by Elaria Ride
I give him an appraising stare. How is he described in the tabloids these days? Carelessly handsome? Well, for once, those vultures have gotten something right. From the way Carter carries himself, his all-American features and chiseled jaw are mere afterthoughts. His broad chest is stuffed into a flannel button-up shirt nearly bursting across the wide muscles of his upper arms. The top two buttons of this shirt are undone, leaving little to the imagination about the muscle definition beneath.
As Carter closes Schmidt’s door, I concede there’s a reason he’s been featured so much as a former-war-hero-turned-naughty-cowboy. He’s definitely attractive… or a lot more attractive than he’d been as a playground bully.
Because in addition to being neither nameless nor faceless, Luke Carter also isn’t a stranger. And unfortunately, it seems he hasn’t developed manners since I saw him last.
Instead of greeting me with a kind smile or a handshake, Carter simply crosses his arms over his chest, stares me dead in the face, and arches an eyebrow. He hasn’t said a word, but with a single look, I suddenly feel like I’m back on Biggal Mountain... like I’m a chubby six-year-old being teased by her jerk brother and his jerk friend.
Great.
The jerk in question curls his lips in an arrogant grin as he relaxes against the thick mahogany door of Twit’s office. Although I haven’t seen this douchecanoe in years, I still know exactly what he’s trying to tell me with that self-satisfied smirk. His mouth remains immobile, but his blue eyes convey a phrase he’d repeated about a million times before we’d moved away: “Your move, Princess.”
Then he has the nerve to arch an eyebrow. A challenge.
And that’s when I finally snap.
2
Mariah
“Are you kidding me?!” I seethe, staring at my father. “Him?!”
Dad’s face reddens as his eyes return to his lap. What a coward.
I angrily rise from my chair. “I thought the goal was not getting more attention! But you’ve picked some pretty-boy ex-stalker whose face is in the news more often than mine!”
Carter’s already using my words as ammo. Just like when we were kids. “That’s professional pretty-boy stalker to you, Miss Matthews,” he notes in a deep, rumbling voice.
I give him a withering stare. He’ll soon learn that I’m far less easily impressed by smooth talking than his tabloid models.
“However,” Carter adds, the corners of his lips twitching, “I’m willing to be a professional here and leave schoolboy antics in the past. If you are, that is.”
“Mariah doesn’t have a choice in the matter,” Dad interrupts firmly. “I don’t care if she thinks you’re Godzilla or Attila the Hun. You’re the best of the best, Carter, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“That’s interesting, Dad,” I say coolly, my eyes never wavering from Carter’s. “I think Godzilla would be lower-profile. At least that one-hundred-fifty-foot lizard isn’t in the press for being… what was it?” I tap my foot in feigned contemplation. “Oh, that’s right!” I declare after a moment. “America’s Hunky-but-Naughty-Hottie-Guard!”
There’s a beat after my words. I glance from Dad to Twit. The two of them are exchanging another deeply significant look. Dad sighs, running a hand down his face.
“Like I said,” he repeats, furrowing his brow at me, “we’re gonna make the best of a bad thing! You’ve had a rough year, but if the paps catch a few pictures of you and Carter together?”
He attempts a casual shrug that doesn’t quite match the seriousness on his face. “So be it. I’ve spent a fortune ensuring that you’ll be fully protected, no matter what. For as long as it takes. Your tour doesn't start for two months, and as Captain Schmidt was telling me earlier” — he nudges his chin in Schmidt’s direction — “when crazies get bolder, they make mistakes. We need this perv to start doing that so we can catch him and wrap this up.”
Twit clears his throat and squints over at me. “Miss Matthews, we can’t deny that there’s a sexual element to these threats. Your stalker seems to think he has some kind of ownership over you. His… intimate knowledge of your whereabouts suggests he knows more than you think. He probably knows what you eat. Where you eat it. Who you hang around. And he definitely, definitely knows that you and Mr. Carter knew each other once upon a time.”
I ignore the chill that races up my spine at the thought of this creep watching me.
