig there, both sold out. Not that being sold out was unexpected since it was Strut’s hometown.

All five members of Deep Bend could’ve easily fit onto one bus, but since they’d risen to the top of their genre, they no longer had to live in such cramped quarters. After renegotiating their new contract, two more buses were added to the bands convoy.

“This is bullshit, you know that, right?

Here we go again. They’d only been on the road for two hours and already Strut was strutting along her nerves with his piss poor attitude. He’d been pissed to the high heavens since he found out that she and Chains would both be on his bus. “It is what it is, Strut.”

“What if I wanna bang some bitch? Or a few of them?”

“I will in no way interrupt your extra-curricular activities, I assure you, Strut.”

“If you’re bunking on my bus? You’re in the way, Patricia.”

“It’s Pamela—her fucking name is Pamela!”

They both turned and momentarily stared at the brute of a man in silence before Strut mumbled. “And he speaks. Who the fuck knew?”

“Thank you, Chains.” Turning back to Strut, she continued. “I will stay out of your way. Ragged Ruins chose this bus for the sole purpose of its second bedroom—”

“How do you know that exactly?”

“I asked for this bus.”

“Bullshit.”

“Far from. That’s one of my contract stipulations.” Opening the fridge, she reached inside and pulled out an iced tea offering it to both men. “Care for a tea?”

“What in the hell is that shit? Where’s my Red Bull?”

“Your energy drinks as well as the alcoholic beverages have all been moved to the fridge in your room, Strut.”

“You can’t just come in here and start changing shit!”

“Yes, yes, I can. Actually, that’s my job. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish before we hit St. Louis.” She smiled at both men. “Chains, Strut.”

After she’d reached, the safe haven of her room, Pamela released the breath she’d been holding. This was all part of her job, a job she loved. Although the beginning stages she could easily live without. The damn princes and princesses she always worked with battled her every step of the way in the beginning. It might be twisted, but she always enjoyed it when they finally came around. At one time, she’d considered following in her father’s footsteps and becoming a lawyer, but she was drawn to the glitz and glamour of Hollywood instead. Look where that got her. On a bus with a pissed off rock star who most likely hadn’t showered in a week and always smelled of stale cigarettes and Fireball.