I don’t go up to people I first meet and ask, “Are you funny?”
So after a while, I just stopped listing out our personalities, but now that we’re older, we’ve become easier to tell apart from our features.
Banks has a fraction less muscle mass because I lift more, and my jaw is subtly more square to his narrow.
On the beach, I look at my brother, and I’m less tense. He’s familiarity and comfort during rough days. No matter how bad I fuck it, he’ll always be here.
I check over my shoulder, a routine sweep. “Which men need to rack out?” I ask him.
The past few days have been long and drawn out for the team with little to no sleep. Bodyguards will attempt to stay with their clients past exhaustion.
“Epsilon should be good,” Banks says. “For SFO, Oscar is probably pushing twenty-hours. Farrow could be going into thirty.”
Gut reaction, I glance down the shoreline and spot the bleach-white haired bodyguard, covered in skull and dagger tattoos. Farrow Redford Keene looks between a swashbuckling pirate and a fucking guitarist in a rock band.
He’s neither.
In actuality, he’s a doctor. Now a bodyguard again. Assigned to both the med team and security team, and he’s out of earshot while talking to Akara. The Omega lead is catching Farrow up on what he’s missed in security.
Farrow turns his head slightly.
I scout the other side of the beach to avoid our eyes meeting. Muscles flexed, I suck in a strained breath.
Banks plants his gaze on me. “I thought you said you were snapped to?”
We always say that to one another: you need to snap to. Can’t live in the past. He’s referring to Farrow. My past mistake. My fuck-up.
What I haven’t been able to mentally drop.
What I need to fix.
These men on the team are my responsibility.
My client is my life.
It’s what I live by.
And you fucked it, Thatcher.
I rake my hand across my jaw. “I shouldn’t have punched Farrow.” I haven’t said it out loud to my brother. Not until now. He’s just known I’ve been neck-deep in regret.
He’s been seeing and feeling my fucking torment the same way I can tell he’s in physical pain. It’s not some “psychic” connection. You just live with someone for twenty-eight years, and they’re a part of you like that.
“Yeah,” Banks agrees in a deep whisper. “But you’re not the first guy to hit someone else on the team, and you’ve already paid a three-fucking-grand fine.”
Doesn’t matter. I rub my mouth roughly and then drop my hand.
I knew Banks would try to release me from my sins, but I don’t deserve that kind of absolution.
Jane runs on loyalty and trust—like I do—and in one instant, I broke both. I compromised my ability to effectively communicate with her. Because I fucking punched Farrow: her best friend’s boyfriend.
And it goes far beyond ruining the good thing I had working with Jane. I would’ve never wanted my men to do what I did.
I’m ashamed.
I don’t care if I’m the third or fourth or hundredth fucking bodyguard to hit another bodyguard. I let my anger and frustration get the best of me.
I should’ve cooled off and kept my mouth shut.
But I was fucking fuming that day. Farrow told Omega that he decided to quit security—so he could finish his residency and become a concierge doctor—and I lost it.
I’ve always wanted him to choose this team first, and hearing him pick the hospital felt like a betrayal that I feared come to fruition. A betrayal not only to security but to his client.
And I reached a point where I wanted to sock Farrow hard. To provoke him, I took a personal shot and implied something about Maximoff Hale that I knew would set him off. Something I don’t even fucking believe.
I insinuated Maximoff would sleep with any bodyguard that joined his detail.
Farrow charged. I swung.
“Thatcher.” Banks bites his toothpick and sends a hard look at me that says, don’t do this to yourself. My brother can’t stare at me for more than half a second.
We’re on-duty.
We need to scout our AO, and our area of operations tonight happens to be one of the most beautiful places on Earth.
I study the darkened sand fifty meters away.
Silence passes.
Until I break it.
“What I said—I can never take back,” I tell my brother.
He cocks his head slightly. “Everyone knows the straight shot to Farrow is to go after his boyfriend.”
