by Elaria Ride
It’s hard for me to imagine anyone foolish enough to get into a stranger’s car while she has a crazed stalker on the loose, but in a super-fun twist of fate, not only does this person exist — she’s my responsibility!
I groan and shake my head. Whatever. I don’t have time for moping; I have a job to do — a job in which I’ve thus far failed. I’m just pulling out my phone to make a few emergency calls as Rodriguez emerges from the lobby.
“Not sure who you’re calling,” he says, nodding towards my phone, “but I’ve already requested the helipad and copter. I also filled in Schmidt, along with the rest of the protective goons.”
Huh! I give Rodriguez an appraising stare as I put my phone away. Guess I’ve judged this local cop too quickly. “Thanks. Guess I forgot I’m not the only one trained in surveillance emergencies.”
“Happens to the best of us,” he says with a shrug. “I’m still happy to defer to you, though. El Jefe.”
I let out a chuckle that dies on my lips as Schmidt, Earl, and Russ finally emerge from the station. They look around, bewildered, but Earl is the first to vocalize what everyone else already knows.
“She’s — she’s gone?” he sputters, his skin paling. “But why would she—”
“—because,” I say sharply, “your daughter is stubborn, Mr. Matthews. As her hired surveillance, I can only suggest that you have a stern chat with her, ASAP.”
I bite my tongue just in time to keep from adding something it’s entirely not my place to add: that a little more discipline might have prevented this.
Apparently, though, I’m not alone in this conclusion.
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” Russ agrees with a sigh, peering out in to the night. “But if you fellas think this is bad, imagine her as a teenager — without anyone to help!”
There’s a smattering of dark laughter around the group.
“Can confirm,” Earl shudders, shaking his head at the memory. “Granted, her brothers gave us a run for their money, but somehow, Mary had a special knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Russ considers this. “Well, sometimes, the trouble was her fault. But sometimes?” He lets out a low whistle. “Fellas, this is far from the first time our little spitfire’s… attracted the wrong sort of attention. If you catch my drift.”
He and Earl exchange a dark look as everyone shifts uneasily on the pavement. I have a feeling there are some good stories behind the other times she’s been in trouble, but they don’t elaborate.
Earl just clears his throat and charges on. “Still, it’s high time she grew up,” he says firmly. “We’ve got a serious problem here — one she’s not taking seriously at all.”
“Hopefully you’ll be able to knock some sense into her, Carter,” Russ adds, shooting me a wink. “I’m just sorry to say that you’ve got your work cut out for you with that one!”
I bark out a humorless laugh, but I’m pleased Russ has moved on from our little quarrel back in Schmidt’s office. I’ll worry about investigation methods and specifics later. With Mariah on the loose, teamwork is more important.
“Well, unfortunately for her, I prefer tough cases,” I note, crossing my arms over my chest. “This won’t happen again, sir. Not on my watch.”
“Hey, now!” Schmidt interjects. He shakes his head at me, but seems more irritated than outright angry. “This is a collective effort, last I checked. We’ll work together, ok, Carter?”
Rodriguez arches an eyebrow and turns to face me, too. “Yeah, Hottie Guard,” he says dryly. “I know you’re used to rebel-with-a-cause international vigilante missions, but Stateside? It’s different. I’m happy to let you be El Jefe with the security detail — but that’s your only job: surveillance.” He jerks his chin in Schmidt’s direction. “We’ll handle the investigation. We’ll follow the proper procedures. You get the gist.”
I spread my palms. They’ve got a point.
“Thank you,” Russ cuts across weakly, his shoulders sagging in relief at our reassurances.
“That’s all we’ve ever wanted,” Earl adds, looking equally relieved. “For her to be safe. It’s just…” He lets out a deep sigh. “It’s comforting, I guess, that you fellas have so many people looking after her.”
I offer them a smile and a nod. Despite the circumstances, it’s heartwarming to see how much they care about Mariah — and how much faith they have in our abilities.
I just hope we don’t betray that trust.