“So what?” I quip. “What’s the problem with him knowing that Mr. Hottie Guard bullied me back in the day?” I shoot Carter another scathing look; he responds with an even broader grin.
“Because,” says Twit, crossing his arms over his chest again, “your stalker is likely a male with an inferiority complex. He will see someone like Carter as a threat. Especially since you two have… a connection.” He arches an eyebrow. I try not to gag.
“Sure,” I deadpan. “Only a criminal mastermind would send cutout letters of COVER UP, MY PIGGY SLUT on a swimsuit calendar. That’s definitely not the work of a rambling psycho. Thank God we’re trusting you, Captain Schmidt — the true expert!”
I sweetly bat my eyelashes, but Twit’s already talking over me.
“Then there’s the issue of the threat today.” He opens his desk drawer and removes a manila envelope. I can tell his patience is wearing thin. “Do you know what it was attached to? Hmm?”
He tips the envelope onto the desk. My stomach clenches in horror as a lacy red bra slides out.
“Do you remember the last time you saw that bra, Miss Matthews?”
I swallow, my eyes fixed on the underwire. Carter and Dad shuffle uncomfortably around me from the sight of it, but my head’s still spinning. “Last week,” I admit, biting my lip. “It was… I wore it for the catalog shoot. I haven’t seen it since.”
My hands shake in my lap as Schmidt returns the bra to the envelope. “We suspected that,” he says, more gently than before. “Today’s threat was attached to a new message: ONLY WHITE FOR MY PIG BRIDE.”
I make a face, looking down at my mother’s ring again. I see what he means about… ownership and promiscuity. But something about this bodyguard arrangement makes no sense.
“So you want me to be bait?” I whisper, my breath catching in my throat. “You want the stalker to see me and Carter together… and do even scarier things?”
There’s another pause. I’m not looking at Dad right now, but I know my words have left him feeling terrible. Like the worst father on earth. I’m about to seize upon his doubts and talk my way out of this, but to my horror, Luke kept a key skill from childhood. It’s a skill I’ve always detested, probably because I’ve never come close to mastery myself: he’s always, always been able to offer convincing reassurance. To anyone. At any time.
And I’ll be damned if it doesn’t work, even on me.
“Well, Miss Matthews,” Carter drawls, crossing his arms. “You don’t need to worry about safety. Not at all. You won’t find a more qualified bodyguard on this side of the Atlantic. I’m a highly trained ex-military specialist with the track record to prove it. I’ve done this job for more important people than you — and I’ve done it well. Too well.”
He finishes with a smug smile that twists my stomach into knots of rage. Even before I reply, I know whatever I say is unfair. I know I’m making him my punching bag.
But I can’t help it.
“How do your tabloid girlfriends feel about their safety, Mr. Hottie Guard?” I ask in a lofty voice. I’m hitting below the belt, I know… but the double standard is beyond infuriating.
Carter doesn’t rise to the bait. “Oh, Miss Matthews,” he drawls through a grin. “You should know better than anyone how misleading press can be.”
Another silence falls in Twit’s office, but it’s not doing me any favors. Dad and Schmidt exchange impressed expressions. Carter’s smooth talking has done the trick. Nonetheless, I raise my chin to bite back… but my words freeze in my throat as I meet his gaze.
Wow. His eyes are be
autiful. I didn’t expect that. They’re bright blue, like the sky on a perfect summer day, rimmed with cloudy wisps of white and gray. I haven’t thought about Luke’s eyes even once over the years, but here I am, unable to tear myself away from them, despite the annoyance thrumming in my chest.
“Sorry I’m late!”
I jump at the chirp of Russ’s high-pitched voice from the doorway. I hadn’t even seen the door creak open, not behind the towering monstrosity of my security detail.
It’s only when Luke steps to the side that I realize how small Russ is by comparison. The two of them couldn’t look more different. Luke, with his towering frame, exposed muscles, stupidly good looks and a cocky grin… and Russ, the five-foot-five, salt-of-the-earth, deeply religious type who makes no secret of his preference for modesty. In all areas of his life.