I glare at the horizon. “And I’m the shitbag who took it, Banks.”
He looks right at me, but I’m not turning my head. My narrowed eyes are in a vice that I can’t loosen, and I don’t like glaring at my brother.
That one moment has haunted me for months. I personally attacked Farrow, caused friction in SFO, and I disrespected Maximoff. A guy who’s only shown a high-level of respect for every bodyguard.
Maximoff also just so happens to be Xander Hale’s older brother. Xander is a kid that Banks and I spent over five years protecting together. And what Xander means to me—means to us …there are no words that can even encapsulate how much I feel for that kid.
I swallow a jagged rock in my raw throat. Hurting these families is gut-wrenching. And it contradicts my whole purpose.
I should’ve been fired.
I did try to quit.
Just as I started signing the termination papers, Akara grabbed the pen out of my fucking hand and Banks locked me in a room until I promised I’d stay on. The main reason why I’m still here is… Jane.
I didn’t want to give up on her. I didn’t want to quit on her.
I care too much about her well-being and safety, and she needs real stability. Placing her in the hands of a new bodyguard felt like ripping the rug from underneath her feet.
I couldn’t do it.
And I know, well and fucking good, that dwelling on the past isn’t going to help Jane.
“What happened, happened ,” Banks whispers, still staring at me. “But we’ve all got to push forward together.”
I nod a few times, taking a deeper breath. “Watch the sea. I’m not the objective.” We’ve had issues with paparazzi boating to shore this summer.
He fixes his earpiece. “You’re such a fucking gabbadost’.” You’re such a fucking hardhead. His Philly lilt overpowers the Italian-American word.
I almost smile. After another quiet moment, I tell him, “I’m snapped to.”
His lips slowly rise. “Right on, right on.”
I instinctively pin my sights on my client.
Jane looks up from her spot near the fire, and her blue eyes crash against my brown.
My chest lifts, but I hardly fucking budge.
She tears our gazes apart and checks over her shoulder like the lights to the neighboring town are suddenly of interest.
Goddammit.
Banks scans the bonfires and then briefly glances at Jane. “She’s still not talking to you?”
Affirmative. “I’m fixing it,” I say stiffly.
A beat passes.
“Like now,” Banks says. “You gotta stop tormenting yourself and just go.”
“She’s with her family, Banks.” I raise the volume on my radio, but comms chatter has been nearly silent tonight. Everyone is in the same space. Not much happening.
“She’s always with her family. If you don’t move out, I’ll push your ass in the fucking sand.”
I give him a hard look. “You threw your fucking back out and you want to push me in the sand?”
He makes a move toward me, and I grab his bicep so he doesn’t do anything stupid. Just then, in my peripheral, I spot Maximoff heading towards Farrow.
Leaving Jane alone. She wedges her empty bottle in the sand.
I release my hold on my brother’s bicep. “I got this,” I tell Banks.
He smacks the back of his hand ag
ainst my chest. “Don’t nuke it, man.”
I nod and hike up the beach.
That phrase keeps rushing past me. Our dad would toss a football back and forth, and when Banks fumbled, our dad would just pat his shoulder and say, Don’t nuke it, kid. It was his way of telling us to not overthink it.
Jane doesn’t see me coming yet. She rises to her feet, brushes sand off her ass, and then goes to retrieve another beer. Aimed for the blue cooler near the dunes.
My stride is stringent. I pass the bonfires, heat stinging the back of my neck, and in seconds, I close in on her position.
Jane spots me, just as she crouches at the cooler and collects a beer from the melted ice. She hesitates. Frozen in place. I watch her beautiful blue eyes dart to the bonfire where her whole family congregates.
Don’t use the word “beautiful”.
I’m breathing hard through my nose, and I stop right in front of my client. Towering over Jane while she’s squatting. She stares more curiously at me and then untwists the cap of her beer.
“Jane,” I greet.
