by Elaria Ride
This place is gorgeous… something straight out of Tahoe.
“Can I take your bag?” Mark asks, his hand outstretched.
I shift in place for just a second before handing it over. I’m not used to someone else taking care of things.
“This weekend, you’re a guest,” Mark says firmly, as if reading my thoughts. “Don’t be a secret agent man. We need you to rest up for next week.”
I shake my head. I’d love to be a guest... but that’s just not an option. “Appreciate the offer, but I’m always on the clock. You understand.”
Mark sighs. “I thought you’d say that. Oh, well, it was worth a shot.” Then a devious look swipes across his face. He winks at me, nodding towards the gaggle surrounding Mariah. “But one of these days, you’re gonna have to settle down. Mr. Hottie Guard.”
I roll my eyes, ignoring his jibe. He clearly hasn’t forgotten about my silly little childhood crush — but I’m sure as hell not gonna play into it.
Mark shifts my overnight bag on his shoulder. “Let me show you to your room. Trust me when I say that Mary will be a bit. And no offense, but you look like shit.”
I chuckle and follow him down a hallway, through a wood-paneled door. The dude’s right, though. Between getting home late last night and the shit-show of today, I’m not on my A-game.
We eventually approach an empty bedroom. There’s a small but comfortable-looking cot outside.
“Normally we’d give our guests better accommodations than a cot,” Mark admits. “But seeing as how—“
“—No, this is perfect!” I cut him off. “You’re following security protocol: a cot thirty feet away from her open door.”
Mark puts my duffel down on the cot. “Just sucks that you’re still on the clock. Even when we’ve more or less got everything handled.” His eyes flit to the corner of the room, where a tiny camera blinks red around the mahogany crown molding.
I shrug. “This is actually more of a break than you know. Living with her 24/7 starting Monday is gonna be…”
But then I pause. I’m not sure what exactly it is going to be. Mariah’s been in a great mood considering the circumstances, but I’m sure the past 24 hours have left her feeling violated. I shuffle in place, wondering just how long her good mood will last.
Mark gives me a wry smirk — and yet again, it’s like he reads my mind. I feel like we’re back on the playground playing cops and robbers.
“Mary is a pisser in the morning,” he warns, changing the subject. “And I know you didn’t grow up with siblings, but this weekend, you’ll get to experience all the perks of sharing your bathroom. With a girl.” He makes an exaggerated grimace and gestures to the bathroom behind him. “So watch out!”
I smile. “I’ll be sure to, Shrimp.”
Mark grins. Somehow, the childhood nickname still applies; he’s six feet and I’m six-five.
“Whatever you say,” Mark adds, tipping an imaginary hat as he leaves the room. “Hottie Guard.”
There’s only one word to describe how it feels to be sitting around the Matthews breakfast table the next morning: surreal.
I sit in the throng of brothers and wives and girlfriends, eating my pancakes and sipping my coffee like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like I actually belong to a family. Like the past twenty years never happened.
I glance over at Mariah, who’s helping her high-chaired nephew cut up his waffle. Contrary to what Mark claimed, she hasn’t exactly been a pisser this morning. Or at least not more of a pisser than she usually is.
Sometime around 10, she woke me up with a pillow to the face and informed me breakfast was served — but in her defense, I probably would have slept all morning. Last night, I was out the second my head hit the pillow. I’m usually a light sleeper, but I have no memory of Mariah even coming in. Getting caught up on sleep is a good thing, though; it means I’ll be better next week… more capable than ever of finding this creep and going back to my real life.
When breakfast is over, I show a fraction of my gratitude for their hospitality by bringing dishes to the sink. It’s not much, just loading the dishwasher, but Aunt Grace makes a fuss over it anyway. I smile as she pinches my cheeks. What a sweet lady. I wonder if that’s where Mariah gets her sweet side.
Schmidt and Russ arrive after breakfast, along with the rest of PMS.