Fifteen minutes later, our copter lands on the roof of Mariah’s Music Row penthouse. The pilot turns off the engine and salutes me. I salute him back and step out along with Rodriguez and Schmidt.
A few minutes ago, we each received a text from Earl. Apparently, Daddy got in contact with our little runaway. She’d informed him she was just “having a bad night.” One hell of a flimsy excuse, if you ask me.
Security footage from her apartment has since confirmed that she’s arrived home safely, but in the meantime? A wry smirk crosses my face. I can’t deny I’m enjoying the fuss of a whole coordinated PD helicopter for one little girl. Hopefully this display will prove to her that we mean business — whether she likes it or not.
The three of us march to the roof access door and unlock it with the security code (666; you can’t write this shit). A security alert chimes as we step inside. Our feet clack down the linoleum of Mariah’s private roof-access stairwell, the one leading only to her apartment. The exterior of the building is immaculate, so I’m not surprise that the interior is, too. She lives in a towering structure in the heart of the Music District. It’s a big white marble eyesore, one not exactly in keeping with the city’s rustic aesthetic.
Confirming the gaudiness of her apartment makes me a little sad. I know better than anyone that tabloids are often wrong, but it looks like this time, they’re right. Mariah really has changed since I’ve seen her.
Of course, I’m not the same person I was then, either. I freely admit that I had a schoolboy crush on her back in the day, right along with the rest of our school. In our defense, she was pretty damned adorable — all curly hair and bright red cheeks. I also remember it being pretty fun to make her mad.
Growing up, I was the loner latchkey type who got attention from other kids wherever I could. Mariah’s older brother Mark and I were close, actually, until they moved away. Having a dead mother and a workaholic father meant I spent a lot of time with random classmates, but the Matthews and Bosco families were the kindest. Which I guess makes sense, since they’re cousins. The Matthews family even tolerated me messing with Mariah, probably because her brothers did it, too. She’d get especially cute and frustrated when I called her “princess” — which made her an easy target.
In retrospect, I was a bully, but as a pre-teen moron, I just thought I was having a laugh. Her reaction to seeing my face tonight says volumes about her thoughts on that… although I’m not sure if she’s angrier about my tabloid presence these days or my playground antics way back when.
I swallow as we approach her door. It’s a keyless touchpad, just like the roof access — which isn’t my speed. I might be old-school and paranoid, but I prefer the feel of a metal key. It takes a lot of work to pick a lock, but any moron with a laptop could probably dismantle this entire security system with a few clicks.
But this padlock looks… different from the one on the roof. I shift in place, confused, but I don’t put the pieces together until Schmidt clears his throat behind me.
“This lock has 10 possible numbers,” he says from over my shoulder. “The roof access only has 3. So just, uh, type in 0s, I guess. The ending should still be 666.”
I snort but comply, adding this to my mental list of things to change. If all Mariah’s security is this weak, it’s no wonder she’s gotten threats so easily. Not using the full numerals of her padlock is stupid, but having the same roof code and apartment code is downright suicidal.
I type in the full 10 digits, but the door does most of the work. The second I hit
the final 6, there’s a mechanical chirp as it swings open, apparently unlocked. Great. I shake my head and push my way inside.
Schmidt makes appreciative sounds as we step onto the white marble tiles of her apartment, but I’m still reeling from how easy it was to get in.
“Nice digs!” Rodriguez says, staring up at a crystal chandelier suspended from her vaulted ceiling. I take a deep breath, my eyes panning up, too. He isn’t wrong; this is the sort of place you’d see on the cover of a whitewashed, swanky living magazine. I’d just expect to see it in Manhattan instead of Nashville.
“According to Earl, she’ll be in her room the rest of the night,” Schmidt notes, scrolling through his phone. “Apparently, she needs her beauty sleep.”
Wow.
