The Booty Guard: A BBW Mountain Man Romance (Babes of Biggal Mountain Book 5) Read online

  The Booty Guard

  A BBW Mountain Man Romance

  Elaria Ride

  The Booty Guard: A BBW Mountain Man Romance

  Babes of Biggal Mountain: Book 5

  Elaria Ride

  Cover by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Edited by Wicked Words Editing

  Copyright © 2019 by Elara Ride.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Mom.

  Please skip the sex scenes!

  Contents

  1. Mariah

  2. Mariah

  3. Luke

  4. Luke

  5. Mariah

  6. Luke

  7. Luke

  8. Mariah

  9. Mariah

  10. Luke

  11. Mariah

  12. Mariah

  13. Luke

  14. Mariah

  15. Mariah

  16. Luke

  17. Mariah

  18. Luke

  19. Mariah

  20. Luke

  21. Luke

  22. Mariah

  23. Luke

  24. Mariah

  25. Luke

  26. Mariah

  27. Luke

  28. Mariah

  29. Mariah

  Epilogue: Luke

  Thank You

  About the Author

  Next from Elaria Ride

  Sneak Peek

  Her Mountain Master

  Also by Elaria Ride

  Also by Elaria Ride

  Also by Elaria Ride

  Also by Elaria Ride

  1

  Mariah

  I’m not the sort of person who takes orders well.

  Unfortunately, the Nashville Chief of Police disagrees.

  I glare at Captain Schmidt across his desk. His thick gray unibrow is furrowed in contemplation, and he’s giving me a wary look as he leans back in his leather seat. I figure he probably looks at a live bomb the exact same way — like one false move might turn him into a pile of rubble.

  But really, can you blame me? The mere suggestion is insulting. How dare this jerk tell me I need a bodyguard, of all things?

  I roll my eyes and turn to face my father, expecting to see a matching look of bewilderment on his face. But instead of giving me a reassuring nod or cocking his head in confusion, Dad’s staring at the wall. And refusing to look at me.

  This is a terrible, terrible sign.

  The back of Dad’s neck is bright red, and his hands are stuffed in his tailored trouser pockets. He studies Captain Twit’s police certificates with such scrutiny that you’d expect them to feature naked women.

  My fists clench in silent rage, but even I know there’s nothing I can do to stop what’s coming. My dad gives a whole new meaning to the term “stage parent,” and his reaction now can only mean one thing: Dad not only agrees with Captain Twit’s assessment — but he’ll force me to agree, too.

  No.

  I know Dad’s overprotective. I know he’s worried about his little girl — though it’s been a long time since I’ve been little in any sense of the word. But over the past six months, Dads acted more alive and excited than he has in years. I’ve attributed this to the reprise of Dad/manager (or Dad-ager) of the Matthews Family Band — the musical group Mom started back when their five kids were actually kids. Even back then, though, Dad was never a booking or publicity guy. He's always focused on the music and performance micro-management. I do the rest.

  Which is why this situation is particularly demeaning.

  I got us here. I did all the work. After a decade of hustling and grinding for a solo career, I gave up my dream the instant I heard the Country Soul Tour was looking for a group performance.

  Granted, Country Soul must’ve been desperate to reach out to my agent in the first place. Back when we were kids, my brothers are I filled theaters with ease, booking concert after concert. These days, the MFB is best known as former child stars who aged well but party too hard. We’re no longer the quirky, backcountry kids who perform at awards shows. We’re adults… and anyone would agree that we’re past our prime.

  And despite my best efforts to remain relevant, I’m a B-lister on a good day. My brothers and I are very close, but they’re the first to admit they lack my passion for the stage. We hadn’t even sung together in years when I booked Country Soul, but the chance to pad their trust funds had been too tempting to refuse. Those goofballs have long since moved on to different career fields, but I’ve worked my ass off. I’ve grappled and begged for any job in the industry I could get. I’ve modeled. I’ve done commercials. I’ve performed at birthday parties and quinceañeras.

  Was it all for nothing?

  Disappointment thrums in my chest as I continue staring at Dad’s back. I really thought we were on the same page… that we both understood the importance of taking my music career seriously, now more than ever.

  But I guess not. It seems he’s back to his old habit of jumping at shadows to “protect me” (read: shelter me) while my brothers get to “experience life” (read: party their butts off). To say the least, this double standard is infuriating. Had I been a fool to think he’d ever treat me like the 25-year-old I am?

  I make an angry tutting noise in the back of my throat; this catches Dad’s attention… but not in the way I’d like.

  “Mary,” he sighs, using my least-favorite nickname. He slowly turns around and stares at his shoes, as if the answers to all of life’s problems will appear on the tips of his expensive Italian penny loafers.