“Anything?” I ask as they approach my sentry in the corner. Mariah’s chatting with Sabrina, but I still keep an eye on her. I know nothing’s likely to happen here, but it’s not worth the risk.
Schmidt sighs and shakes his head. “Not much. We’re still analyzing the glue from the first two samples, but we’ll keep at it. Oh, and we already changed her padlock combinations,” he adds, shoving his hands in his pockets. “At least it’ll be harder now for a creep to get in. I assume Rod told you the paparazzi camera drone theory?”
I nod uneasily. “Yeah. But something about that feels… I don’t know. Off.”
“Yeah, but it’s the best we have.” Russ claps me on the shoulder. “The cops will investigate. Let’s keep you focused on her, ok?”
“Always am, sir.”
Schmidt gives me a rare smile. “We know you are, Carter. Just don’t get all… wrapped up in this. Ok? Remember to take some time to yourself when you’re off duty so you can be more focused when you’re on duty.”
I arch an eyebrow but refrain from commenting that I’m never off duty. Not really.
“The squad will be here all weekend — or what is it she calls us?” Russ asks, his lip twitching.
I roll my eyes. “PMS. The Protect Mariah Squad.”
The men give a dark chuckle.
“Sounds like something Mariah would come up with,” Schmidt agrees with a sigh. “I just wish she’d live here full-time. Would save us a hell of a lot of manpower. This place is already brimming with cameras.”
I shake my head as I stare at Mariah and Sabrina on the couch. Mariah’s clearly retelling a story. I have no idea what she’s saying, but Sabrina’s in stitches.
“She’d never give up her independence,” I sigh, turning back to Schmidt and Russ. “And to be honest, she’s much happier — and easier to surveil — when she’s getting what she wants.”
“That’s all we ask,” says Russ, shrugging. “Keep her safe, and you’re doing your job.”
Schmidt agrees with a wink and a smile. “We trust you, Carter. Don’t let us down.”
Saturday is a blur of giggles and board games in front of a roaring fire. Everyone in the family joins in — right down Jackson, the youngest kiddo. Each of the brothers tries to convince me to join in, but I decline each time with a curt shake of my head.
Mark tries the hardest. “But you’re family,” he slurs after a boisterous round of music trivia. I arch an eyebrow. Did I mention they’ve included alcohol in their games?
“And I’m on duty,” I retort, shrugging.
“C’mon, man!” Mark cries, punching me on the shoulder. “Don’t you want to be part of this?” He gestures around the room. “I know my family isn’t, ya know, normal… but we’re fun! We’ve basically considered you one of our own for years — or at least I have. We probably would’ve connected with you sooner if you hadn’t been across the world being a secret agent man.”
I swallow, adjusting myself on the stool. Mark has no idea how many times I’ve felt a hollow pang in my chest when I compare my family “gatherings” (just me and Dad — and he’s usually drunk off his ass) to the warmth and love in this room right now. It’s almost painful, how desperately I want Mark’s words to be true… but a big, happy family just isn’t in the cards for this surveillance officer.
“Your family is perfect,” I assure him. “But like I said, Shrimp. Duty calls.”
He snickers. “You said doody.”
I’m about to reply that his 2-year-old son is more mature when Grace announces it’s time for dinner. When everyone’s already settled at the table, I reluctantly squeeze into a chair
between Mike and Sabrina. My plate’s already filled with Penne Arrabbiata, a family favorite that painfully reminds me of happier childhood days. Despite my best efforts at refusing to eat with them, the Matthews have insisted on feeding me at every meal.
As such, family meals are the only time I’ve allowed myself a tiny break — and being the Matthews family, they’ve exploited this.
“So, Luke,” drawls Sabrina after everyone’s had their first servings. “You’ve heard the details of our loves lives this whole weekend.” She wags her eyebrows. “Got any lady friends we should hear about?”
“No,” I reply honestly.
Mariah smacks Sabrina on the side. “Please ignore her. Your business is your business.” She turns to scowl at her dad. “I only wish my love life were private!”
