“Oh my God,” Jane says in one breath, unblinking. “My grandmother has officially lost all sense of reality.”
Her rich grandmother contacted the press, her rich grandmother paid for the ad, and I’ve been mentally calling her rich grandmother a fucking jackass.
Still applies. Maybe even more. She’s about to cause her own granddaughter bad publicity and a dangerous amount of unwanted attention.
I let go of the newspaper to touch my earpiece. Static cracking. But I’m only eyeing Jane and her surroundings.
She clutches the paper and drifts away from me while rereading the article. Hurt pinching her brows. This is a familial betrayal. It would’ve been better if this came from a stranger.
“Jane,” I say, my voice deep. I want to do more for her, comfort her, but I’m fucking limited to the boundaries and rules of my job.
Jane meets my gaze and takes a seat on a cardboard box. “This was a calculated move on my grandmother’s part.” She splays the newspaper on her thighs.
“Why do you think that?” I step nearer to her spot. I’ve met Grandmother Calloway before, and family is family, but after Greece this summer, I think she’s the worst part of the famous ones. SFO would agree.
What she said to Farrow and Maximoff on the yacht reached some ears in security. Which then reached me.
“The timing,” Jane explains. “Moffy is newly engaged, and our grandmother is most likely hoping I’ll marry a man before him. Just so I’ll be the first down the aisle. It’s a heinous power-move that deserves booing and tomato-throwing.” She exhales a harsher breath, frustrated and upset. Her eyes are tightened in anger.
She almost buries her face in the newspaper.
Pained for Maximoff, mostly. I understand Jane well enough to know that this would hurt her the most. Their grandmother is stealing this once-in-a-lifetime moment from Maximoff. He’s supposed to enjoy his engagement, and she’s shining a spotlight on Jane instead.
I check some movement outside of this enclosure. An elderly man meanders around the aisles. Not a threat.
So I approach Jane in another step. I tower above my client, and then I squat down. Eye-level, I grip the paper. Gently pulling it off her face.
Her breath comes out deeper, and she searches my hard gaze.
Words aren’t my strong suit, but I’m here.
Jane seems to find comfort in my eyes, her shoulders relaxing. “The scariest thing in all of this is that my grandmother truly believes she has the best intentions. Most everything she ever does is selfish, but she thinks she’s altruistic. In her mind, this ad must be a way to help me open my heart.”
My brows pull together. “That’s dangerous.” She didn’t even ask her granddaughter for permission to run the public ad.
“Oui.” Jane folds up the newspaper. “It’s good that this is about me and not my brothers or sister. I don’t have a life-long career that can be destroyed because of bad press. I don’t have a passion at stake.”
My expression darkens. I respect her longing to protect her family—I understand that soul-deep need. But Jane doesn’t deserve to be a dartboard just because she has less going on in her life. Less to lose. She has to combat more horseshit than most already.
Her mind must be reeling. She blinks a few times. “The phone number—my grandmother must’ve had her assistant set up a new number and email for the ad.” She frowns. “How many men do you think will respond?”
“I can’t know for sure, but I’ll take care of it.” I straighten up to a towering stance. “I’ve got your six, always.”
She begins to smile, inhaling a lung full, and then rises to her feet. The top of her head reaching my collarbones.
Radiating confidence, Jane pulls back her shoulders and ties her hair into a low pony. She adjusts her purse and prepares for the chaos outside of this quiet sanctuary.
I’ve seen her do it a million-and-one times. This isn’t the first fallout. Probably won’t be the last. She’s living inside some type of modern age battlefield. Which is the only reason she needs a soldier.
The only reason she needs me.
“Ready?” I ask, fixing the settings on my radio.
Another breath, she nods. “Let’s go.”
6
THATCHER MORETTI
Dawn.
Fog hangs low outside the two brick townhouses in Philly’s Rittenhouse-Fitler Historic District, windows shrouded with mist. It’s where Jane, Maximoff, and Luna live, and by extension, their bodyguards. Left is their house.
