Well here it is, the new story! Please Comment and review :)

CHAPTER 1

"Can I have a hug, please?"

"What?"

"A hug. You know where you put two arms around someone when they're feeling emotional?"

"I'm your bodyguard."

Meet Troy Bolton. My bodyguard.

"So bodyguards don't know how to hug?"

Sometimes, the way he looks at me, he's not like a guy at all. He's like my dad. All disapproving and serious. I swear he's like, barely mid-twenties and he's got that old-man look down pat.

Only he is a guy. A very nice-looking guy. A guy an eighteen year old girl like me could crush on happily with all those muscles and that shortly spiked hair which could so easily be a Mohican if he acted his age and not like a middle-aged man.

"Let's move," he tells me in his no-nonsense tone. His only tone. His face is always set, just so. His jaw tight, his brows furrowed. Big, thick brown brows that dominate his blue, blue eyes.

"It wouldn't hurt to crack a smile now and then," I tilt my head and smile tightly, quickly throwing tampons in my shopping basket.

He copies my tight smile then flicks looks around him, always assessing the scene.

"How's that?"

"Pathetic."

"I'm not even supposed to be talking to you," he muses, walking with me toward the till.

"Who told you that?" I turn on him and the grey edge of his eyes is distracting my gaze there.

He lifts his brows patiently.

"My dad," I sigh.

"Mr Montez is the boss," he reminds me unnecessarily.

"Never mind that I'm the one with a sucky minder trailing me 24 hours a day…" I mutter, annoyed at my father's rules.

"James sucks too?" Troy is surprised and I almost laugh at the way his eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

"It's part of the job description isn't it?" I enquire drily. "Wanted: Body guard for famous, wayward daughter. Must be a total asshole."

"Now I'm an asshole?" He looks peeved at that.

"You know what I meant…" I apologise with a sorrowful look.

"Yeah." He nods shortly. "Spoiled brat can't handle authority. I see it all the time."

/

How dare he call me a spoiled brat? It's not like I've always been famous and been pampered my entire life. It just happened. And with parents like mine, you can't help but keep your feet on the ground. They just do not butt out of my life- going as far as hiring me a bodyguard when my singing career took off and a man ran on stage on my first joint tour and bear hugged the life out of me.

They got some weird paranoia he was really trying to shoot me and they didn't want 'their baby to be hurt doing what she loves'. I guess I was sixteen at the time. Sixteen and so green to the world and how fast I have had to grow up since then…

I wouldn't change a second of it.

Even though I am considering getting take out with a cocked hip, hand on it, staring into the window of the Chinese take-away, wondering if anyone will eat with me tonight.

Mom and Dad are in New York- home. I'm in Texas city- recording. Taylor and Sharpay- my best girl friends in the world- playing like Carrie Bradshaw and Samantha in Sex and the City. Chad's playing baseball in Boston right now. Ryan's in the middle of a cruise singing his little heart out, just like me, just further away.

And who do I know in Texas?

My record producer, manager and publicist. Oh, and Troy. If you would count me as knowing him. And James of course. James who actually sticks to my dad's rules and comes off a lot creepier in his silence.

"Do you like Chinese?" I ask the brown haired, blue eyed wall of muscle beside me as he stands, feet apart, hands together, facing the street.

"Sometimes." He answers annoyingly.

"Do you fancy some? I'm buying…"

"It's…" He pulls up his grey suit sleeve and looks at his watch. "Ten past eleven at night."

"I'm sorry, am I keeping you from something?" I stride into the shop and quickly order some kung-po chicken and rice, prawn crackers and toast and seaweed on the side.

Troy follows me in and lifts his chin to the attendant behind the counter. "Can I get some chow mein please?"

"Oh, he eats," I smirk.

Troy merely blinks at me. "It's been five days. Five days of sitting in studios, listening to you wail, having you constantly talking at me and yeah, sometimes I do eat and I do talk and you know what? If I had to spend a minute longer than twelve hours with you I might just go insane. So give me a break for a while, huh?"

I look at him and feel tears fill my eyes, my precarious emotions rising fast. "I do not wail," I tell him in a firm, hurt voice, blinking my lashes down to dispel the tears there, feeling more following even though I should know better than to listen to his stupid remarks.

"You're right. I apologise." He remarks formally, flicking two or three concerned looks my way.

"No hug?" I enquire, used to having these frequently from my mum and dad or my tactile friends.

"I'm not your boyfriend." He says.

I sigh. Nope. That's because I don't have a boyfriend. Eighteen, single and living my dream. It can be a lonely place…

"Food's up." I tell him, grabbing two paper sacks and following him out, getting a rare glimpse of his tight backside in those suit pants, as he normally trails me.

When he does that, my ass feels like it grows three sizes and suddenly wobbles in ways it never did before.

I'm a size twelve. It's not skinny. It's not even a regular size, but anyone over a six in this business is classed 'fat'. I'm twice that. I am tall, though. About five nine, leggy and slim, and equally set in the hips and boobs, something I am grateful for.

My hair is long, black and sleek with straighteners, sexy with curlers or wavy messy naturally. My eyes are green-hazel. Like chips of glittering amber and topaz, a twinkling mix of colours. They're from my mother- a mixed race Haitian.

And then there's my name. Montez. Gabriella Montez. Teen singing sensation extraordinaire. Only I need a bodyguard. That's kind of scary.