“What love life?” Mike deadpans.
The table erupts in laughter. With any other group of people, that comment could seem cruel. But these siblings are tight with each other. Mariah knows he’s just messing around.
“Might ask you the same thing, Michael,” she retorts, casually flicking her middle finger at him.
Everyone else laughs, but Russ clears his throat and flashes Mariah a look of warning. Ah, that’s right… I’d almost forgotten how much Russ hates profanity. In any form. Which means he’s taking a pretty significant gamble in joining the Matthews for meals. Apart from Earl and me, he’s the only other member of PMS at the table. Which makes sense, because (as they’ve told me repeatedly) he’s family.
Mike raises his palms in surrender. “What can I say, Mary? I like chasing skirts. Much like my friend Luke here.”
He elbows me in the side amid a murmur of giggles.
“Eh. A lot of those photos were… out of context," I protest, stabbing some pasta on my fork. I’m not sure where this sudden surge of honesty is coming from. I’m probably just emboldened since I’ve listened to them sharing their stories all day. “Some were spot-on,” I allow, “but even those, uh — encounters — are nearly six months old. I guess that’s just not really my thing anymore.”
A silence falls on the table.
Shit.
I lean back in my seat, my face flushing in embarrassment. What just possessed me to admit to a group of (relative) strangers that I haven’t had sex in half a year? I’m about to apologize when Russ takes the lead.
“Wonderful,” he says clearing his throat again. “For the sake of an old fogie like me — and for the kiddos in attendance, too — can we please agree to keep private things private?”
There’s a murmur of assent.
“Great!” says Russ with an enthusiastic smile. “Now tell me, Sabrina. How are things going at the compound pharmacy?”
For the rest of the meal, everyone engages in polite conversation — except for me. I don’t say another word and generally spend the rest of the evening feeling like a buzzkill. I’m the first to leap up from the table when everyone’s finished. I take plates to the sink and begin loading them into the dishwasher.
I may have agreed to eat what they provide — but I’ll be damned if I don’t do my part. In my eyes, helping with dishes is the only way I can repay this family for paying me to eat with them. Grace and Miles typically volunteer to help while the rest of the family cleans the table. I can’t say I mind the trade-off.
After dinner, things more or less return to normal. I go back to my sentry in the corner, even though everyone begs me to play Twister. Of course, I refuse… but I don’t admit that part of the reason is that I’m concerned about certain bodily reactions if I get sandwiched next to Mariah.
No, I think to myself, observing the family at their game.
It’s much, much better to keep my distance…
7
Luke
Sunday is both easy and hard. After breakfast, the family plays more games — and that part is easy.
But then they all go swimming. Including Mariah. And yeah, I have to admit that “hard” is one of the many words I’d use to describe that.
Seeing Mariah in a swimsuit in a magazine is one thing, but seeing her half-naked in the flesh is something else. I try as hard as I can to be professional, to keep my eyes focused everywhere but her… but since it’s literally my responsibility to watch her, this is very difficult.
We’re all outside on the pier, one leading to a small lake. Mariah’s lying on the grassy bank, her full chest tilted upwards to get some sun. Her purple swimsuit deliciously hugs her curves. I try not to look as hungry for her as I feel, but fuck… I clear my throat, looking away. Her cleavage is on full display, her chest bouncing every time she shifts.
I clench my fists from about fifty feet behind her, trying to focus on the subtle pain of my nails digging into my palms. I can do this, I remind myself, even as my eyes skate across a smattering of freckles on her collarbone. I’ve been through worse. This is temporary.
“Debrief,” snarls a gruff voice from behind me. “Now.”
I whip around, startled. Oh! I’m surprised to find myself face-to-face with Russ. I’ve never heard him so… angry.
I give him a curt nod and meet his eyes. “Just surveilling, sir.”
Technically, I’m telling the truth — but his narrowed eyes don’t buy it. “I gathered that much, Mr. Carter. I just thought a man of such decorated honor would find himself a bit more removed and impartial to the clients he’s protecting.”
