The switch from actors to musicians had been a fluke, a favor to a friend in a tight spot, but nine years later, she was still here. Believe it or not, the musicians were easier to deal with than the actors. Oh, they were no walk in the park, but she’d enjoyed life on the road…most of the time.

Unzipping her suitcase that lay on her bed, she began hanging her clothing in the small two-foot wide closet. Living in tight quarters wasn’t anything new. Although this bus was a million times better than any she’d been on before. She hadn’t lied, it had been in her contract, but honestly, she never figured they’d go for it. Call her surprised when Ragged Ruins Promotions hadn’t countered. Pamela had seen this bus, the Regal Sevant XL, at a music festival last summer. She’d been on tour with a pop princess and the Regal Sevant had been their neighbor. An up and coming boy band had just added the bus to their quickly expanding fleet. After befriending their manager, she’d given her a tour of the luxury coach. Pamela had fallen in love. Instead of the normal bunks stationed on either side of a hallway just before a back bedroom, there was a bedroom on one side with a hallway on the other and two sets of bunks just before the bedrooms. A slice of privacy that she’d treasure.

Strut obviously had the large back bedroom with the queen sized bed and its own bathroom. Not that she could complain about her full-size bed at all. She’d slept in one of the bunks before and for months at a time. This place was the Ritz Carlton compared to that. Chains would be bunking it. A small smile played on her lips when she thought of the man with his massive shoulders in the small space.

He’d shocked her today when he corrected Strut on her name…again. The man had called her Patricia a dozen times already. When Chains said her name, it surprised not only her but Strut as well. They’d known Chains a total of three hours and he’d said about ten words tops. She was thankful to see he was silent with everybody and not just her.

One thing Pamela understood was silent treatment. She’d swear that spoiled celebrities took classes in the art. Did they not realize that she cherished the silence? If they wanted to punish her, they may as well continue rambling about costume changes and set lists.

A knock at her door startled her. Sliding the pocket door, she met a broad chest. Looking up, she encountered that beard she’d have recognized amongst a thousand already. “Yes?”

Without a word, he handed her a manila envelope with her name on it. “What’s this?”

“I imagine it’s private since it says confidential across the front of it.”

“I imagine so.” Meeting his eyes, she continued. “We’ll be together for a long time; I’d like to get along with you, Mr. Chains.”

He laughed. “After that play with Strut out there? I think we’ll get along just fine.”

“Play?”

“Yeah, the one where you tried to play it cool as you ever so sweetly handed him his ass on a platter. That play.” She felt his eyes as they roamed the length of her body. “I underestimated you, Miss Pamela Myers.”

“Most men do.” She hadn’t intended to say that flip comment it just tumbled from her mouth.

“I bet they do. I just bet they do.”

Chapter Four

When he’d first seen little Miss Pamela Myers in her pristine pants suit and schoolmarm hair, she resembled a librarian more than a woman about to embark on a three and half month rock tour. Even with her hair pulled back so tight that her eyes had been lifted, he’d seen a hint of something more with that red lipstick. Barely there eye makeup, a soft blush but brazen red lips? Why it fascinated him, he had no clue. Of course, she had that rockin’ little body going for her. A foot shorter than he was, Chains had noticed her abundant curves from afar as she approached his car from the airport. Nice hips, small waist, and a killer rack. He wondered what that blonde hair looked like when it was down. He’d put money on the fact that there was more to Miss Red Pouty Lips than met the eye.

Didn’t matter anyhow. He didn’t do relationships and she had commitment written all over that Hillary Clinton pantsuit of hers. “Jesus,” he muttered to himself. Why was he even thinking about this—about her? The woman was far from his type…her curvaceous body withstanding. No, Chains tended to lean toward women who were covered with ink, too much make-up, and a helluva lot less clothing. Not to mention less inhibitions. The breed that didn’t bat a heavily mascaraed eye at a one-night stand.

Just so happens he had always been attracted to women completely opposite than Miss Pamela Myers. Although, her putting Strut in his place was surprising. There was a spitfire beneath that bun of hers. Doesn’t matter…off limits. There’d be plenty of pussy around. No need to sniff around her. It didn’t make sense all around.

Deep Bend had been on a downward spiral for some time now. He wondered if little Miss Priss would be able to get them back on track—as she put it. He’d been brought in because the band required more security after their recent indiscretions had been plastered on every tabloid in the supermarket. Strut’s sex tape had been a disaster. Thankfully, the woman had been of legal age, but just barely. Nine days past her eighteenth birthday, she’d bedded the rock star while her girlfriend videotaped. Strut was probably high as well as loaded during the filming. Not that it would’ve mattered if she had been underage. According to most of the general public, eighteen or not the woman’s baby face was more than enough evidence she shouldn’t have been in the rockers bed. Chains happened to agree with the general population on that fact.

It was still unclear who exactly had blown up their bus at the truck stop in Bowling Green Kentucky. They knew it had been a member of the band, but nobody had fessed up, and no fingers had been pointed. Truth was they had all been drinking and someone thought roman candles would be a fun way to pass the time while the other semis and busses refueled. That idea had literally blown up in their faces. The bus had gone up in a blaze of fucking glory just off Interstate 65. A total loss. That was exactly four weeks after the infamous sex tape made its appearance.

Like the band had needed more bad publicity. Too many shows canceled and too many days of mediocre performances had already put the band in a risky state. Strut liked his booze a little too much and apparently his women as well. Drummer Trey Connovan had passed out onstage more times than Chains could count. They were on their third bass player since the end of their last tour. With their new album barely leaving the shelves and their downloads dwindling? Something needed to change and soon or they were screwed and not the way the band liked. Shit, not even the way the band had on video.

Chains eyed what was supposed to be his bunk. Seriously? How exactly did they expect him to get any sleep on that fucking thing? Apparently, he needed to up his contract stipulations like the new PA. He’d manage; he’d been in a lot worse situations as a security specialist over the years.

It was his job to figure out what exactly Deep Bend needed security wise. Of course, the band hadn’t known that…yet. They merely saw him as another piece of hired muscle. Which he was, but he was also a helluva lot more. They’d find out when the moment was right. For now? For now, he’d keep his eyes open and his mouth shut and his hands off the luscious Pamela Myers.

Looking over the bus while Strut was playing an insanely loud game of Call Of Duty on his Xbox and Pamela had yet to emerge from her room, Chains found a few things that needed to be rectified. Security measures were his life. He was damn good at his job and that’s why Ragged Ruins Promotions had brought him in as well—not that the band knew that.