Cannon (A Step Brother Romance #3)

So I guess fatigue is the reason I don't say anything. Instead, I sit there glaring at them, waiting for their verdict. I tick off the options in my head. Rehab? A trip somewhere? I'll issue a mea culpa for my terrible behavior and promise the record label they won't have to worry about their lily-white singer being tarnished by her no-good friends.

My stepfather finally breaks the silence. "The label has agreed to a solution we think will be amenable to everyone," he says. "With all that's happened, we believe you need someone to look out for your interests." He says it like we're talking about hiring someone to manage my stock portfolio. But what they're really suggesting – what they're really ordering – is someone to manage me.

"A new manager," I say flatly, looking at my existing manager – my mother.

"Don't be ridiculous," she sputters, shaking her head.

"What then?" I ask. "Designer treatment center? Press statement saying I've collapsed of exhaustion?" The words come out more bitter than I intend them to sound, but I'm frustrated by the ambush.

Of course, a break might be exactly what I need. In my head, I imagine standing up right now and walking out of the room, packing everything I own and just heading back to Savannah, me and my guitar. Hell, I could play on a sidewalk, no backup singers and dancers and costume changes and a different city every night until I'm so turned around I can't see straight.

The guy in the suit is right, though – the record label would play hardball. They would sue me for breach of contract and take everything I've worked for.

It's funny what happens when you come from nothing. Nothing is the last place you ever want to return.

I'm so preoccupied with my thoughts I don't even hear my stepfather's voice until he waves his hand directly in my field of vision. "Addison."

"Yes."

"The label agreed to this plan. Hendrix will be your new bodyguard," he says, his voice picking up momentum. "Your old one has been removed."

"Dan is fired?" I ask. "It's not his fault I went to the club last night."

"He knows better," the Colonel says, his voice sharp. "There are protocols in place for a reason. He should have pulled you out of there more quickly."

"That's not fair to Dan --" I start, but my stepfather brings his fist down on the table, hard, and the sound makes me jump.

"It's not fair to me, to employ a bodyguard who is so remiss in his duties," he says. "This is done. You need a bodyguard who will not be lax. Especially after the issue with the stalker. I trust Hendrix to not be lax."

"The stalker," I repeat numbly. There was hardly a stalker, merely an obsessed fan who sent me a few overzealous letters. There are always obsessed fans. That's not new. I'm so preoccupied with that piece of what he says that it takes my brain a minute to catch up to the more important part.

Hendrix.

I repeat the name I haven't spoken in years. "Hendrix who?"

Hendrix who, indeed. I know exactly who he's talking about. Is there really any other Hendrix?

Has there ever been?

My stepfather clears his throat and opens his mouth to speak, but the door behind him swings wide and as if on cue, Hendrix walks inside. Immediately, it's like all of the air is sucked out of the room.

I sit there, my heart pounding so loud I think my chest might actually explode as I stare at him.

Hendrix.

My stepbrother.

I was seventeen when he left to join the Marines just as soon as he turned eighteen. That one year age difference between us was everything -- a gulf a mile wide. He was one year older than me and a million times more superior, with dyed hair and piercings and total disdain for authority. He only joined the Marines to piss off the Colonel.

I couldn't stand Hendrix from the moment I met him. I hated him on sight. And then, later, I wanted him, with all the wild lust and longing of a teenage girl. He walked into my life when I was fifteen years old, and at that age, he was the most irresistible thing I'd ever laid eyes on.

I'd like to say I haven't thought about him since he ran off to join the Marines, but that would be a lie. I've definitely thought about Hendrix. But in my thoughts, he's still the irritating, sexy-as-hell teenager I used to know.

Not this.

This is…something else entirely. Five years has changed Hendrix. He's not a sullen teenager anymore. Now he looks like the freaking poster child for the Marines. Except with tattoos. Lots and lots of tattoos. They run up the length of his arms, disappearing under the sleeves of the t-shirt that stretch across his biceps, the same t-shirt that pulls across his very well-defined chest. I'm suddenly reminded why, five years ago, my heart would race every time I was near him.