Trust (London Love #5)

“Hey, Reubs,” he mumbled.

I halted in shock. I didn’t know this guy. Did I? I kept my guard up anyway. He could have a blade in that pocket for all I knew. I took a small step back. Danced on my heels. Waited for his next move.

“Can I talk to you? Inside?” He looked up, just for a second, but that second was all I needed to confirm I definitely knew this guy, and this was bad. Fucking bad.

“Dieter, dude…” I grabbed his arm and frogmarched him through the doors. Fucking hell. “Where’s your security detail, mate? You crazy?”

Dude was crazy. He should not be out here on his own. Absolutely not. I’d dealt with him and his kind before, and the recent big court case where some stalker had been handed down a lengthy jail sentence was one thing, but…

This was The Dieter, the biggest pop sensation on the planet. Part of Blitz. None of them could play an instrument and their dancing skills were questionable at the best of times, but they were usually followed by screaming humans throwing gifts at them and trying to rip their clothes off.

Dieter was a hothead, despite being voted most eligible bachelor or something in some magazine.

He was also a total idiot.

He’d just wrapped his first full-length streaming site epic and was about to hit the big time in the acting world. He’d either walk away with awards or get completely roasted. Oh, and he had no drama training. I knew because I read all the gossip sites. My social media was littered with update accounts.

Well, it was part of my job to know these things. Recognise people as they walked through the door. My guests shouldn’t have to introduce themselves; I should know them by sight. Like my dad did.

Turning Dieter around, I placed him with his back to the front doors and his face towards me so I could scowl at him.

Man. Last thing I needed. The Dieter. Tall and slim, he usually wore leather trousers and boots and not much else. Flicked his long, tousled blond hair about to reveal his big blue eyes accentuated by heavy eyeliner. One pout of those lips would have girls screaming and fainting and all that stuff. People went nuts over him, but personally, I couldn’t see it.

Today, though, his face was lacking the greasepaint, his hair was neatly tied back, and those big blue eyes were staring emptily at me from under that hood.

At least he wasn’t attempting to stab me. I tugged his hands out of his pockets because…I didn’t really know, and that was very me. An insane, impulsive wacky piece of work. But seriously, he needed to stand up straight, look like he belonged here so I could get him somewhere safe before we both got into trouble.

Trouble. My middle name.

Reuben Trouble Schiller, aged twenty-six. Yeah, you can laugh. Most people at The Clouds thought I was still nineteen or something because I looked younger and had been known to act like it too. I may not have had a fancy degree, nor did I have my school certificates or all that stuff. I could read and write. I could also bullshit my way out of anything and was good with computers. I had no problems dealing with our in-house systems, and I’d taught myself spreadsheets and helped with my dad’s tax return because he was law-abiding and sensible and, surprisingly, I was too…most of the time. Well, Dad and I knew all the tricks, and my uncle was a tax specialist, so you wouldn’t have caught either of us dead paying our taxes without claiming for everything down to the socks we wore for work.

See? I was off on a tangent again, and Dieter was chewing on a fingernail looking more nervous than I felt.

“What do you need, mate?”

I didn’t provide drugs. Not anymore. Nor did I dish up escorts or anything like that. I knew how to, and I had contacts. Okay, they were mates, but whatever.

“I actually…have a reservation,” he mumbled.

Told you. Idiot.

“Then why are you skulking ’round out there like a twat? And why are you on your own?”

“Didn’t work out with…you know. The one I was coming here with. But I have no choice now, do I?”

I had no idea what he was on about, but my dad was on his way across the lobby, so I pushed Dieter ahead of me and gave my dad a dismissive wave as we passed by.

“Mr Dieter,” Dad said, nodding politely.

Yeah. It was our job to deal with these kinds of people, and Dieter almost stumbled over his own feet as I steered him onwards, behind reception, and marched him into the office with determination in my step.

And here was Eddie, today’s reception manager. He usually treated us doormen like annoying lowlife, but had been rather calm and reasonable of late. He didn’t look very calm having an extremely famous, multi-platinum-award-winning pop star thrust into his visitor’s chair.

“Fuck,” he said, staring at Dieter. “Not again.”

“What?” Dieter huffed, and I laughed.

Last time the Blitz tour bus had rocked up outside our front door, all hell had broken loose since someone had messed up their reservation. I side-eyed Eddie hard. He got the message.