Student Bodyguard for Hire

by Callie James

  Peyton’s gaze darted from me to Jonas and she took a step back.

  “Ah, wait now,” he said, a grin in his voice. “Beautiful and a redhead. That’s the girl you’ve been spending so much time with, isn’t it? Now I get why you’re late all the time. What’s her name? Paige?”

  The second her gaze swung to the exit, I knew what she planned to do.

  “Peyton!” I shouted, but she’d already made a beeline for the door. I bolted after her. “Wait!”

  She’d disappeared into the small, lingering group blocking the exit and I followed, pushing my way through them. Her fast stride had taken her halfway down the hallway by the time I came out the other side. I shouted again for her to wait. Sprinted after her when she didn’t. When I caught up with her and she quickened her pace, I grabbed her elbow before she could bolt again. “Dammit, stop.”

  She pulled her arm out of my hold so abruptly that she fell against the wall. “I have nothing to say to you!”

  I didn’t know who looked more shocked by the uncharacteristic outburst, her or me. She lowered her gaze, her cheeks flushing pink at the people glancing over at us. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, politely, before turning and walking away. “I …I need to think. Just leave me alone, Sam.”

  “Just wait a second,” I said, but she ignored me and walked into the bag room. Since I knew she didn’t plan to work a bag any time soon, I followed her. “How did you know to find me here?”

  “Your sister,” she said over her shoulder, stopping to look around.

  “Vanna?”

  “Do you have another sister?” She perched her hands on her hips and turned to me. “Oh, wait. It’s possible you do and I didn’t get that version of the truth.”

  I had no idea how to respond to her. Sarcasm had never been her thing.

  “Of course, I meant Savanna,” she said, rolling her eyes and walking past me, back into the corridor.

  I followed her across the hall, this time through the door leading to the gear and vending machine area. “When did you talk to my sister?”

  She propped her hands on her hips, staring at the vending machines. “Tonight. At the movie theater.”

  “Movie theater?”

  She glanced at me. “You know, the place we had our first date.”

  After spending time together for weeks, nearly every day, I was finally seeing a side of Peyton I didn’t like. At all. I’d grown accustomed to her raw honesty and bright outlook. Maybe if I ignored her sarcasm long enough, she’d turn back into her sweet self and finally talk to me. “Actually, that was our second date.”

  She frowned. “Want to know what she said?”

  “Not really.”

  “She said you were on a date tonight.”

  My mouth fell open. “A what?”

  “You know. Out with someone else. Another girl,” she said, as if I needed the clarification. “She told me this in front of your mother, no less. I’ve never been so humiliated.”

  “My mother was there?”

  “Yes, and it was horrible. She was upset. She even pinched Savanna’s arm.”

  “That’s because she knew my sister was full of it,” I told her, certain I was right. “My mother knows how I feel about you. She’d never believe that.”

  A line crinkled between her eyebrows. “Well, she’d said you’d mentioned me. But I thought she was being—”

  “Polite?” I said. “No, she wouldn’t say something like that just to be polite. And I didn’t just mention you. We’ve talked numerous times about you. She’s been after me to have you over. You know, to introduce you. Dinner. The whole shebang. And Vanna knows how I feel, too. In her own distorted way, she probably thought she was …hell, I don’t know. I’ve never understood how her brain works. Look, it doesn’t matter. Nothing excuses what she said. For what it’s worth…I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes clouded with uncertainty and she folded her arms awkwardly over her chest. “To Vanna’s credit, she eventually took it back. She mentioned covering for you. Being nice must not have set well with her though, because she sent me here to watch you nearly beat someone to death.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Why?”

  “Why she sent you.”

  “She said she believes I care about you. I guess this was a test to see if I’d still want to know you after watching you practically kill someone.” She looked down, her frown growing until she abruptly stalked past me and into the corridor.

  I followed her. “Do you?”

  “Do I what? Still want to know you?” Her dark eyes kept flicking over me as if gauging the distance between us.

