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One

Dash

“...and the winner is… Jade Cantrell!”

I knew she was going to win.

Her face is flushed with happiness and I’m happy for her—but something is wrong. I can feel it. I always do. I sense danger before it happens. So even though I smile and say all the right things, I’m on high alert.

So I see the guy moving toward the stage before anyone else.

Except I’m too far away to warn anyone.

Dammit.

My feet propel me in that direction but he’s already on stage, moving toward Jade.

Yeah, over my dead body am I going to let him touch her.

I’m her bodyguard but she’s also family.

“Jade!” I try to yell a warning but it’s loud in here.

I pick up speed, pushing past two startled security guys who haven’t yet figured out the guy on stage isn’t supposed to be there.

Dumbasses.

Jade has moved away from the guy, but I’m finally on the stage.

“Get away from her,” I growl.

“What are you gonna do about it?” The guy lunges at me, and I knock him back a few feet.

He comes at me again with a knife that I hadn’t noticed before, and I side step him, but he’s not giving up.

Little punk.

“Come at me, asshole,” I snarl.

He grins and swings the knife around like an idiot.

But he’s a dangerous idiot, and there are too many innocent people around to let this go on any longer.

“Put the knife down,” I say.

“Fuck you!” He lunges again, and I wrap my arm around his throat, but I don’t realize how close to the edge of the stage we are.

My left foot is in the air and then the two of us crash down a good five feet, hitting two tables and some chairs on the way.

I feel a sharp pain in my side and ? —

I jerk awake, my heart beating wildly.

Fuck. Me.

How many times am I going to have the same stupid dream?

It’s hard enough to get any sleep in the hospital, and these nightmares don’t help.

It’s been five days since the night the knife-wielding psycho fan tried to attack Jade, and it’s all been a whirlwind.

One cross-country flight, thanks to Atlas, my controlling and overprotective billionaire best friend.

Surgery to replace the hip I fractured when I hit the table on my way down, with the full weight of that idiot on top of me.

A boot to help the ankle I twisted when I landed.

And more MRIs and CT scans than I’ve ever had in my life to make sure there’s no brain damage from the concussion I got in addition to everything else.

Brain damage.

Ha.

Four years of college hockey probably took care of that.

But everyone is determined to make sure I get the very best care.

I appreciate it. I do. It’s just not easy for a man like me to be in a position where I have to ask for help. Ask if I can go to the bathroom by myself. Have a nurse give me a sponge bath. It’s maddening.

I’m in a private wing of the hospital, because Atlas—along with my sister—insisted, and there are only a total of twelve rooms on this floor. All special cases with special medical needs.

It’s irritating as fuck.

Two nurses move down the hall chattering away, like it’s not two in the goddamn morning, and I let out a huff of frustration. I know they have a job to do, but is it too much to ask to give us—the patients—some peace and quiet so we can rest?

Apparently it is.

I sit up and reach for the walker I hate.

I’m supposed to be moving around as much as possible but I can’t do it without the walker, and using a walker sucks.

Between the new hip and the hit to the head, they don’t want me to fall, and though it grates on both my nerves and my pride, I don’t want to do anything that might keep me in this medical prison any longer than necessary.

I make my way to the bathroom and take care of business.

Then I carefully pull on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt.

I slide my feet into the rubber-soled slippers my sister brought me, grab the damn walker, and take a tentative step.

The hip feels pretty good, all things considered, but I still hate that I’m twenty-eight years old and had to have a fucking hip replacement.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be like I was before, and that’s not acceptable.

Two tours in Iraq and I never got so much as a hangnail.

One night protecting country superstar Jade Cantrell—who happens to be engaged to my buddy Royal—and I might not be able to do what I do.

Fuck .

I clomp into the hallway, determined to wear myself out so maybe I can sleep for a few hours. I look left and right, trying to decide which way to go.

There are more rooms on the right since I’m one room from the end of the hallway, so I head in that direction.

I feel like a decrepit old man, but at least I can walk.

The orthopedic specialist that Atlas brought in told me once I heal and get through physical therapy, I’ll be able to do anything I want.