  I’ve been around Dad-ager long enough to know that the expression on his face is another Very Bad Sign. His once handsome features are now drawn and ashen, as if he’s aged ten years in ten minutes. The overhead fluorescent lights play off the gray undertones of his skin, highlighting deep under-eye circles I’ve never noticed before.

  Once, Dad’s hair was a rich auburn, just like mine. Now, his hair is tufted with gray and white. He looks old. Much older than his fifty-five years. Based on the way he’s looking right now, this whole ordeal is making things worse. Dad’s only looked this terrible once before… and that had been an especially horrendous night, too.

  For the first time, I allow the nightmares I’ve shoved aside for months to manifest into something real. Is this actually something to be scared of?

  “This is the weirdest night ever,” I murmur, scarcely aware the words have traveled from my brain to my mouth.

  Captain Twit chuckles from across his desk. “I don’t disagree. But weird or not, death threats are a serious business, Miss Matthews.”

  I scowl at him; for some reason, that really chafes… the implication that some creepy stalker bully matters more than I do.

  “My career is a serious business, too, sir,” I snap, my eyes narrowing. “Maybe you’d understand if someone decided you needed a bodyguard! Not that you’ll ever be in that position,” I add with a snort. “'Cause if this is your best behavior, I can imagine why no one cares about your every move!”

  Dad heaves a heavy sigh, but Twit just smirks and folds his arm
s over his broad belly. “My ex-wife would probably agree with you,” he notes. But then his face grows serious. “But this isn’t about me, dear. It’s about you. Between your family’s fame—”

  “—washed-up, former fame!” I correct. Please. As much as I’d like to be a household name, you’ve got to call a spade a spade.

  “Between your family’s fame—” Twit continues over me, “and the… other circumstances… the Matthews siblings have found themselves in—”

  I scoff. C’mon, dude. “Yeah,” I drawl sarcastically. “I’m sure getting drunk and stealing a yacht are right up there with the crimes of the KGB!”

  Twit’s eyes flash in warning. “Miss Matthews,” he says, like he’s explaining punishment to a toddler, “your life is at stake. And frankly?” He shakes his head. “The fact that you didn’t officially report the first threat tells us quite a lot about your ability to, how did you put it? Handle things on your own?”

  I roll my eyes again. Clearly this man was never bullied as a kid. In what universe does it make sense to show a bully how scared you are?

  “The first was nothing,” I insist, staring at the desk’s mahogany woodgrain. “And I told Mark, which is as good as telling Dad. Besides, who still cuts out letters from newspaper headlines to write creepy stalker messages? Talk about unoriginal!” I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m barely home; there’s no need for protective detail, not when I’m always around people. I spend most of my time in the studio prepping for the tour, and—”

  Now it’s Twit’s turn to snort at me.

  Crap. I walked right into that one, didn’t I?

  “Perhaps you see my point now, Miss Matthews,” Twit says smugly. “Because if you recall, today’s threat was sent—”

  “—directly to my dressing room,” I huff, repeating the phrase of the night.

  Granted, nothing would’ve happened if Mark, my closest brother, wasn’t snooping around backstage, putting his big, overprotective nose where it didn’t belong.

  Mark has always been such a narc. I’m not surprised he tattled to Dad the second he saw the cut-out letters on the front of the envelope, sitting right on my vanity counter. I’d been planning to tell Dad after rehearsal (I’m not a total moron), but instead of hearing my side, Dad treated me like an infant. Smack dab in the middle of rehearsal, he stormed on stage, dragged me off by the shoulder, and ordered a damn SWAT team to escort me to the police station.

  Which is where I’ve remained for — I check my watch — three hours. Three hours of vocal rehearsal, down the tubes…

  I feel a sudden pang of longing for Russ, our longtime family friend. He’s my parents’ best friend from high school, and he’s been the MFB jack-of-all-trades since we first got started. Russ is basically my second dad. Even though we go toe-to-toe on things like modesty and “ladylike” behavior, he’s the only one who might have talked Dad down from this.

  But Dad and Twit seem to be changing tactics. They exchange a significant look… and I already know what that means: Dad’s pulling out the trump card.

  “I hate to do this, Mariah,” Dad says firmly, “but you’re getting a bodyguard… or as your manager, I will personally remove you — and you alone — from the tour. Right here, right now.”

  I stare at him in the bitter silence.

  God, that’s infuriating… but I know he could do it. I booked Country Soul on my own merit, but Dad and Russ hold the purse strings — and our performance rights. We can’t do shit without their consent, and Dad knows it.

  Apparently, none of this has made me miserable enough; Dad feels like twisting the knife even more. “Now,” he says, shooting me that same disapproving glare. “We don’t have any leads on your stalker so far, but in the meantime, you’d do well to stay away from the likes of Colt Waverly.”