Russ charges forward and slams his briefcase onto Schmidt’s desk. I try to catch his eye, but he just mutters to himself and hands a few rolled blueprints around the room. Wow. I haven’t seen him this laser-focused since Mom died… since he’d tried to restructure us as an extremely devout, religious singing group. That hadn’t lasted long — mostly because we’d all had… reputations by then. Still, he’s been a good sport.
More or less, the Matthews Family Band owes him everything we have. My mom’s industry connections got us started, but Russ did the rest. He’s our PR guru/sound dude/jack-of-all-trades. And his distaste for anything overly flashy means he’ll definitely be able to see how ridiculous this bodyguard situation is… right?!
I’m about to broach the subject when Luke strides over to my vacated seat and plops himself down with one of the blueprints.
Rude.
This seems to pull Russ from his businesslike trance. “Oh! Sorry I’m late, folks!” he announces again, looking around the room. “As it turns out, cleaning up after a SWAT team is more work than you’d think.”
Schmidt snorts, his head bowed over a blueprint. “Yeah, well,” he says dryly, “imagine the mess if they hadn’t gotten there in time.”
I squirm. I don’t want to think about that. About the fact that I might actually die over this, before the tour even starts…
Luckily, it’s not hard to find a distraction. This office is very crowded — and it’s getting worse by the minute. It’s probably the biggest office in the station, but that doesn’t mean it easily fits me, Twit, Dad, Luke, and now Russ.
Ugh. I shudder. Confined spaces aren’t my thing.
Luke cuts the silence. “Where’s the rest of the studio?” he demands, flicking his finger at the bottom of the page. “This is missing a basement.”
Russ turns towards my hired stalker. I can tell from his face that he’s not impressed. “We’re working on getting the rest,” he replies curtly. “There’s been a holdup accessing the 2011 renovations, but I’d like to think you have enough to get a good start.”
Good. Russ might not have gotten me out of this, but at least he isn’t pretending the man walks on water.
Luke just narrows his eyes at Russ over the top of the blueprints. “Well, sir,” he drawls in a familiar tone of condescension, “I’m gonna need all of these plans. If you recall, Miss Matthews was targeted today at this specific location.” He flicks his hand on the paper again. “Now, I know this is your first rodeo… but do me a solid and trust a pro. Ok?”
Luke finishes with a sarcastic wink, his eyes darting back to the page. My fists clench at my sides. What a total jackass. What a rude, cocky—
“Interesting,” Russ replies airily. “From the way the tabloids talk, Mr. Carter, I assumed you were capable of surveillance without all the nitty-gritty hand-holding.”
The cocky grin slides from Luke’s face.
“I gotta be honest,” Russ adds, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “I wouldn’t have hired you to trail Mary if I thought you needed to be told exactly where to jump and how high. Perhaps a military hire was a bad idea, after all.”
Wait… what?!
I draw a deep shuddering breath, my head spinning, as I replay Russ’ words in my head. I wouldn’t have hired you. I wouldn't have hired you.
I stare at Schmidt’s desk again, my eyes wide but unseeing.
Like it’s happening far away, I hear Luke growl back at Russ. He announces that the military taught him to be thorough and surveil everything, thank you very much, and that if he has an issue, he can stick that up his—
But I’m only dimly aware of this icy exchange.
Because all I’ve heard is Russ is the one who hired him. Russ is the one who brought this clown back into my life. Russ… the one I’ve always depended on to treat me like an adult. The man who has been a trusted voice of reason, even when my dad has been overbearing and insane. The authority figure who’s always, always propelled my career forward. The one who’s insisted I’m capable of more than Dad gives me credit for.
I lean against the wall for support, feeling suffocated in the stuffy office. Shit. Shit shit shit. How had I not put this together until now? Of course this was Russ’s idea. Dad trusts him with an almost religious reverence. There’s no one else who could have convinced Dad I needed a bodyguard — and now.
I focus on breathing through my nose, hoping this keeps me from screaming.
