He levels me with a gaze. “I don’t drink.”
“Oh,” I deadpan. It’s a new world, Presley. Not every person drinks hard liquor or has a bloody blow nose. “Sorry”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. I don’t like the way it makes me feel.”
I furrow my brow. “Weed? We are in Colorado.”
He shakes his head. “That’s worse than alcohol. I like to keep my head out of the clouds.”
I nod. “Noted. What do you do to kick back then?”
“Save girls who tell bad jokes from dogs and sleep. I love sleep.”
His face is stoic and I can’t tell if he’s being serious about the last sentence. Who sleeps for fun? I wish I never had to sleep. It feels like the biggest waste of time in the world. “I hate sleep.”
“That’s not surprising,” he counters. “You strike me as a woman who is hardwired to run hot twenty-four, seven.”
“I wish. I’ve had a lot of boring nights since moving here. It’s how I made up the redo bucket list. Antenna television only comes in half the time and the internet is the worst.” Clearing my throat, I add, “I made a list. And you shouldn’t call me a girl, by the way. I’m most definitely a woman.”
Nate palms his chest. “My mistake. If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to shower off the day and head to bed early.” He winces, then touches his arm.
I follow him into the house feeling the guiltiest I’ve felt all day. “Thanks for saving me today, Nate. It was quite heroic and I haven’t been able to say I’ve been saved from dogs before. A lot of other wack shit, sure, but never junkyard dogs.”
He sighs as he grabs the laptop on his way into his bedroom. I try to peek in as it’s in a hallway we haven’t walked by yet, but he closes the door. “It’s a mess,” he says, biting his lip. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Nate leans against the doorframe. “Yes, to the garden, by the way. But I do have a couple of stipulations.”
I clutch my purse that’s slung across my chest. “They better be reasonable.”
He smiles. “You have to plant cherry tomatoes. They’re my favorite. And,” he says, pausing, “No more stupid jokes. I can’t take it. Our friendship hinges on your ability to only tell smooth jokes, or none at all.”
I scoff. “That’s so offensive.”
“Give me a hard rule and make it even, then.”
He sighs long and heavy.
“That’s easy. Never try to kill me.” Turning, I don’t wait for his reaction, and head for the side door I came in.
“Don’t try to kill me first!” he calls at my back.
Before I shut the door, I call out, “I’ll poison the tomato plants and let nature take its course.”
I can’t be sure, but I think he was laughing. I also can’t be sure, but it made me feel weird in a way.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nate
“I told you twice. My Principal was inches away from me. The late report shouldn’t affect my standing. It’s easier if she doesn’t know I’m her Charge Man. She’s the kind that would make my life a living hell.” My boss, Ragor, is on the other end of the phone berating me for my daily report being eight minutes late. It really couldn’t be helped.
They don’t tell us how to guard. Some men tell the Principal right off the bat they’ll be following them around. Other Charge Men stalk in the shadows and don’t have any contact at all. Some do the in-between like I intend to do. Have a friendship with my Principal to make my life easier, but not disclose my intentions. Ragor hasn’t been an active Charge Man in years and loves to annoy me with petulant complaints. “How was I to know your Principal was alive? There was no update submitted in the system. Nothing indicating your plan of action changed since yesterday’s communication. What am I supposed to think?”
That I’m a capable operator. “Sir, the plan changed on the fly and now I will be in communication daily with my Principal. It will be easier to keep tabs on this one if I am a constant presence in her life.”
“Is this Principal too much for you to handle?” I’d never be honest with him and say that she’s challenging, but changing my course of action midday like this does signify that I had to switch things up for a particular reason.
I clear my throat. “No sir. I’m writing the incident report about the dog bites now and you’ll have it in your system within the hour.”
He pauses, seeming to remember that I sustained an injury today. “Does it need professional care? The injury? Please attach photos of the wounds for record.”
“It was treated sufficiently. I’ll keep you posted on the healing progress.” It was embarrassing to say the least when I had to admit I already had to use my body to protect my Principal. At least I have something to show for it, I guess. “I do not expect the plan to deviate from tonight’s report. I’ll be working with her at the bakery and a friendship of annoying sorts will bloom from the day-to-day contact. The Principal is safe.” Even as I say the last words, I check the cameras on the outside of her trailer. I had them installed the night she moved in. No surveillance inside her residence, because I have hard limits with privacy and because I am monitoring the outside, there is no need to monitor the inside. No one can get in or out without me seeing it.