She straightens up. “Thatcher.” The top of her head barely reaches my shoulders, but she lifts her chin and looks me right in the eye.
She replied to me.
Which is a good sign.
“Can we talk?” I ask, my voice gutturally deep. All the time.
She considers, silently.
I glance at her cold beer bottle. My joints lock. It strikes me that she’s been drinking, and I should’ve factored in alcohol. Fucking unprofessional. “We should wait until you’re sober—”
“I’ve only had one beer. I’m not even buzzed.” Her cheeks are rosy, and she tentatively checks on the families again. Maybe even glancing at Farrow and Maximoff.
I don’t follow her gaze to confirm. I’m only looking at her and the empty beach on my nine. “If now’s a bad time, you can tell me, Jane.” It’s my job to alleviate pressure in her life. Not add to it.
Jane thinks for a moment. “We can go for a short walk, you and I.” She must really want to hear what I have to say.
The private beach has been secure all day and night, so I don’t need to lead the way like I would if there were crowds.
Jane is able to journey ahead, but I keep pace and flank her left side. I click my mic at my collar. “Thatcher to security, I’m Oscar Mike. Jane is going for a walk on the beach.”
Jane glances curiously at me after I release my hand on the mic, but she thinks against speaking and turns her head forward.
Yeah, I need to unfuck this.
It’s driving me insane.
Akara sounds in my ear. “Copy.”
Keeping the team informed of changes in positions is important. Only a couple bodyguards have consistent problems with this rule.
Like Farrow. Figuring out where he’s fucking off at during regular days is like playing Where’s Waldo.
The more distance we add from the firelight, the more darkness descends over us. I turn my head to Jane.
She looks over at me.
We say nothing.
I’m trying not to think anything I shouldn’t.
She focuses ahead again, and my flexed muscles contract. I keep the pace she sets. We’re several meters away from her family. Tension snaking around us in thickening silence. But the rush of the sea grows louder as we leave behind the chatter.
We’re alone together, but in my line of work, it’s not uncommon at all that I’m alone with Jane. But it’s not usually under the pretext of “can we talk?”—and I need to fucking talk.
My jaw feels wired shut.
Jane appears the furthest thing from annoyed when I’m quiet, and that stuns me. She just looks me over with that mounting curiosity, and she scuffs sand with her bare foot. Humidity expands the volume of her hair, and wind carries the strands.
“Can you hold this?” Jane lifts the beer up to me.
I take the bottle, and she ties her frizzing brunette hair into a low pony. We drift closer to the water. Making boot-prints and footprints in the damp sand.
I glance strongly back at Jane. Being assertive is my natural state, and I just say it, “I want to make this right.”
Finished tying her hair, her arms drop.
I hand the bottle back.
“Merci,” she says, her features harder to read in the dark. “After you apologized to Farrow and Maximoff, they forgave you.”
I could believe Farrow and Maximoff would give me another chance when I didn’t deserve one because they’re both good men. It didn’t shock me, and it doesn’t surprise me that Jane is still conflicted.
Her loyalties are to them. As they should be, and I hate that I’ve put her in a position where she felt like she had to cold-shoulder her own bodyguard.
I fix my earpiece and tuck a few strands of hair behind my ear. “I meant I want to make this right with you.”
Her eyes slowly widen, and we come to a stop. “In what way?” Her shoulders curve forward, goosebumps pricking her skin. We’re far from the fire now, and she didn’t bring a jacket or blanket.
I unbutton my shirt.
“Oh—” Her lips part. “I can’t take your shirt, Thatcher…you’ll be terribly cold.” Her breezy voice and distinctive way of speaking is like honey dripping down my throat.
It’s my job to make her life safe.
It’s not my job to imagine tasting her words against my tongue while I push deep inside—don’t .
Don’t.
My muscles sear as each tendon contracts.
Before I became her bodyguard, Banks warned me that being around Jane would be hard on my end. Figuratively.