  “Yeah.”

  She increased her pace, ignoring the question.

  “God, you believed her, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She zoomed past Joey and Finn, friends of mine who turned to stare at her backside until they caught my glare.

  I blew by them, still scowling when I caught up to her. “When she said I’d gone out with someone else,” I said. “You believed her, didn’t you?”

  “She was very convincing.”

  Well, fuck. No wonder I couldn’t get her to talk to me. “Peyton.” I touched her shoulder. “Would you please just talk to me?”

  She jerked away without breaking stride. “I have to go,” she said, walking into the free weights room. I halted at the door and leaned against the frame, watching her move around the equipment. Even when mad and lost she looked beautiful to me. She’d pulled her hair into a ponytail since earlier over dinner, and long curls now framed her face. Between those sexy low-rise jeans with a hole in the knee and an oversized and wrinkled white t-shirt with black lettering that spelled, Screw you, too—her brother’s, obviously—she looked like home to me.

  She turned, her usually full lips thinned into a stubborn line. “Where is the damn exit in this place?”

  I told myself she hadn’t been crying. That her red-rimmed eyes were the result of her chronic insomnia. “I’ll show you.”

  Folding her arms over her chest, she walked toward me, her angry expression changing with every cautious step, until her gaze dropped to my shirt, lingering on my arms. It finally occurred to me she’d never seen me like this. Not the tats. Not any of it. Hell, I hadn’t even had time to put on shoes.

  “You should have told me,” she said, her gaze dropping to the floor.

  For someone who could form a lie in his sleep, I couldn’t come up with a single word, true or false, to get myself out of this. “I know.”

  Those blue eyes shifted to mine. “But it still doesn’t explain the scars.”

  The question had come out of nowhere, what felt like a sucker punch. She couldn’t have seen me. Not from the back. Although I hadn’t put the shirt on until …Christ, had she seen me?”

  “The scars?”

  “Y-your lip,” she said. “And eyebrow.”

  Relief flooded me that she hadn’t seen the worst of it. I hadn’t prepared for that talk. I doubted I’d ever be ready for that talk. “You want to talk about scars now?”

  She tightened her grip on her elbows. Nothing in the way she licked her lips just then indicated it, but I got the feeling she knew I’d purposefully dodged the question. “I need to go anyway,” she said, her watery gaze lifting to mine again. “Will you please get me out of here?”

  I’d agree to anything if she’d quit looking at me like that. Like I’d broken her heart. “Come on.”

  She followed as I turned and led the way down the corridor. My mind scrambled for options. Three more friends passed us, their glances curious because I’d never brought a girl here—a place that had essentially become my second home. It only took one glance at my face to know I’d fucked up big time. “Good fight, Sam,” was all they said, hurrying past us.

  Most members parked in the back and left out the side door, so the front area remained empty and quiet when we passed through it.

  I stopped at the door to say someth
ing, anything, but she passed me, heading toward her car without so much as a go-fuck-yourself. Like a damn loyal puppy, I followed her, wearing nothing but shorts, a thin t-shirt, and my gloves. When she continued walking without a backward glance, desperation took over and the unthinkable flew out of my mouth.

  “Do you really want to know how I got the scars, Peyton?” My throat threatened to close but I kept talking, pushing past the sensation. “Because I don’t think you do.”

  That she stopped at all told me she hadn’t completely written me off. I held my breath until she turned, giving me one last chance to fix the mess I’d made. Instinct had me grasping for any morsel of bullshit I could think of. I had to find a way to spin this. Weeks ago, I could have done that easily, but now...

  Nausea twisted my stomach into a knot. Her blue eyes begged me for the truth. She’d gutted me with the same look only weeks ago—the day she’d told me she cared about me and cried in my arms over nothing more than a small bruise.