I know Mariah’s upset — but her late mother is probably rolling in her grave, right about now. Even when they were dirt poor, Marie Matthews always welcomed me into their trailer with a smile and a hug. That sort of kindness left a huge impact on a lonely kid like me. I’m not expecting Mariah to prepare a four course meal, but a simple hello would be nice. Or an apology for storming out like that. I shake my head. Have I spent my whole life pretending this Park Avenue Princess is really a Southern Bell? It seems I’ve harbored a very silly delusion, indeed…
In fact, the only indication of Mariah’s country roots is in the far corner of the room. There’s a baby blue Stetson mounted on the wall, right above a white leather sofa that probably cost more than my car. I walk over to inspect the small living space, but I’d be surprised if she does much living here. The whole apartment is definitely more photo-ready than functional.
A floor-to-ceiling white brick pillar stands proudly in front of the sofa. At first I think it’s decorative, but a closer look reveals a built-in flat screen and a see-through fireplace. It’s the type of thing you might admire at Ikea, but just looking at that spotless glass makes my fingers itch. I feel like I’m a kid in a museum. Everything’s so flawlessly white I’d get in trouble for touching it.
My eyes flit back to the couch. A perfectly folded baby blue knit blanket is draped over the back — like it hasn’t been touched. Ever. How long has it been since she’s had a break? I’m starting to understand why Mariah’s been able to dismiss these threats. Real life just hasn’t mattered. Not with her tour coming up.
Something unexpectedly colorful catches my eye in the far corner of the room, and… ah, yes! I let out a chuckle I quickly try to hide. An enormous white frame contains a poster from one of her pin-up modeling sessions a few years back. It’s a poster I’d recognize absolutely anywhere — not least of all because I have my own copy.
Mariah’s posed like Rosie the Riveter, her elbow bent, her full red lips pursed in determination. A red and white polka dot bandana keeps her curly auburn locks away from her face — but honestly, I doubt many people focus on her face in this particular shot. I shift uncomfortably, hoping Schmidt and Rodriguez haven’t noticed my… strictly professional interest in her matching polka dotted lingerie.
Luckily, they’re both too taken in with the place to notice the way my eyes are lingering on the swell of her full breasts. Or the luscious curve of her backside. I pointedly clear my throat, turning away.
I won’t deny that Mariah Matthews has always commanded my attention… but do you blame me? Even if she weren’t massively popular in her own right, back where I’m from — where we’re from — being into curvier women is just the norm. The old adage is true: you can take the boy out of Hicksville, but you can’t take the Hicksville out of the boy.
I’ve loosely followed Mariah’s rise to fame, mostly through tabloids… and I won’t deny that since I’ve returned stateside, what was once a more casual crush has gotten worse. She did a particularly intriguing photo shoot recently in a red lacy bra. And yeah, I won’t deny I have a few of her advertisements around my place, much like the one in that poster. But what’s the harm in a little celebrity crush? Besides, I don’t do relationships. Most bodyguards don’t.
I stride into the kitchen, pushing those thoughts deeper and deeper down. When he hired me, Russ broadly hinted that a few well-timed winks and some cutesy banter might garner additional publicity for the case. Apparently, the PR team thinks we’d look cute in tabloids, even though Russ went out of his way to warn me to be “chaste and authentic.” Whatever the hell that means. After meeting her, I can’t imagine us doing anything other than biting the other’s head off.
Sorry, Russ… no banter for this fake couple. I just need to focus away from her body long enough to do my job, get paid the butt-load her father’s promised, and jet away to my next overseas mission as soon as I clear the psych eval.
Schmidt is still staring in awe at her stainless-steel kitchen set when I step onto the white marble beside him.
“She’s well off,” he observes after a low whistle. I give him a plain look. Ya think?
“Hope you’re getting paid well for this,” he adds after a moment, looking around. “Because, off the record? That’s one hell of a job assignment.”
Thankfully, I’m saved from a reply as the front door swings open. The rest of her protective squad pours in. First are Earl and Russ, followed by about ten cops I’ve never seen before — about half of whom are young and eager enough to volunteer for all-night patrol duty outside Mariah’s door. Which is the only reason they were invited, I’m quite sure.