My former Principal would be safe, well, safe is a relative word, if I had put cameras in his residence. I would have been able to see what he was cooking in his apartment. When my mind goes back to that dark night, I consider if I’m doing my job to the best of my ability. You’re being her friend, I think. That’s like playing a part in a play. That’s dedication. He clears this throat in a burly, annoyed tone. “Keep me posted about everything. Every detail. Nothing is too small. Report on it. There hasn’t been any word on cell activity in Colorado, but Sullivan, there have been attacks on others’ lives. They’re locating them in these small towns.”
Chill bumps break across my skin, from the top of my head to my toes. “Were the attempts successful?”
“Of course, they weren’t but Charge Men were injured and filling spots while they’re recovering is always challenging.” My career is odd in that I have no clue what any of my coworkers are doing. I don’t know who they are guarding, or how their lives are unfolding. It’s a secret group where we are all the same, and yet vividly different. “I got it handled.” He always needs credit. His decorated military career is to blame for that. Now that there aren’t any badges riding high on his chest, his accolades are self-given kudos.
“You always have everything handled, sir,” I say. “Everything will be documented. You can count on me.”
“I hope I can, Sullivan. We, and I do mean we, cannot afford to lose this Principal.” If only he knew how terrifyingly annoying she is, maybe he’d worry less.
My arm is throbbing. A constant reminder of what I have to protect. “There’s nothing to worry about, sir.” Except, even as I state it as fact, I doubt it. Tonight, I found myself drawn to Presley as a person instead of number twelve twenty-three. I reasoned there would be a little oddness trying to befriend a Principal, who I’d be required to share things with. There’s always been a face with her, but now I have more questions. Typically, there aren’t questions. Protecting and serving is straight forward.
“I’ll be waiting for the injury report,” he huffs, then disconnects the call. Groaning, I fiddle with the wires running up my spare bedroom wall. Presley wasn’t lying about the internet being shit. I have a goddamn space station in here to make sure my connectivity is reliable. When I have them in the position that seems to be working best this time of day, I sit down at the desk and hammer out the injury report, heaven forbid it be eight minutes late too.
The boring, yet most important part of my job is my nights. This is where all of the information is relayed back to headquarters and the status of the Principals are relayed to concerned parties. While I type up the finer details of the dog attack, my personal phone buzzes from the desk beside me and I see a nu
mber I don’t recognize.
The text reads. “Felix isn’t getting better. You need to take time off to visit. Soon.” Closing my eyes, I brace for impact. The onslaught of emotions that bubbles to the surface whenever I think about my former life. A life that included all the normal things that most humans deal with on a regular basis. Felix is my cousin. We were close growing up. When I went into the Navy, hell-bent on being a Navy SEAL, Felix went to college in Pennsylvania. He studied abroad for a year, came back, met a woman, got married and started a family. He is a perfect representation of what my life could look like right now if I chose a traditional path.
It doesn’t make me sad anymore. I look at it more in a curious light. It’s fascinating how timelines work in the real world. Everyone follows, to some degree the same path at their own pace. For a year or two before I tried out for The Charge Men I considered normalcy for myself, but quickly realized it wasn’t for me. The stagnancy would kill me slowly. Now Felix is sick, about to leave behind his wife and child, all because someone else, Michael Lexington, was selfish enough to take the easy, low path.
I text back, “You know how hard it is for me to get time off.” I’m about to write, can I wait for the funeral, when better sense takes over. “I’ll see what I can do. I have a new assignment. There’s no way I can make it this month.”
“He doesn’t have a month, Nate.” At that, my stomach sinks and the pain from the dog bites is all but forgotten.
“I’ll keep you posted.” That’s the final text, and whichever family member is on the other end knows full well this conversation is over. It’d be great to take off whenever I want to, but that’s not the way Charge Men work. Multiple men have missed their children being born, holidays, funerals, birthdays, and everything in between. When we take the vow, we lose ourselves as individuals and become a protector. It’s the only thing that matters. Our lives aren’t as significant as the life we’re meant to guard.