Right is ours.
Exception being Farrow Keene, who lives with his client. Security makes a lot of exceptions for Farrow, and back when I was a lead and a third of the Tri-Force, I even helped pave that path for him.
Probably more than he realizes.
I step out onto the curb of the old narrow street. Tying drawstring pants tighter on my muscular waist. I didn’t have time to grab a fucking shirt.
Cover of darkness vanishes with daybreak, and the early-morning September chill bites my bare chest.
I used to always wake up at first light. Before the Marine Corps, before my parent’s divorce—our dad would tell us to get our asses up and finish our chores, all before breakfast.
I didn’t really mind it, and to let Banks sleep longer, I’d do some of his tasks. Folding his clothes for him. Placing shirts and pants neatly in one dresser drawer that we had to share.
Being on my feet at dawn is like any other day.
But what’s congregating on the old street—it’s not the type of shit that I deal with before I can even shower.
“Hey, man,” a stocky redheaded temp bodyguard greets me, coming up to my side. “I can’t see much, but they keep calling her name and paparazzi are waking up.” I hear multiple car doors shut.
Through an eerie layer of fog, I make out maybe…three or four men leaving their respective vehicles.
One is already on the street.
“Jane! Are you home?!” a guy yells. His whining desperation sounds less like typical demands of paparazzi.
He’s a fucking suitor.
It’s a polite term that the Alpha lead wants us to use.
Ever since the Cinderella ad, a bunch of delusional fuckbags have been congregating outside the townhouse. Swarming the street, along with the media.
It’s been one week since the ad’s been in print, and this should’ve died down already. But it’s gotten worse. More suitors keep coming in from out of state, staking claim to a girl that they cannot fucking have.
I fit in my earpiece. “Get eyes on the pap vans and keep watch of the left townhouse. I’ll handle the other targets.”
In the filmy haze, I see a line of paparazzi vehicles camped out on the street. Most are parked on the adjacent sidewalk to free the road. Some have been there long before the Cinderella ad, but the media attention has doubled. Cameramen are also waking up earlier than usual.
Several already spill out of their cars.
One cameraman is squatting on the sidewalk, positioning the lens towards misted windows of Maximoff’s room. Blinds and curtains shut.
Another guy sets up a tripod.
I look to the temp guard as he hesitates. “Copy?” I ask.
He frowns. “Sir, what’s protocol if these targets bring Jane gifts?”
I drop my voice another octave. “Do not touch whatever they try to hand you. Don’t accept any packages. Just tell them to fuck off without antagonizing them.” I let the cord to my mic hang on my bare chest, and I hawk-eye the most vocal suitor right now.
“Thanks, sir.” He exhales. “My shift is usually inactive.”
I nod. Understanding.
Temp guards are on a rotation right now. Around the time Maximoff and Farrow’s relationship went public, we had to hire 24-hour stationary guards outside the townhouses. Usually one man is enough at dawn.
That’s drastically changed this week. And I got called out of bed to help.
Of all the properties the fam
ous ones own, this is the most unsecure location. No gates. Too easy access for the public. Fans constantly take selfies on the stoop, and we had to disable the doorbell.
Other than the 24-hour guards, there’s nothing the team can do to make it any safer. I’d build a stone fortress around the whole structure if I could, but city codes, violations, and all of that shit.
It’s red fucking tape.
I glance at the temp guard. “Stay alert, watch your sector.” And then I aim for the vocal suitor.
“Jane!” he wails, nearing the curb. “Jane Eleanor Cobalt!”
I approach with authority and intent.
He’s older. Most of the suitors are between early-thirties and late sixties. It’s disturbing, and I don’t want Jane to see their faces. I don’t want them to occupy space in her brain.
Clear them out.
Quick visual assessment: mid-forties, plain face, thin silver-framed glasses, jeans and scuffed white sneakers. He has a laser focus on the front door and a bouquet of red roses in hand.