/

"Home, sweet home." I swing my handbag- brown tanned and fringed if you must know- onto the hotel bed and head over with my food, clutched preciously to my chest.

"You're hogging it," Troy accuses as he follows me in and reaches for his sack as I sit and dump the packs on the bed.

"I'm a greedy monster," I smile innocently, tasting prawn bread and closing my eyes in bliss.

"I noticed," he quips drily to himself and I elbow him when he sits next to me on the bed.

"We should go on a road trip tomorrow after I finish recording for the day!" I gasp excitedly.

"You can go wherever you like," he comments, drumming it into me just how alone I am.

"But don't you want to come?"

"I have to come." He smiles flatly, enjoying his chow mein with a youthful enthusiasm I hadn't seen before. Who knew the key to Troy Bolton's real age was Chinese food?

I put my food down, suddenly realising he was right. I had no-one to enjoy my experiences with. No-one to share the views. No-one to get excited about road trips or tell me well done today. No-one who cared.

I nod at him, but I'm not focusing, merely agreeing silently as I push my remains to one side and get up, heading for the bathroom.

"Gabriella?" He calls me and I keep walking, into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

Here I can feel the effect of his words seep into my skin from the cold floor tiles, where I choose to sit and cry. It's nearly midnight and I somehow hope he might stay; finish his food and hang out with me for a while when James takes over. But he is only here because he is paid. Not because he wants to be. Who would want to be, I wonder? Who would follow me around or wait for me while I live this demanding life? Who would take the strains for the glimpses of rewards?

It had been a dateless few months that was for sure.

When I came out, he wasn't even there. He hadn't even said goodbye or knocked the door to tell me his shift was finished and I opened the room door to find James there in the hallway in conversation with Troy, both interrupted by my nosiness.

"I'll be right back in." Troy tells me with a direct blue gaze I can't argue with.

"Okay," I nod and turn back inside, feeling bolstered by his words. So he's coming back. He's finishing his food and hanging out. Maybe I'm not such an abhorrent brat after all…

"James noticed some activity outside so we're both on duty tonight." He tells me as he comes back in, in complete business mode.

"You can't work twenty-fours hours straight," I argue.

"I'm not going to. I'm going to sleep. But any noise will wake me up; I'm trained," he adds assuringly.

"What kind of activity did you notice outside?" I wonder worriedly.

"Just kids being kids," Troy quickly dismisses and I frown at him, getting up to track over to the window to peel back the curtain.

"Gabriella…"

Outside there are about five teen girls parading in a continuous circle with banners saying 'Gabi is a bitch' and 'Texas don't want Montez here' and equally childish remarks.

"I'm a bitch?" I wonder, thinking how this might be.

"They're just being kids," he repeats.

"Then why are you taking them seriously?" I squint at him.

"There's a group of guys, on the wall. They're drinking alcohol and I wouldn't mind betting they wouldn't say no if you asked them to dance," he derides. "If you go out there and those girls see that, anything could happen to you."

Right there, I had a stripe of something shoot down my tummy, taking my breath away. His words were so protective- he sounded like he actually cared and I found myself staring at him.

"It's my job to make sure it doesn't," he adds firmly.

"I wish you would wear jeans and try to blend in," I remark as I process the information he has given me; and that I have seen with my own eyes.

He watches me as I walk back by him toward the bed, laying down on it and remaining still.

"You've been pretty upset all night, is everything ok?" He checks.

"I'm a spoiled brat who my own bodyguard can't stand spending time with, only out of force. I have not one friend in this big city that I can share my fun with and to top it off, half the city hates me because I'm good at what I do. I'm fine," I sark.

"Have you called your parents?" He suggests.

I laugh shortly. "And remind myself how depressing my life really is? No thanks."

"If it's so depressing then why do it?" He wonders, finishing my prawn toast as he sits back down. "Why keep touring and recording and putting yourself through that?"

"Because the music, I love," I sit up to emphasise this. "Singing is what I was destined to do."

"I'll take the chair." He says of his sleeping place, shrugging off his jacket and revealing a pair of big, thick shoulders that lay tight against the cotton of his pale blue shirt.

"Don't be silly," I argue of the King bed that monopolises the room.

"I can shoot better from there," he adds and I nod.

"I see."

"I'm going out to my room to get my clothes so I don't have to sleep in this suit all night," he tells me as he walks over to the door and slips right out, leaving me alone in the quiet. I quickly change into my pyjamas and brush my teeth, wash my face and tie my hair back, into a high bun out of my way.

I'm snoozing when he comes back in, with a quiet close of the door and creeping of light feet, something that frightens me into a quick sitting position to check it really is him and not someone who stole his key pass in the corridor.

"Sorry," he winces.

"You scared me," I take a breath.

"You're really not yourself, Gabriella," he remarks.

"How do you know I'm not always crying and jumpy?"

"Because I watched you whoop major ass with Antonio when you went kickboxing together," his blue eyes twinkle knowingly and I am gobsmacked at his jibe. (Antonio is my manager in case you wondered.)

"I just wanted to be sure it was you who was coming back in."

"As opposed to…"

"Freaky hating girls." I supply and I notice something flick across his face. Something like regret.

"Would you rather I didn't tell you things like that?"

"No. My father may think I can be protected from the world but I don't yearn for censorship," I assure.

He nods. "I'm getting changed." He tells me.

"Can I watch?"

He closes the door on my joke and I put my head down to the pillow and sleep, too exhausted to do anything else.