  No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t erase the hurt I’d caused tonight. I wanted to deflect the truth. Turn the issue back onto her. But blaming her unique ability to make everything complex as I had that day in the car had been a dickhead move the first time. I couldn’t do it to her again. She needed to hear the truth, even if it killed me to give it to her.

  “My uncle—” I swallowed, unable to produce a modicum of spit to finish the sentence.

  Her look was thoughtful as she stepped closer, her shoulders tense as she focused through the overhead light to study my face. Her gaze paused on my eyebrow and dropped to my lip. She’d done the same thing too many times to count, always with the same unspoken question in her eyes. The once good memory pained me to think about now—those curious eyes in the darkness of the car and her soft touch as her fingertip pressed the mark on my lip before she’d kiss me.

  “Your uncle,” she repeated. “The one you said came around after your dad died?”

  “He didn’t …come around.” I had to force each word. “He moved in.”

  “Because your mom got sick.”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t think I’m following. What does that have to do with—”

  “Peyton,” I interrupted her, tasting bile because I couldn’t wait for her to figure out what I’d meant. I had to say it now. Quickly. Before I talked myself out of it. “He was a recovering alcoholic who fell out of …recovery. He was a mean drunk. He was also … left-handed.”

  Silence stretched between us, making seconds seem like hours. Then her breath hitched, and I knew she finally understood my vague explanation. To show her that part of my life, even without the details, made me nauseous enough I might have puked had she not been standing there. Our relationship, if it survived this night, would forever be different. She’d see me differently now. Look at me differently. God, I wanted to take it all back. To tell her the truth had been a lie.

  Her eyes watered as she pressed her palms together in a prayer position against her mouth. “Is that what happened to cause—” Emotion cracked her voice and her gaze dropped to the ground.

  “Don’t you dare fucking pity me,” I said. “You wanted to know. I told you. End of story.”

  “I don’t pity you,” she whispered and turned away. “I just …don’t know the right thing to say. I have to think. I should go.”

  She looked back once more, her expression uncertain, before turning and walking across the parking lot.

  That I desperately wanted out of this conversation made watching her walk away bearable. But habit forced my gaze to scan her Lexus parked under the streetlight, and when I realized the car was running, I did a double take, narrowed my eyes and noticed someone in the driver’s side. Adam Cooper.

  Watching us.

  That one of the most private, painful moments of my life had taken place in front of her best friend caused something inside me to snap. Humiliation. Resentment. Anger. I didn’t recognize the rage as jealousy until I took off after her. My bare feet cut against asphalt for fifteen feet, but I didn’t care. I grabbed her shoulder and turned her to face me. “What the hell do you have to think about all the time? Just say what you feel.”

  Tears had pooled in her eyes and I wanted to look away. I couldn’t see her like this. Hurt. Disillusioned. Exhausted. All because of me. “I don’t function that way and you know it,” she said. “I plan. I prepare. List the pros and cons. Qualify. Quantify. It’s how my brain works, Sam. I have the next ten years of my life mapped out in spreadsheets, for petesake. How many people do you know who do that? Everything I’ve ever wanted and how I plan to get it. Everything …except you.” She pressed a shaky hand to her mouth. “God, it’s all so messed up. I’m too tired for this. I can’t sort it out.”

  She couldn’t sort it out because she wanted to break up with me and couldn’t do it to my face. She had too soft a heart. But I couldn’t let her leave until she did. I’d lose my mind if I let her walk away without hearing her decision. I had to hear her say the words. “Then let’s keep it simple.”

  She looked up at me.

  I took a deep breath. Braced myself. “Do you want to end this?”

  “That’s not a simple question.”

  “Yes it is.” I shrugged. “Yes or no. True or false. Simple.”

  “This isn’t a Boolean expression, Sam.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “Quit making fun of me.” She pivoted away from me and pushed her hands over her eyes, crying silently until her shoulders shook.