Except—the more I do, the sooner I’ll need to replace the hip again.

There’s no cut and dried timeline, but if I run five miles every day, and push my body physically, I’ll need another new hip in less than ten years. If I focus more on weight training and low-impact cardio, it could last me twice as long.

In my lifetime, I’ll need at least two more.

I think that’s the part I’m struggling with. Knowing that this hip isn’t going to last forever. That I’ll always have to be cognizant of my limitations.

I run an elite security and bodyguard firm that caters to the rich and famous—and they’re not going to hire a guy with limitations .

There’s no way to know what those limitations will be either, which bugs the shit out of me. At least, if I knew exactly what I’m dealing with, I could come up with a plan.

Instead, I’m wandering down a deserted hospital corridor in the middle of the night.

I’m almost to the other end of the hall when I hear voices coming from the last room. There shouldn’t be visitors at this time of night, so I’m about to turn and head back in the other direction when I pick up a few words.

“...what game you’re playing, but if I find out you’re faking it, I will fucking end you.

Do you hear me? You in there, Willow? You fucking stupid whore—there won’t be any more of this fake coma shit when I get you home.

And that’s happening soon. So whatever you think you’re doing, the jig is almost up. ”

The hair on the back of my neck stands up and I’m rooted in place.

Who is this guy and why is he talking to a patient like that?

I shouldn’t get involved—it’s not like I can do anything about it—but it feels wrong to leave. Instead, I duck into one of the computer alcoves the nurses use, my back turned.

A moment later, I feel him as he breezes past and I slowly turn my head, watching as the man practically saunters toward the elevators.

He’s medium height, average weight, with curly dark hair and expensive shoes.

That’s about all I can tell from the back.

Well, he has an expensive leather coat on too.

“Mr. Durand.” One of the nurses I recognize—she’s one of the nice ones—approaches him. “You know visiting hours ended a long time ago.”

“I know, Holly, but I just…” He sighs, his tone so sad and emotional I wouldn’t have believed this was the same guy if I hadn’t heard him talking not two minutes ago. “...I hate that she’s here alone. That she won’t wake up. It’s killing me.”

“I know.” The nurse puts a comforting hand on his arm.

“It’s been almost a month,” Mr. Durand continues. “Why isn’t she waking up?”

“Head injuries are tricky. We really don’t know. But the thing is…” Her voice turns serious. “If she doesn’t wake up soon, they’re going to suggest moving her to a long-term care facility.”

“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head. “I’m taking her home. I can take better care of her than any facility.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” Holly says. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Good night, Holly.” He gives her a blinding smile that almost gives me whiplash.

What the fuck is going on?

“Mr. Dash.” Holly spots me and comes marching in my direction. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“It’s loud,” I say with a shrug. “How’s anyone supposed to get any sleep? And I’m bored. And hungry.”

She shakes her head. “If you go back to bed and rest, I’ll defrost one of those acai bowls you like…with a little granola on top?” She wiggles her eyebrows playfully.

“Are you flirting with me?” I demand, trying to sound stern.

She’s sixty if she’s a day, and she giggles. “I am not . But I will if it means getting you into bed.”

I laugh.

For the first time in a week.

And it feels good.

“Thanks for that,” I say, smiling at her. “I haven’t had much to laugh about this week.”

“Part of my job… now come on. Let’s get you settled and I’ll find you a snack. You can flirt with me after you’ve gotten some rest.”

We walk back toward my room, and my curiosity gets the best of me.

“Hey, Holly? Who’s in the room at the end of the hall?”

Her eyes turn sad. “Oh…that’s Willow St. Claire.”

“Willow… oh, the actress .”

“She had a bad fall, hit her head, and has been in a coma. They’re not sure when or if she’s going to wake up. It’s such a tragedy.”

“And that guy?”

“Her fiancé, Dylan Durand. You know, the big-time movie producer?”

I know the name.

Both names, actually.

Hell, you have to be living in a cave not to recognize their names.

They’re a Hollywood power couple, and in my line of work, it pays to know who’s who in the city of Angels.

And I intend to find out everything there is to know about Dylan Durand.