Bodyguard: Target Read Online Free PDF Page A

falling to
indicatethe immense size of the swell. ‘A legendary wave! You may never have
surfed anything so huge in your life. The chances are you’ll wipe out big
time. But – and this is the killer – you
might
conquer it and
ride all the way in.’
    He turned to Charley, his eyes gleaming
with an irresistible zeal. ‘That wave might come only once in a lifetime,
Charley. So I say, go for it!’He slipped an arm round her waist. ‘Now,
what is this impossible decision?’
    Charley was
momentarily stunned by the clarity of his answer. On an impulse, she kissed Bud full
on the lips, then stood up and brushed the sand from her shorts.
    ‘W-where are you going?’ Bud
asked breathlessly, a baffled and forlorn expression on his face as she strode off
up the beach.
    Charley called back from the darkness,
‘To catch that once-in-a-lifetime wave!’

‘
I saw you stroll across the
market place. I caught your walk but not your face
,’ sang Ash Wild
with gutsy energy into the studio mic. ‘
Yet what I saw in that one short
glimpse is allmy mind has thought of since …
’
    Ash strummed hard on his electric
guitar, a bluesy rock riff that harked back to Jimi Hendrix’s ‘Voodoo
Child’. The drummer and bassist were grooving behind him, their rhythms locked
in tight. The keyboard player, his head bobbing to the beat, stabbed at his Hammond
organ, counterpointing Ash’s driving guitar line. When the chorus kicked in,the four of them belted out in harmony, ‘
Beautiful from afar, but far from
beautiful!
’
    At its climax, Ash launched into a
blistering guitar solo, his fingers ripping up the fretboard. Eyes shut tight and
lower lip clamped between his teeth, he pulled every last drop of emotion from the
notes he struck. Then, at the solo’s peak, a string snapped.
    ‘
Damn it!
’ Ashswore as the guitar detuned and he hit a bum note. He threw it to the floor in
frustration where itclanged and screamed in protest. ‘I
was finally about to nail that solo!’
    With a furious kick, he punted his
drinks bottle, spraying soda over everyone’s gear. The drummer rolled his eyes
at the bass player, who reached over and pulled the plug to the guitar amp, cuttingthe ear-splitting feedback.
    ‘Let’s take a break,’
came the producer’s weary voice over the studio monitors.
    Ash stormed out of the studio and into
the control room. The producer, a long-haired legend known as ‘Don
Sonic’, was stationed at a colossal mixing desk like Sulu from
Star
Trek
. He leant back in his chair and interlocked his fingers behind his
head.
    ‘Ireckon we can patch together a
complete solo from the other fifty or so takes,’ he suggested.
    ‘That’s not good
enough!’ Ash muttered with a sullen shake of his head. ‘It’ll
sound false.’
    ‘To you maybe, but not your fans.
I can make it appear seamless for the record.’
    Ash stomped up the basement
studio’s stairs. ‘Never. We’ll try it again later.’
    Don called afterhim,
‘You’re a perfectionist, Ash. That’s your gift … and your
problem!’
    ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever,’
mumbled Ash, but he knew his producer was right. And that’s what frustrated
the hell out of him. He could record a song a million times, yet it never matched
the ideal version in his head.
    At the top of the stairs, he turned
right into a sleek open-plan kitchen. An ageinghulk of a man in a fadedblack T-shirt, its seams stretched by his bulging tattooed
arms, leant against the breakfast bar. He was idly flipping through a tabloid
newspaper and sipping from a mug of black coffee.
    ‘Hi, Big T,’ said Ash,
acknowledging his bodyguard.
    ‘Ash,’ he grunted with a nod
of his bald domed head. Closing the paper, he took up position by the patio doors,where he casually scanned the garden beyond, taking in its designer wooden decking,
oval swimming pool and hot tub.
    Ash appreciated Big T. The man knew when
to talk and when to give him space. Opening the refrigerator door, Ash took out a
fresh soda and