And physically.
I didn’t believe him. Not at the time.
I don’t look away from her, and I keep unbuttoning. “I’m not cold, Jane.”
A shiver snakes through her body. “Are you positive?”
“I’m positive.” I reach the bottom button, a gust of air sweeping my hot skin.
She watches me take off the shirt, her gaze stroking the ridges of my abs and carved waist. Blood pumps through the veins in my cock.
Fuck.
Jane.
Not in that order. Not in that fucking way.
It’s not my job to think about her in any setting outside of client-bodyguard relations.
It’s not my job to think about what she’d taste like if I spread her legs. I have pictured it, and I’ll do a hundred deadlifts as punishment for even thinking about her pussy.
Unprofessional.
Un-fucking -professional.
It’s not my job to feel a fucking thing other than duty. Responsibility. Devotion—workplace devotion.
Not even as intrigue lights up her eyes.
I stay rigid.
“Before you worked in security,” Jane says, “did you always gravitate towards button-downs?”
I thought she was about to say, did you always gravitate towards me?
That wouldn’t make sense. I met Jane when I first became a bodyguard at twenty-two. She never knew me before security.
This is an easy question to answer. “Button-downs, no.” I pull my arms out of the sleeves. “Before this job, I only wore them for formal events like mass, weddings, and funerals.” I pass Jane my black shirt, and I take her beer, our hands brushing for a second too long.
Her neck tightens with a shallower breath, and she speaks quickly. “But security has no uniforms, except for some events. Correct?” She fits her arm through one hole.
I nod firmly. “The Tri-Force encourages bodyguards to dress professionally.” For the families.
Jane pulls one more arm through. Stretched-out sleeves are baggy on her limbs, and my shirt hangs to her thighs. She clears her throat. “So…how are we making this right?”
We?
“Me,” I correct. “I fucked this, not you.”
She tilts her head like I’m revealing more of myself. Something beneath the hard exterior.
I try not to wear my gui
lt. That’s for me to bear. “First,” I say. “You should be able to speak openly with me. If you want to know how I feel about Farrow or the whole situation or anything about me, I’ll tell you. I’m going to give you more transparency.”
She deserves that.
“Starting when?” she wonders.
“Now.”
A brighter smile pulls her freckled cheeks. “You’re opening Pandora’s box by giving me free reign to all questions, you know?”
I nod.
I’m not even close to afraid. But that lack of fear almost stokes fear . Because I must want Jane to know more about me. Under the circumstances and the rules of being her bodyguard, being too personal is wrong and feels fucking impossible.
Jane wraps her arms up in my shirt, and she puts her nose to the collar and breathes in.
I stiffen. Don’t think about her like that.
She notices that I just noticed her sniffing my button-down. “Um…you smell wonderfully.”
My dick strains against my slacks. I’m a brick wall. “Thank you.”
Jane reaches for her beer that I’d been holding, and she lands on a question. “How do you feel about Farrow rejoining security? Are you upset?”
I shake my head, almost instantly. “I’ve always wanted him to be on the team. I voted for him to stay last December.”
Back when I was a lead and the team found out Farrow had been sleeping with his client, Akara and I voted for him to keep his job. We were two votes out of three in the Tri-Force, and majority wins.
“I remember. I thought…perhaps your feelings had changed since then, and now you wished you’d voted for him to be fired.”
“No, I stand by my decision.” I notice how she’s straining her neck to keep eye contact with me. “You can look away if it’s hurting your neck.”
Jane smooths her lips together. “Um…” She blinks for a long second. “I’m quite fine…”
I can’t discern much else in the dark, but I’m trying.
“Is there a second?” she asks me.
I frown. “What?”
Jane holds my gaze. “You said, ‘first, you should be able to speak openly…’ I wondered if you wanted to make things right some other way too.”
She’s perceptive. Especially when her whole attention is on you. It’s like you’re the center of the fucking universe.
Like now.
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