Mort stormed across the parking lot, his shiny black parachute pants swishing with every furious stride. His blunt bob haircut swung like a blade as he zeroed in on Kota standing next to the van with its shattered window and the crowd of phone wielding onlookers still lingering. His dark eyes were blazing, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash a torrent of abuse that would have made the ball punching incident look like a friendly pat on the back.
"Kota, you absolute fucking disaster of a human being, I told you to stay in the dressing room and not cause any problems and somehow you've managed to destroy our ONLY mode of transportation and—"
"Excuse me," a voice interrupted.
Mort's head snapped around so fast his hair actually moved. A femboy with a notebook and a press lanyard around his neck was standing a few feet away, his phone still recording. He wasn't one of the fans from the show. Mort would have remembered the neon green hair. This guy looked like a blogger, maybe a small time music journalist, the kind who covered local shows for whatever underground zines still existed.
"Are you a member of Pure Despair? You're the guitarist, right? Mort, isn't it? I've heard of your band. You guys are starting to get a name around the scene."
Mort's expression flickered. The rage was still there, simmering just below the surface, but something else crept in. Calculation. His eyes darted to the phones, the cameras, the small crowd of people who were clearly not just random bystanders anymore. They were paying attention. They were recording. They were asking questions.
"Yeah," Mort said slowly, his voice still flat but no longer actively homicidal. "I'm Mort. Guitarist."
The blogger gestured toward Kota, who was still leaning against the van with a bloody nose and a bewildered expression. "And who's this guy? We just saw him take down some dude twice his size. Is he with you? Is he part of the band?"
Mort looked at Kota. Then at the cameras. Then back at Kota. The gears in his head were turning so loudly Kota could almost hear them clicking into place.
"Wait here," Mort said, his voice clipped. "One second."
He turned and strode back toward the venue, his parachute pants swishing, his ass swaying with that particular rhythm that seemed involuntary. The crowd murmured among themselves, phones still raised, speculating about what was happening. Kota wiped blood from his upper lip and tried to look like he had any idea what was going on.
Thirty seconds later Mort reemerged, dragging Corey behind him by the wrist. Corey had clearly been in the middle of something. His white hair was even messier than usual, his baggy gray jeans were only half buttoned, and there was a distinct sheen of lube still glistening on his inner thighs. But the moment he saw the cameras, his entire demeanor shifted. He straightened up, smoothed his hair back with one hand, and flashed a grin so bright and photogenic it belonged on a magazine cover.
"Well, hello there, lovely people," Corey purred, stepping forward with the easy confidence of someone who had never met a camera he didn't like. His plump ass swayed with every step, the baggy jeans riding dangerously low on his hips. "How can I help you all on this beautiful evening?"
The blogger pointed at Kota again, who was still standing awkwardly by the van with a bloody nose and a melted Snickers bar on the ground at his feet. "This man. The one who just fought that guy. Is he affiliated with your band?"
Corey's grin stretched impossibly wider. He walked over to Kota and slung one arm around his shoulders, pulling him close like they were old friends. "This gorgeous specimen right here? Absolutely. This is Kota. He's our lovely manager and stud bodyguard. The muscle behind the music, if you will."
Kota's eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to protest, but Corey kept talking, his voice taking on that smooth, storytelling cadence that made everything he said sound like it belonged in a rock documentary.
"You see, Kota here actually worked as muscle for hire back in the day. Real dangerous stuff. Enforcer type. The kind of guy you call when someone needs to be... convinced. He's been with us for a few months now, keeping us safe on the road, making sure nobody messes with the band. As you can see," Corey gestured at the broken window and the lingering crowd, "he takes his job very seriously. That guy who just ran off? Let's just say he won't be coming back anytime soon."
The crowd murmured with excitement. Someone whispered "holy shit" and another person angled their phone higher to get a better shot of Kota's broad shoulders and rumpled shirt.
"Wait," Kota tried to interject, "I never—"
"So this guy is basically your enforcer?" the blogger asked, his pen flying across his notebook. "Your security? That's incredible. A band with their own personal bodyguard. That's like something out of a movie."
"Exactly like something out of a movie," Corey agreed smoothly, squeezing Kota's shoulder. "Big strong man, mysterious past, devoted to protecting his favorite band. It's very romantic when you think about it."
"I don't have a mysterious past," Kota said loudly, but nobody was listening to him anymore. The crowd had pressed closer, their questions overlapping into a wall of noise.
"How long has he been working with you?"
"Does he travel to all your shows?"
"Is he single? He's really hot."
"What other security work has he done?"
"Can he sign my chest?"
Corey handled every question with the grace of a seasoned publicist, spinning answers that were complete fabrications but sounded incredibly convincing. "He's been with us since our first basement show. Never misses a gig. Keeps the crazed fans at bay, you know how it is. As for his past, he's very humble about it, but let's just say some very important people owe him some very big favors."
Kota stood there, mouth opening and closing, completely steamrolled by the sheer force of Corey's charisma. Every time he tried to clarify that he was not, in fact, a former enforcer for hire, someone would talk over him or ask another question or shove a phone in his face. His nose had stopped bleeding, but the dried blood on his upper lip probably added to the tough guy image Corey was selling.
"Tell you what," Corey announced to the crowd, his voice rising with showman's flair. "Our next show is going to be in San Antonio in a couple months. And yes, this handsome, big, muscled, strongggggg manager will be there too. Protecting us. Looking gorgeous. Maybe signing a few autographs if you ask nicely."
Kota's head whipped around. "I never agreed to—"
"Alright, alright, that's enough for tonight, folks," Corey said, already steering Kota toward the van with a firm hand on his lower back. "Our security guy needs his rest. Fighting off attackers is exhausting work. We'll see you all in San Antonio!"
The crowd actually cheered. Someone yelled "WE LOVE YOU KOTA" and another person shouted "PROTECT ME NEXT." The blogger was still scribbling furiously in his notebook, probably already drafting a headline about Pure Despair's mysterious bodyguard.
Corey practically shoved Kota into the back of the van, then climbed in after him and slammed the door shut. The muffled sounds of the crowd dispersing filtered through the broken window. Mort was already in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the wheel, muttering something about insurance deductibles and how he was going to make Davion pay for the glass.
Corey dropped onto the seat beside Kota, his grin finally relaxing into something more genuine. He reached over and patted Kota's thigh, his palm warm through the fabric of his slacks.
"See? That wasn't so bad. You're famous now, cutie. Bodyguard to the stars. Your mysterious past as a hired enforcer. Very sexy. Very marketable."
"I don't have a mysterious past," Kota said for the third time, his voice flat with exhaustion. "I've never been muscle for hire."
"Details, details," Corey said, waving his hand dismissively. His fingers traced small circles on Kota's thigh, inching higher.
"The point is, people are going to show up to that San Antonio show specifically to see you. The big strong mysterious bodyguard. And I'll make it up to you for volunteering your services without asking."
His hand slid a little higher, his voice dropping into that syrupy purr. "After the show, obviously. When we're alone. I'll show you exactly how grateful I am."
Kota sighed, too tired to argue, too tired to resist, too tired to do anything except lean his head back against the seat and close his eyes. His nose throbbed. His balls still ached from the cheap shot. His Snickers bar was still lying on the asphalt outside.
But somewhere in the back of his mind, buried under the exhaustion and the confusion and the lingering adrenaline, a tiny part of him was almost amused. He had somehow gone from kidnapped victim to concert guest to band manager to bodyguard in the span of a single night. And now he was contractually obligated to appear at a show in another city months from now.
Theo was going to lose his mind when he heard about this.