Even still, as I finish this report, an unease soaks into my bones and refuses to leave. Felix. Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose. He didn’t deserve the diagnosis. I can name a hundred other assholes who should be in his place. My heart pounds as I let myself think of the past, of my memories of Felix and our friendship. Proofreading the questionnaire, and all my responses, I swallow down the lump in my throat. When I hit send, I sit in front of the computer for several long moments, unable to get up.
The live audio feed from outside Presley’s house has been quiet. I could hear that she took a shower while singing badly and then silence took over. I try to imagine her writing her bucket list because the internet sucks. Or reading a book. Or writing down jokes she plans to torture me with. I realize the audio isn’t enough tonight. Seeing her is what I crave. But why? Is it because I’m paranoid because of what happened to my last Principal? They’re different, and I don’t think Presley would go to those lengths to get out of Gold Hawke. Is it just that I like her company? No, no, that can’t be it.
She’s wildly out there and it’s intriguing. There’s a digital file of her life in a folder marked twelve twenty-three on my desktop and I click it open under the guise of doing more research. Her photos are the first thing I scroll through. Before I lay eyes on a Principal, I know everything about them. Presley had a childhood friend named Red who moved away when she was ten and she never had anyone as close since. There are other photos that were splashed across gossip media sites when she turned eighteen and was suddenly legal to photograph in all the ways imaginable and some that aren’t, others when she turned twenty-one and went out drinking with friends. Her status as America’s Richest Daughter followed her everywhere. She couldn’t breathe without someone reporting on it.
There was a stint in rehab when she was twenty-five that also correlated with a breakup from some yacht-dwelling meathead. She stayed there for a month, then quietly slid back into her old life. Presley always looks like the sullen friend. She’s probably just fucking pissed that cameras are following her around constantly. I can’t blame her. The woman who I spent time with today doesn’t look anything like the woman in these photos. The hair dye isn’t fresh, the makeup isn’t put on by a professional, and her clothing was provided for her when she moved to Gold Hawke so she’d fit in better. No more wardrobe the size of most people’s houses. The last photo is from her father’s trial. It was after he was sentenced. Her mouth is puckered, and her gaze is terrified. It was then she was realizing what her father’s fate meant for her. They used that photo in the New York Times the following day with the headline, “The Princess of Fraud Walks Free.” By that time, the firm already had arrangements made for Presley. Her fate was sealed. She’d live and she’d be free, but she’d have a shell of her former life. None of the same friends, or contact with family members. She’d be living and breathing, but everything else would be changed. Because she was an adult, she wasn’t innocent but because she wasn’t involved, she was. It was a double-edged sword of sorts. How can we save her without saving her?
The read receipt hits my inbox with a loud ping and I click it to confirm for a second time. Reporting at the same time each day is typically easy. If I end up with Presley in my business and in my house on a regular basis, I’ll need to find another way to communicate and keep her on a schedule that doesn’t impede my job. If my days resemble today, it will be an impossible task. Maybe Presley will be a bit more predictable when we settle into a routine. Save for the dog’s putting holes in my arm, today was good. Entertaining at the very least. It’s too bad she’s not here with me now to distract me from my thoughts. Logging out of my system, I turn off my computer completely, and lock the door behind me as I head for my bedroom.
I wiggle my earpiece when static picks up. This relatively new technology is sometimes annoying. It’s why I prefer the old-fashioned kind where I need to be in close proximity of the listening device for accuracy. Gold Hawke didn’t give me that luxury. I need a vehicle so I can get to Presley’s house quicker. Tomorrow. I’ll go back to Junkyard Jake’s and buy a damn truck. Being far from a Principal at night is a risk I’d normally take as measures are in place to know if danger is lurking, but it’s not a chance I want to take with Presley. Ragor has made me more cautious with his thinly veiled threats.