“Sir.” I block his path.
He skids to a stop.
“You need to back up.” I point to the car I saw him get out of. “Go home.” Through the fog, I notice the Florida license plate.
He stands uneasily in the middle of the street, his eyes growing behind his glasses. Staring up at me like I’m a character from Game of Thrones. Ready to smite him down with an axe.
Intimidation is one of the first defenses in this job. We have to scare them off, not provoke them or beat them to a bloody fucking pulp. No matter how much they antagonize and ridicule these families, people we genuinely care about.
“I just want to see Jane,” the man squeaks out.
“You wanna see her?” I glower. “You can’t.” I hear my Philly lilt break through. Banks jokes that my accent is stronger the more pissed I get.
I don’t think that’s true.
He wavers, like he’s considering outrunning me.
I stake him with a harsher glare. “You touch her property, and I’ll escort you to your car. I’m not going to be nice about it.” A threat hardens my voice.
He scuttles back, tripping over his untied shoelace. He drops the roses. “Sorr-so-sorry,” he stammers, abandoning the flowers in the street and jogging to his car.
One down. Many more to go.
Comms ring in my ear. “Akara to Thatcher, what’s the level of the threats?”
I stare down a white guy whose jeans are unzipped, his cagey eyes darting left and right, an envelope and box of chocolates in hand, and I click my mic. “Same as yesterday—” I almost say over at the tail end, and I cut myself off before I do. Military comms are much different than security’s radio protocols. It was a hard transition at first.
But so was civilian life, and I jumped straight into security after my four-year tour ended.
I pick up more SFO comms chatter, and I listen while I motion to other middle-aged suitors to get the fuck out.
What I hear:
“Buncha skeevy fucks,” Donnelly says, South Philly lilt thicker than mine.
Oscar sounds in. “At this rate of motherfucking deception, we’re gonna need eyes on Grandmother Calloway.”
“I’m sure she’d love your eyes on her, Oliveira,” Farrow says next, his voice naturally rough and amusement audible.
Oscar laughs. “Maybe we should send you, Redford. You’d probably kill her before she hits ninety.”
I grit my molars, forcing down the urge to tell them to shut up over comms.
Before joining Omega, I was always an Epsilon bodyguard. Since SFE works with minors, the differences between the two forces are night and day. SFE has more rules to protect the kids, and Omega has more freedoms working with adults.
But my biggest irritation is the radio. Omega uses comms like a gossip network or complaint hotline. It was fucking painful during the FanCon. Banks and I say that it’s 104.1 Call-In-Your-Bullshit channel.
And look, I’ve got complaints.
A list fucking ten feet high. I’m concerned, like Oscar is, that someone in the families was able to pull this stunt. It’s why we weren’t tipped about the ad before it went into print.
I’m concerned that these fuckbags aren’t going to ever get the message. Responding to that ad in the first place takes some guts, and it’s been unnerving Jane all week.
But I’m not airing this shit on comms, and right now—I can’t worry about any of that.
I send seven more suitors packing, clearing out the small crowd. Except for paparazzi. Can’t do anything about that.
“Excuse me!” a suitor shouts, closer to where paparazzi are setting up tripods. He keeps his shined loafers off the curb, an inch from where I’d yell at him.
Only two strides later, I block him and scrutinize his features. Quick assessment: slicked-back dirt-brown hair, tailored suit, angular face, maybe early-thirties.
He looks like he made a wrong turn and ended up here instead of PHLX.
“You’re in the wrong area, sir,” I tell him. “Walnut Street is that way.” I point in the direction, further in Center City where the Philly Stock Exchange is located.
He opens his mouth, but then gets distracted. He takes out his phone, screen lit with an incoming call.
I keep an eye on him but also survey the area.
Where’s my guy? I quickly scan for the temp bodyguard. He’s one fucking block down. Chatting with a mom and a daughter, who are probably bartering, tempting, bribing him—doing something they shouldn’t—just to see the famous ones.