I give him a plain stare. I’m more than a little embarrassed to be caught, but I’ll never admit that.
“Well, sir,” I deadpan, “if you’d like to tell me how I can watch her without watching her, I’d love to hear it.”
We both know he doesn’t have more to go on than that… but he’ll try.
Russ scowls. “Just keep your wandering eyes and hands to yourself and we won’t have a problem. But if I catch a single whiff of you abusing your power here?” He meets my eyes for a second, and then extends a finger to mimic cutting his own head off.
I almost laugh. Is that supposed to scare me?
“Well, in the future, Mr. Sanders,” I drawl, arching an eyebrow, “kindly provide quantifiable proof of exactly what I’ve done wrong. I’ll address that complaint at the earliest possible opportunity.”
To my surprise, Russ’s face splits into a shit-eating grin. “You think you’re hot stuff, Carter,” he says, his teeth glinting in the setting sun. “But you’re far from the first boy she’s entrapped in her web.” His posture stiffens. “I just thought a decorated veteran who surrounds himself with such different-looking female companions would be above the sins of the flesh. At least with her.”
What the—? My fists clench. Is he seriously trying to shame her? I shake my head, more confused and disgusted than before. If only he knew why I had my fun with those types…
“Now,” drawls Russ again, the grin returning to his face. “Officer Rodriguez will be on Mariah duty until the debrief is over. After that, you’ll return to your actual surveillance. Any questions?”
I wait until he turns around to follow him back up the pier. What a control freak. It seems my first instinct about him was right. Does he seriously have that much of a problem with me staring? Does the man know Mariah’s done semi-nude modeling before… and that she’s capable of dressing however she likes? I’m still turning all of that over in my head as we enter the living room, where everyone’s assembled.
Russ and Earl hurry to a far corner to engage in another quiet conversation before the debriefing starts. Their heads are bowed, their brows furrowed as they take furtive glimpses around.
I find my wooden stool in the corner and resume my surveillance and attempt not to take Russ personally. I’ve never had much family support. Maybe I’m misinterpreting his protectiveness as aggression. After all, he helped raise her. It’s hard for me to imagine a world where I’d ever have kids, but I guess that if someone leered at my little girl like that?
Yeah. I’d have a problem, too.
I fix my face into stoic in
difference and settle down as the debriefing begins.
For all the fuss Russ stirred up, though, the whole thing is anticlimactic. In short, Schmidt’s rehashing the theory from Friday. They think a camera drone sent by paps caught sight of us keying in the digital padlock to enter the roof — and then, somehow, the stalker saw the grainy footage on Instagram, keyed in the code, and left a threat, all while we were at the studio.
Privately, I think this theory is bullshit. But as I’ve already been reminded once, it’s not my job to investigate: it’s my job to surveil, observe, and report back.
And right now, my observation is that Earl and Russ are eating up this bullshit theory while the rest of PMS exchanges doubtful side-eyes. Anyone who has tried to enhance grainy images knows it doesn’t work like they claim on TV. The drone would have been lucky to catch a single digit — much less ten — without three trained investigators observing it from overhead. Still, we don’t have much else to go on.
“Carter.” Russ’s voice breaks into my thoughts. I give him one blink: Yes?
This time, I’m not being childish or ignoring him. I’m trying to show I’m professional enough to keep on staff. Russ was rude out on the pier, but now, I can admit he wasn’t exactly wrong. I can’t let my eyes wander inappropriately while I’m on duty. End of story.
“For now, we’ve changed both sets of padlocks to a much longer sequence,” Russ explains, meeting my gaze. “But after rehearsal tomorrow, we will change them at random intervals. You, me, Earl, Schmidt, and Rod will be the only ones with the codes. Are we clear?”
I blink back once. Crystal.
“Good,” Russ says, looking marginally more impressed. “I think Mr. Hottie Guard will be with us for the duration of this experience, after all!”