Page 40 of Stolen Voices

Jace: Has anyone heard from Cam since the punch that rocked baseball?

I stifle a laugh at my big brother’s message. It’s wrong to laugh at Cam’s misfortune, but he had it coming, sneaking around with Nico Romero’s little sister. What did he expect? The guy has hated my brother for over a decade. Cam’s lucky all he got was a fist to the jaw and one to the ribs.

Mason: No. He refuses to answer my calls and messages. E?

Eli: Same. Have you tried siccing Rhys on him?

Jace: Yes. Didn’t work. Cam spoke to him for less than five minutes before hanging up. Two hours later, a new hat, glove, and bat arrived.

Eli: Well, at least he’s not dead.

Jace: We need to do something. I don’t like seeing him like this.

Mason: Same.

Shaking my head at my phone, I hold back my eye roll. These guys act like it’s the end of the world. Sure, he’s a mess on the mound—pitching meatballs and hitting nothing—but it’s temporary. I saw him and Talia together. They’ll work it out. It’s only been a week.

Eli: You act like it’s been seven years or six months. He’s fine. Let’s give him more time.

Jace: Low blow, E.

Mason: So that’s how it is? Jace, did you know our dear brother Eli had his car stolen?

Mason: By a woman.

Mother fucker.

Jace: I know we are supposed to be thinking about Cam, but this just got interesting.

Eli: She’s a client, and it was a misunderstanding.

Mason: Sure it was.

I close my texts, ignoring the buzz of new messages rolling in. I do not need comments from my brothers aka the peanut gallery. There is nothing going on with Callie and there never will be.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I tap on the security camera app. The live feed fills my screen, and I bounce around all the cameras, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Like with DJ Reigns’s security footage, I come up empty.

Something about those cupcakes still bugs me, and I can’t put my finger on what.

Opening the stage camera, I find Callie rehearsing with her choreography team. She started rehearsing acrobatic routines for the concert, and I don’t like them one fucking bit. Between the closet, the stage slip, and the cupcake, I’m constantly thinking about her well-being.

Yeah, that’s the reason you keep thinking about her.

She’s my client, and I made Hudson a promise. I would watch over her and keep her safe while he’s gone. I’m not thinking about her for any other reason.

Sure you’re not.

I could punch myself with all the unprofessional thoughts and feelings I have for Callie. Living in denial is the only way I will survive whatever this thing that keeps tugging me towards her is. I can’t be another one of those creepy Hollywood guys who date clients ten years younger.

What I can be is a good agent. I can make sure Callie has everything she needs. If I’m that guy, I can wonder if the stage is safe for her. I can double-check there are no nuts in her food. I can keep tabs on her security guard, making sure he sticks by her side like white on rice. But that’s as far as it goes.

My eyes eat Callie up as she stands tall, listening to the team instruct her. Even in black and white, the woman in the sequined costume—standing on the stage with her hands on her delectable hips—is stunning.

Unfortunately, I’m not the only person who thinks so. I’m up and grabbing my jacket when Callie purses her lips in distaste as the tech buckling her into the harness grazes her hip with his fingers, lingering on her body for more time than acceptable.

He’s lucky I’m not there to rip his fucking hand off for making her uncomfortable.

Overreacting much?I bristle at my inner thoughts.