Come on.
He shouldn’t have left his sector.
I’ll deal with that later. Hand-holding temp bodyguards is routine, but this early and with Jane at the crux, I wish that the temp were Farrow right now.
“Actually”—the clean-cut guy pockets his phone—“I need to talk to Jane.” He says her name like he personally knows her.
He’s not the first guy to try to pull this. He won’t be the last.
Jane gave me an extensive list of her known acquaintances when I first joined her detail. I have pictures. Names. I’ve even combed through her yearbooks multiple times in the past ten months, just to refresh my memory.
This guy is no one.
I start, “You can’t see Jane—”
He steps forward to combat me.
I put out a warning hand, and he stops.
“My name is Gavin Reece.”
Not familiar. “You need to keep your feet off my fucking curb,” I say like a grumpy old man.
He lets out a disbelieving noise. “It’s not your curb. Sidewalks are a public right-of-way, so you’re blocking my access—”
“You have access right there.” I extend an arm down the street. The law is so gray that it allows paparazzi to plant their asses in front of the townhouses. Even though homeowners own the land up to the house and to the curb.
Gavin sighs. “Look, we’re off on the wrong foot here.”
“I’m not debating you. I’m not your fucking transport or access to see Jane. If you want to approach her house or stand here and disturb the peace, you’re going to eat asphalt.”
Akara is in my ear again. “Second batch of temps should be here soon.” Which means I can go take a shower.
I’m still staring this guy down, but I feel for the wire on my chest and then click my mic. “Solid copy.”
Gavin reaches into his suit jacket.
I’m rigid. Could be a gun. Disarming hecklers is also routine. I’m not armed right now. Didn’t grab my gun, barely tied my pants. Six years on the job, and I haven’t had to use it that often. There aren’t many situations where a gun is necessary.
He pulls out an envelope. “Jane will want to hear this. So if you can’t help me contact her, then please direct me to someone who can.”
My gaze is stern. I’m not your fucking friend . “She did three months of meet and greets. You missed your chance.”
“That was before the ad.”
<
br /> He means before he knew what she was looking for.
Confirmed suitor.
Which means he’s looking to what…date her…coerce her…fuck her?
Fuck him.
Jane isn’t someone you can casually call up for a quick word. This year, she ranked in the Top 20 Most Instagram Followers in the world. Her mom ranked at 8. Her aunts ranked at 4 and 11.
This isn’t a girl you can email or DM or even cannon blast. She has the tech team, three forces of bodyguards, along with temp guards, and a wall of assistants, publicists, and managers.
He wants to meet Jane. Good luck. She’s an American princess. Take a fucking number and wait forever. Because I’m never letting it happen.
She’s my responsibly.
My duty.
He can go shove his dick in an exhaust pipe.
“What’s in the envelope?” a cameraman asks, swinging his Canon lens to Gavin.
This prick glares back at me. “My resume.” He tries to hand it to me.
I don’t move. “Leave or I’ll drag you off the fucking property.”
“I’m not on it—”
I take one strong step towards Gavin, and he shuffles back in a hurry. “Okayokay.” He raises his hands. All fake bravado.
He walks backwards to his red Bugatti. “I’m supposed to be with Jane Cobalt.” He speaks into the camera. “Everything she listed in that ad, I have. Every single thing.”
Everything in that ad—I don’t have.
What does any of that matter?
My body tenses, and I study the perimeter.
I’ve got a job to do.
7
THATCHER MORETTI
Steam rises in security’s small townhouse bathroom. Hot water soaks my hair, beads of liquid dripping off my eyelashes, and I press a firm left hand against the tiled shower wall. My right hand grips and strokes my long, hard length.
Should be taking a cold shower, but denying myself a release is a worse idea. I’m used to long-stints without sex, even before I became a bodyguard. But I can’t go that long without shooting a load. On deployments, jerking off in a quiet porta shitter was the highlight of some days.
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