This is the part of each day where I slowly melt into my own person. I let my guard down, and it’s sort of mandatory or I’d go absolutely insane. Not that there’s anything jarring or different from Nate Sullivan The Charge Man, but I have to strip that mask off to recharge. Nights are dark, it’s easy to hide, fade away into a person that’s long since been forgotten. I shower off the day with the water turned on to the absolute hottest I can get it while being careful not to get my bandages wet. There’s a small speaker I have in my bathroom so I can still hear inside Presley’s house, but it’s so quiet I think she might have already gone to sleep. I dress in a pair of pajama pants and thaw a meal I prepped two days ago. Chicken breasts and green beans. I would have offered Presley one, but that doesn’t line up with daytime asshole Nate, so she got toast. I read an old comic book while I eat and try to ignore my throbbing arm. I’ll kill Jake if that dog isn’t up to date on its shots. The health department will handle the dog. The treatment for rabies is awful and not something I want to have to endure ever, especially right now. The doctor didn’t flush the wound in line with rabies protocol so I have to believe that he thinks Jake has the dog up to date. I can still use the arm, but every time I bend it, there’s a stabbing sensation that radiates the extremity in its entirety. Not even my favorite comic book series is taking my mind off the pain. Or my cousin. He’s the reason my love of comic books reached adulthood and didn’t stay in childhood where it does for most. Closing the comic, I take a deep breath. There is no controlling my thoughts or feelings when I’m stripped of my day persona, and my shield is laid by my feet. Nate uncensored, the broody, geeky, mopey, lonely, jerk. Sighing, I clean up from my hasty dinner, double-check the locks on the doors a
nd windows, and take my comic to bed.
Staring at the ceiling, I think about the next week I’ll have off. Watch it coordinate with the funeral. Instead of blowing off steam, I’ll be stewing in miserable emotions surrounded by those that don’t understand my life, goals, and assume I’m someone who no longer exists. My identity is The Charge Man. Except tonight, right now, I let myself bleed from the veins of my former self. For my cousin. For the future he won’t live to enjoy. Grabbing my personal cell, I text back the number from earlier.
“How long?” The lump in my throat turns into coiled venom sinking to my stomach. It shouldn’t bother me that the question resembles me giving a shit, but asking makes me feel weak. Weakness is one quality The Charge Men are created not to bear. Things that reflect as weakness? Love. There isn’t room for it nor is it recommended.
“They don’t know.” The reply. “Not long. Less than six months. A year max.” I blow out a relieved breath. There’s enough time. I’ll be able to visit before. “You’re missed, son. He needs you.”
Even though I’m laying down, I get lightheaded. It’s my father, the one person in my family who understands my life choices, and supports me being a Charge Man. The fact that he’s bearing the truth like this tells me the circumstances are dire. I don’t keep any phone numbers stored in my phone as a precaution, but I let my eyes scan over his number multiple times to commit it to memory. “Okay,” Is my reply. I don’t feel better knowing more. Does anyone ever feel better when it’s all on the table? Doubtful. Ignorance is bliss. The more you know the worse it gets. There is a surplus of sayings that back up that thought process.
I’ll never get to sleep if I think about him. About the past. The future. Wondering what he feels, knowing his days are limited. The faces of people who love him trying not to let the grief seep out too early while not wanting to miss a single moment in his presence. No, I have to take my mind off of that side of my life completely, and the only way I can do that is to focus on work. Comics didn’t even work. Presley Cohen. Yes. Fixate on her. I know her internet sucks so I pull up my browser and do a little shopping. Her happiness isn’t my priority directly, but if my haunting past has taught me anything, I know what people like. The person most likely to do harm to a Principal isn’t an enemy lurking in the corner, it’s themselves. I search roller skates, and look for a pair that are safety rated. Not that I think that particularly matters, but it’s still an attractive offering. I choose the blue skates and add them to my cart. She’ll wonder how I got her size right. She might get creeped out that a guy she barely knows is buying her gifts. Presley will be leery of any kindness. People in her old world are not kind without ulterior motivation. This new world isn’t glittering with wealth and opulence. Trust will come because even if I do have to lie to her about certain things, I will be who I say I am. Wanting her to be happy in Gold Hawke isn’t a lie. Her redo bucket list makes me nervous, but I find it odd I’m eager to help her mark off her goals. I check out after adding knee and elbow pads, wrist guards, and a helmet. When I can’t sleep still, I research gardening. More than research, I read every article on the internet I can find and watch every tutorial about keeping seedlings alive and study the best plants that thrive in Colorado. I map out a backyard garden, and plan raised garden beds for the side of the house that gets the most sun. It’s four in the morning when exhaustion finally wins. Two hours of sleep is all I’ll get before Presley wakes up to go for a run. The Charge Men motto bounces from one side of my mind to the other. Protect the heartbeat. Preserve the Principal life at all costs.
The Love You Hate: A Charge Man Novel (The Charge Men Series Book 1) Page 5