face before I walk away from him and up the stairs leading to the stage to warm up my voice and try NOT to think about the man at the back of the auditorium, watching my every move, and wondering if he’s the enemy.
Like nails on a fucking chalkboard.
This music is going to drive me right back to drinking, I swear to Christ. All of this techno-electric shit is giving me a headache. Whatever happened to just sitting down at a microphone with an acoustic and a kick ass drummer?
Even though my ears are bleeding with all the synthesizing going on and the top forty, cheesy lyrics, I can’t help but notice how amazing Layla looks on stage. She lights up the whole damn place as she rocks her hips to the beat and struts back and forth from one end of the stage to the other, making sure to use up all available space so the audience who will see her tonight will get their money’s worth. Her choreographed moves are sensual without being over the top and fun without being too campy. I can tell they’ll be just enough to get the younger members of the audience excited and have them jumping in unison with her while the older male members, probably forced to bring their daughters to the concert, wish they knew what she looked like naked. She’s the perfect blend of entertaining and hot on stage.
Too bad she doesn’t look like she’s enjoying one minute of it. The band has just finished their eighth song in the set, and even sitting in the very last row in the twenty-thousand-seat arena so I can observe unnoticed, I can tell she dislikes every minute.
Why the hell is she doing it then?
Pulling out my cell phone, I send a text to Gwen asking her to look into every record she can find, public or private, about Layla Carlysle and her entourage, specifically Finn Michaelson and her mother. I want to see if any of them have a history of making up stories or hey, even stalking. I don’t care if Finn pestered his sixth grade girlfriend with love notes; I want to know about it. I’m still not sure I completely believe that Layla has any kind of a deranged person after her since she’s only received a few notes so far and no real threats have been made, but it’s better to be safe than story. More often than not though, these rich assholes feel the need to invent drama when there isn't any, just to put the spotlight back on them. With the amount of enthusiasm I’ve seen on Layla’s face today, I’m going to guess the little princess is just board as fuck and needs some excitement in her life.
I’m still getting paid, so it’s no skin off my back, but she damn well better not be wasting my time just to give herself a little thrill. There are plenty of other ways I could give that blonde beauty a thrill, and it would involve less time researching and more time with her skirt up around her hips and moans floating past those full lips of hers.
Focus, Brady. Jesus, it’s like you’ve never seen a hot chick before.
I really need to get laid. I need a mindless fuck to get this thing, whatever it is, out of my system. I don't need any type of distraction on a job, even if it is a pointless waste of my time. Distractions only get the people around you killed.
“I need an ETA on SEAL team four. They were supposed to touch base at twenty-one hundred. I’ve had nothing but radio silence from them, over,” I spoke softly into my earpiece as I rounded the corner of one of the villas, my gun drawn.
Garrett couldn’t find Parker and his worry and anger about that situation had transferred to me. I shouldn’t have left them with Milo. Even though I called it in, and was assured they had cover, I still had an uneasy feeling when I walked away from the three of them. Parker could be anywhere right now having God knows what done to her. I knew she was a pretty bad ass CIA agent, but anyone can be broken.
I switched channels on my wireless mic and tried contacting the back-up SEAL team again. Earlier, distracted by what was going on with Parker, I had rattled off coordinates to the south side of the resort for Captain Risner