  I let out an indignant huff, which Dad ignores. “We can’t afford for another bitter ex-boyfriend to complicate things, Mary,” he says firmly. “Tabloids are already talking about what you might’ve done to deserve this, and Colt isn’t helping.”

  Oh, please!

  “And how the hell is that my fault?” I demand. In the six months since I dumped him, Colt Waverly, a wannabe country star, has made a living out of selling the “drama of our relationship” to the highest tabloid bidder. It’s embarrassing that he used me — but it’s mortifying that he wasn’t the first.

  Dad sighs, leaning back. “Besides Colt, though… we know how many strings you had to pull to book Country Soul. And let’s just be honest about it: you probably stepped on some toes — and hearts — in the process.”

  I turn away, enraged. He has no idea what he’s talking about, but I don’t like what he’s implying. Dad’s always been prone to believing the tabloid gossip. I’ve lost track of how many times we’ve had this conversation.

  “As I’ve told you repeatedly, Dad,” I reply angrily, “my agent informed me of an opening. I booked us that gig with my singing skills — not my girl parts. And in the future, it’s best not to imply that your daughter is a whore.”

  I glare at him, folding my arms over my chest. This tour is the closest we’ve come to label representation in years. I’m not sure why he’s so desperate to make me feel like I didn’t earn it.

  Dad sighs, covering his eyes with his right hand. “I’m… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” he says weakly, his body slumped over. Oh. That guilt from earlier resurges in my chest. I actually believe him.

  “I just meant… things look suspicious. Ok?” Dad glimpses up at me again. “You’ve had a rough year, Mare. The press have dragged you through it. Some positive publicity wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

  “But you’re already giving me a bodyguard. How much more positive could it be?”

  I don’t trust them when it comes to this… either of them. Dad and Twit exchange another look.

  “Well,” Twit begins, “let me start by saying that your protective detail is the best of the best. I don’t know much about Hollywood and stardom and all that mess — but cross my heart, I’d hire him for my daughter, too.”

  “His reputation is just a bonus!” Dad pipes up. “He’s… known for what he does. He’ll bring positive attention to the whole ordeal. You’ll be working with an American hero!” He attempts to give me a good-natured punch on the shoulder, but my icy expression stops him in his tracks.

  “American hero,” I deadpan, the suppressed rage hitting me all at once. “American. Hero.” I suck my teeth. “Is that your buzzword for treating me like an infant, forcing me into surveillance, and suggesting I slept my way to the top?”

  But almost immediately, I want to take my words back. Even before Dad’s shoulders slump in self-loathing, I’m reeling from the venom in my own voice. I glance into my lap and fiddle with the ring on my right hand. It sounds stupid, but staring at this faded jewelry might help me regain some of the patience and decorum I’m sorely lacking.

  This ring is nothing special… but it was Mom’s. So it’s my favorite.

  I twist the ring with its turquoise and seed-pearl inlay beneath my fingers, loving how the steel dips and twists over the stones. A shiver cuts up my spine. For some reason, I hear the echo of her lilting country accent, plain as day... as if she hasn’t been dead for 13 years. “Ladies are also pretty on the inside,” she’d always told me, a wry edge in her voice. “But to make it in this world? Just like this ring, we have to be wrapped in steel, too, darlin’.”

  I shudder.

  My mother isn’t even here — but she’s right.

  When did I become so bitter?

  I know I’m a professional singer. I know I have a reputation as a diva. But the last thing I want to do is disappoint my family — especially when I compare myself to Mom.

  I heave a sigh, leaning back in the chair. I guess those fiery, short-tempered Matthews genes are bubbling closer to the surface than ever before. Dad’s the only one of us who can stay calm when he’s mad.

  And yeah, I definitely ow
e Twit an apology; none of this is his fault. So I bite my lip and raise my head, prepared to make amends, just as the door creaks open from behind me.

  “Ah, yes!” says a beaming Twit. “It seems your protective detail has just arrived!”

  I turn around in my seat, curious to meet my captor… but the second I see him, my best intentions vanish like dust in the wind.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  All I can do is sit there, dumbstruck and seething, as I face him. Because now, all the pieces finally slide into place. Now, I understand their hesitation over telling me in the first place. Now, I know what “American hero” and “positive influence” meant.

  Because Dad hasn’t hired some random dude. He hasn’t picked an older guy with lots of experience or a retiree who does some surveillance on the side. No… I’m staring at the one and only Luke Carter — who is about as far as possible from a nameless, faceless stranger the world has ever seen.

  I can only watch, aghast, in slow-motion as the cockiest man alive struts into Twit’s office, looking for all the world like he’s strolled off the set of a modern-day High Noon. His cowboy boots clunk and chime as he steps across the pearly linoleum, his white hat casting a shadow across a face I’ve seen on tabloids more times than I can count. Then he removes his hat with an arrogant wink. At least he hasn’t forgotten all of his manners.