  What just happened? “Dammit, I wouldn’t make fun of you. I don’t even know what a Boolean expression is.” I swear the girl could talk circles around me sometimes. “Peyton.” I took a step forward. “Stop crying.” If she didn’t pull it together in the next ten seconds, I was totally going to go to her. Like a dumbass without pride, I’d wrap my arms around her while jerkoff watched from her car.

  “No,” she whispered. “There’s your answer.”

  I stiffened at her response, hopeful until I realized I’d forgotten how I’d worded the question. “No,” I repeated. “No …what?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, sniffling. “I’m beyond keeping up. I told you, I’m tired and I can’t think.”

  “Peyton. Look at me.”

  She wiped her eyes and turned.

  All the defensiveness drained out of me. She looked an emotional wreck. I did that. “Is it that I fight, or that I didn’t tell you?”

  Her watery eyes searched mine. “Both.”

  Great. “Look, I get it. Mixed martial arts can seem a little harsh.”

  “A little harsh? It’s brutal.”

  “I realize that’s what outsiders think.”

  “Outsiders? Is that what I am to you? An outsider?”

  “N-no.” I fumbled to untwist my words. “I meant someone who doesn’t fight.”

  “What happened to you? Why is it you enjoy hurting people?”

  A rigged question if ever I’d heard one. “Why do I what?”

  “Enjoy hurting people.”

  “Is that a perverse way of asking me if I like fighting?”

  “Yes,” she said, lifting her chin and moving forward to stand in front of me, “that’s what I’m asking you.”

  “Yeah, I do.” I shrugged. “So?”

  “You enjoy bashing someone’s face in with your fist. Really? That’s fun for you?”

  This wasn’t going to end well. I knew that now. “I’m not dragging those guys into the cage, Peyton. They’re trained fighters. It’s a competitive thing. The same as any other sport. Football or hockey. If you can’t get that, I don’t know how else to explain it. I mean…fuck. You sought me out for exactly this. Isn’t my reputation the entire reason we met? Or have you conveniently forgotten you offered me money to threaten Delaney and put him down if he didn’t back off your brother?”

  “I never expected you to ...put him down. What is this, euthanasia?” She took another step, close enough to touch. “I told you that at the time, too
. I told you just to threaten him.”

  “And I recall telling you only a fool threatens a group of four, especially that size, thinking something as vague as his reputation will keep him from having to throw a punch.”

  Her mouth parted. “You never called me a fool.”

  “I was thinking it.”

  She stuck her chin out. “Well, I was right though, wasn’t I? Delaney and his friends backed off. You never had to throw a punch.”

  I had no comeback.

  “But what I saw in there,” she said, pointing to the building, “is different. Everything I’m doing, all of this work, is for others. Someone else. Anyone else. Can you appreciate how much pressure I have on me right now? Have you read what people are saying about me online? People are trying to discredit why I’m doing this. They want the website to fail. A reporter with one of the top national news magazines called the house today wanting to interview me. That’s the third reporter this week. I’ve received twelve blogger invites for interviews. Rabid political commenters are challenging me to debates. How long do you think I can put these people off for you?”

  “Wait. For me? Look, I know you’re under a lot of stress but—”

  “Yes, I’m totally stressed out.” She pulled a stray curl from her eyes. “This entire thing is blowing up bigger than I can handle. People I don’t know and don’t trust are starting to research me. Six weeks ago, Sam, I would have told you there isn’t anything to research. But now I’m dating a guy who works in a gym and trains people to fight. Then to see how you do it.” She shook her head and held her stomach. “I’ve been worried for weeks that someone might figure out what you do. Why do you think I haven’t asked you the name of the gym or tried popping in for a visit like most girlfriends would have? I don’t want one of these people linking us together and turning my website into something it isn’t.”

  That pissed me off. “People know we’re going out.”

  “I’m not talking about kids at school.”

  I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck, getting more pissed. “Well I don’t give a damn if every fucking reporter in the country knows we’re dating. You shouldn’t either. So why do you?”