I lean back against the counter and cross my arms over my chest, taking in the crowd. Earl and Schmidt are making hushed chit-chat (presumably to finalize info for the debrief), while the rest of the cops are staring, slack-jawed, at the expensive furnishings. Russ stands alone on the far side of the room, and after a minute, I figure out why: he’s glaring at the pinup poster of Mariah like it’s personally wronged him.
I smirk to myself. Yeah, I have an issue with that one too, buddy — but for much different reasons. He’s offended by the lack of modesty; I’m just trying to survive the next month without a constant reminder of my spank-bank material.
Schmidt clears his throat, ripping me from my thoughts. “All right,” he calls, his voice resonating in the immaculate apartment. The idle chit-chat stops. “Now that we’re all here, let’s get going on the basics.”
Good. This is all I’ve been waiting for — the final run-down before I can get back to my apartment. I listen intently to Schmidt’s smattering of details and suspects, but everyone knows that we wouldn’t be here if we knew much.
Schmidt speaks for a few minutes, explaining that my surveillance is scheduled from 7 a.m. until Mariah goes to bed. Overnight, she’ll have one of the lower-level police grunts stationed outside her door. However, if anything escalates — anything at all — everything will change… because I will have to live here.
Indefinitely.
My fist clenches at my side as Schmidt finally explains the dramatics of Plan B. This is the part I’ve been dreading all night: our next steps. Every eye pans over to me, each face filled with a mixture of sympathy and admiration.
I really, really hate getting that look.
I squirm uncomfortably, willing the moment to pass. They prepared me for this possibility when I took the job, of course. Around-the-clock, live-in surveillance isn’t uncommon in emergency situations. I’m just hoping that they catch this creep soon, because I hate pity even more than I’d hate the job. And dealing with Mariah 24/7?
Yeah.
That’ll get me some pity, for sure.
4
Luke
When I show up at 6 the next morning, not a single part of me expects her to be awake. Mariah doesn’t report to the studio until 9:30, and she’s a legendary proponent of beauty sleep.
I don’t need to be here til 7, but I can tell the green cop outside her door, undoubtedly on his first overnight shift, was pretty pleased I overshot my morning commute to this part of town.
As I key in the stupidly simple code outside her door, I reason that it’s not a bad idea for me to get here so earl
y. I can get the lay of the land, make observations on her habits. I need to get myself on a tighter schedule, anyway... to keep myself from falling into the same patterns that left me little choice but to accept this job.
I’m used to surveillance of high-level (and typically older) foreign dignitaries. Nine times out of ten, my charges are female. Blue-blooded, socially elite women are more receptive to surveillance than their husbands, which makes my life easier. As you can imagine, trailing a former teeny-bopper will be a bit of a culture shock — especially when she has no interest in being tailed.
Whatever. This is just a job — a temporary assignment to pad my resume. And as I apply finger-light pressure to open the door of her apartment, I remind myself that I need to remain more detached than ever. Letting my irritation with her stand in the way of her safety would probably be the worst thing I could do.
To my surprise, though, Mariah is not only awake — she’s bustling through her kitchen with fervor and cheer.
And to my even greater surprise, she’s happy to see me.
Or at the very least, she’s good at faking it.
“Morning!” Mariah trills over her shoulder, her hands busy over the stove. She’s dressed in a purple silk bathrobe, but even someone as oblivious as I am can see she’s already done her hair and makeup. I step further into the apartment, refusing to let my eyes focus on the exposed skin of her thigh. But now that I’m thinking of her thighs, my eyes flit — totally unbidden — to the framed poster across the room. Damn. There goes any chance of removing it discreetly before she woke up.
“Looks like PMS is here early!” Mariah announces with a grin.
Uh...
I cross my arms over my chest, shifting on the spot. I may have a few notches in my bedpost, but I don’t pretend to know a lot about the… biological processes of women. Which is bound to happen when you’re chronically single and grew up without a mother.
“Is that something I… really need to know about?” I ask, hoping desperately that the answer is no.