Because no one trusts me alone. No one treats me like an adult. Despite all I’ve been through, despite all I’ve done, my family will never see me as more than a scared, weak little girl.
I know this thinking is ridiculous, I know it’s unfair… but Russ wouldn’t have insisted on protection if I didn’t need it. Which means I’ve been wrong to dismiss these threats. Dead wrong.
With the force of a thunderclap, it’s too much.
It’s all too much.
And one way or another, I need to get out of here.
With a shaking hand, I grab my phone from my pocket and clumsily request an Uber. A private Uber. One that will take me to the refuge of my apartment, far away from men who don’t trust me.
Because right now, I’m not sure if I’m more horrified by the stalker who wants me dead… or the men in my life who don’t trust me with the truth.
3
Luke
I’m still poring over the incomplete blueprints when Schmidt’s office door slams shut. My head jerks up in confusion as I search for the source of the noise — and it’s only then I notice Mariah’s auburn curls bouncing out of sight and around the corner through the wall of glass.
Fabulous.
I leap to my feet, tossing the blueprints as I go. “Tail her!” I bark, taking two running steps into the hallway.
Muffled curses echo from behind me as her protective squad scrambles to follow, but I don’t have time to see how much backup I’ll have. I hope at least one of them has a shred of common sense. It seems like the other cops have only just now realized what I’ve known for years: Mariah Matthews doesn’t obey.
And for someone with tiny legs, she moves surprisingly fast.
Liquid adrenaline pumps through my veins as I peer around the corner, hoping against hope she hasn’t gone too far — but the flashing elevator light at the end of the hallway tells me I’m fighting a losing battle: she’s already jetted down to the lobby.
Damn.
I turn on my heel just as the rest of her protective squad moves around the corner — but luckily, I don’t have to spell it out this time. Without a word, all five of us of clamber to the stairwell, our bodies a blur of blue and white. Rodriguez reaches the door before I do, holding it open with the quirk of an eyebrow. A curt nod is my only reply as I barrel past, taking steps two and three at a time in a mad dash to get to the lobby before she does.
“Damn Nashville’s nonsensical building plans!” Rodriguez mutters from behind me, right before I hear the distinctive sound of feet slipping on linoleum steps. I think I’d laugh if the situation were a little less desperate, but he’s right; building plans in Nashville are beyond confusing.
As I set foot in the lobby, I alread
y know she’s won. Or lost. Depends how you look at it, I guess. I catch a fleeting glimpse of a woman who knows exactly what she wants… as she slips through the sliding glass doors of the police station and strides into the darkness outside.
“MARIAH!” I boom, my voice carrying through the lobby and startling the night receptionist. Rodriguez makes hasty apologies, but I have laser focus: Mariah is my charge… and by deliberately ignoring me, she’s made this personal.
Throughout the course of my life, I’ve been taught to draw inferences, to make situational predictions about what will happen next. Especially at crime scenes. My dad, an ex-cop himself, spent most of my childhood training me to study body language and gather clues, to evaluate all possible suspects. Back then, we mostly did this by studying strangers in public. Or watching Murder, She Wrote.
But as much as my dad prepared me for this job, I really wish he’d spent more time hammering home an uncomfortable truth: knowing the outcome of a situation doesn’t make it easier to swallow.
Because as I step into the humid darkness of a Nashville summer night, the prediction I made upstairs comes true. I reach the sidewalk just as Mariah Matthews scampers into the back of an idling luxury Uber, shoots me a look of pure contempt, and slams the door shut. Right in my face.
I suck my teeth as the car speeds away. I hate it when I’m right.
From the way I’m just standing here, gaping at the empty space outside the station, you’d think I’m new at this. You’d think I haven’t had a lifetime of surveillance training. Or five years active military. Or three years overseas. Or a year and a half in the private sector.
Then again, I’ve never been tasked with Mariah Matthews... and as much as I hate to admit it, everything I’ve heard about her over the past twenty years is seeming more and more accurate. She may be cute, but she’s also reckless, speedy, and stubborn as hell. In my line of work, that’s a particularly dangerous combination.