The Walls of Troy

by L. A. Witt

  Max turned to me. “That said, we’re concerned having a uniformed, armed guard with him will just draw more attention. And possibly escalate the situation, which is why you’ll be in plainclothes and operating as discreetly as possible.”

  Dalton shifted in his chair. “For that matter, my son refused to agree to any kind of protective detail unless they were plainclothes.”

  I arched an eyebrow, biting back a few statements that began with with all due respect, sir… No sense getting off on the wrong foot with the man. I also resisted the urge to give Max the side-eye for changing his tune—of course he had to appear to take everything seriously, especially in front of the man himself, but I was leery of people who could shift gears like that without batting an eyelash. That was the type of persona that could be a kiss-ass or a sociopath, and sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

  Admiral Dalton went on. “The university is aware of the situation. You will carry a concealed weapon, but otherwise, you’ll be a student just like everyone else. You’re only on duty when Troy leaves home, be it for school or anything else. Otherwise, we have ample security”—he gestured at Max—“here at the house.”

  I nodded. The university knew? And had authorized me to show up on campus with a weapon? For being harassed? How much clout did this guy have?

  “So.” Dalton folded his hands. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Um, well…” I fidgeted under his scrutiny. “I…”

  “Ask away, MA1.”

  I cleared my throat. “What about college credit for my classes? I’m assuming part of being discreet means I have to study and do the work, so…”

  The admiral chuckled. “Fair point, MA1. I’ll make some phone calls and make sure you get proper credit.”

  Wow. He did have some clout, didn’t he?

  “I’m sending my son to class with a fully-armed bodyguard. Oh, and you’re going to give the guard college credit too.”

  Dalton looked at his watch. “Troy should be home by now.”

  “He is,” Fowler said. “Came home about twenty minutes before MA1 Ayhan got here.”

  “Oh. Good.” He stood again. “I suppose I should introduce the two of you before I send you off to class together.”

  My informal tour of the house continued as we left Dalton’s office and headed up the massive staircase. Obviously this house had been designed by someone who liked to make a grand entrance—it was one of those sets of stairs that went straight up, then split to the left and right. Like something straight out of Gone with the Wind.

  We took a left and followed a short hallway. Dalton stopped at the second door on the right and tapped lightly. “Troy?”

  There was movement on the other side, and then the door opened.

  And a fourth Rottweiler appeared.

  My heart jumped into my throat. So that would be the one Max had referred to as “the big one”. Holy shit.

  The dog stayed in the doorway, watching me curiously and sniffing the air, but didn’t come any closer. Christ. That was the biggest Rottweiler I’d ever seen in my life, and my brain picked that exact moment to remind me of the time my dad had told me dogs could smell fear.

  A moment later, I realized the dog wasn’t the only one in the doorway—it stood beside a kid who must’ve been Troy Dalton.

  I swallowed. I could almost forgive the fact that no one had warned me about the dogs. The least they could have done, though, was given me a heads-up that Admiral Dalton’s son was fucking hot.

  Or, well, he should’ve been. That bone structure—all perfectly proportioned angles, cheekbones that could etch glass—made my pulse jump. The low-slung jeans emphasized a gorgeous set of narrow hips, and I couldn’t help noticing he was lean with beautifully toned arms. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he had a set of washboard abs underneath that loose, faded T-shirt. It was hard to tell, though, especially with the I-don’t-give-a-fuck slouch, which managed to make his shoulders look unattractive at the same time it torqued his hips just right to have the opposite effect.

  His expression was full of attitude, from the nearly there smirk to the piercings. He had two rings and a stud in his left eyebrow, plus a couple of earrings in one ear and several in the other, including three in the cartilage up on top. I couldn’t begin to guess his natural hair color, but I was pretty sure that ink-black-almost-blue wasn’t it.

  The way he looked me up and down—half-bored, half-annoyed—sealed the emo, borderline-goth look. My God, punks like that annoyed the ever-loving fuck out of me.

  The admiral gestured at me. “Troy, I want you to meet your new bodyguard. This is…” Dalton glanced at me. “How do you say your first name again?”

  “Iskander.” I extended my hand to Troy.

  The kid drew back a little, eyeing me the way I’d eyed the three monstrous dogs. To his father, he said, “I thought we agreed he’d be plainclothes. I don’t want a fucking cop walking around with me.”

  Dalton patted the air. “He’s in uniform to report for duty. He’ll be plainclothes when he accompanies you.”

  Troy’s triple-pierced eyebrow arched. “And totally civilian, right? Nothing that even says ‘Navy’ on it?”

  I glanced at Max, who nodded once. “Sure. Yeah. I have some T-shirts I’ve picked up in various ports, but—”

  “No.” Troy set his jaw. “Nothing like that.”

  “Uh. Okay. Sure.” I shrugged. “I have plenty of plain civvies.”

  “Good. Wear those.” Troy relaxed slightly, and I realized that even as he’d slouched, his shoulders had been so tense, they were probably cable tight. What the hell?

  He finally shook my hand. “Iskander, you said?”

  I nodded.

  As he withdrew his hand, that nearly there smirk came completely to life. “Guess I should’ve known you were just here to check in, or Dad would’ve skinned you alive for the haircut by now.”

  My heart clenched—even though I’d been ordered to go incognito, I instinctively cringed at the idea of a powerful officer’s attention being drawn to my non-regulation haircut while I was in uniform.

  But Admiral Dalton just chuckled. “Well, he’ll be in plainclothes tomorrow. What time is your first class, Troy?”

  “Nine thirty.” Troy’s eyes flicked toward me. “Are we driving in together, or do you meet me there?”

  “I’ll report in here, and we’ll drive in together.”

  Something in his posture relaxed even more. As if he’d been afraid of…something? Whatever it was, the relief was evident, and a fierce sense of protectiveness suddenly tightened in my chest, which baffled me as much as how he was able to be so tense even while he was in a look-how-few-fucks-I-give stance.

  He took a half step back. “Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I nodded. “Bright and early.”

  He cracked the closest thing he was probably capable of to a smile. “Okay.” He glanced down at the dog—holy shit, the dog’s been here this whole time?—and snapped his fingers. “Talos, come on.”

  The dog trotted back into the bedroom.

  Troy met my eyes. “So, tomorrow.”

  “Right.” I cleared my throat. “I’ll see you then.”

  He gave a slight nod and then followed the dog into the room. When the door clicked shut behind him, I released a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. What the hell?

  “Come on back down to the security office,” Max said. “We’ll finish with your check-in down there.”

  “Right. Okay.” I extended my hand to Admiral Dalton. “Good to meet you again, sir. I’m looking forward to working for you.”

  He shook my hand firmly. “Welcome aboard, MA1.”

  As I went downstairs with Max, my mind stayed right there in the hallway outside Troy’s door.

  That brief, benign encounter had b
een…weird.

  Troy was everything that irritated me in a man—goth-punk, radiating attitude, eyeballing everything with no small amount of derision—but he’d thrown me off balance. Something about him had just…fucked with me. Pushed buttons he’d had no business pushing. I was a sucker for silver foxes in suits. This kid was piercings and eyeliner, arrogance and attitude, and he was a good thirteen years younger than me.

  But he’d made me forget about the giant Rottweiler sitting at his feet.

  Maybe I should’ve waited until I’d met Troy before asking Dalton if I could get college credit for going to classes with him. I hadn’t bargained for guarding someone who could fuck with my senses like that. Paying attention to lectures? Taking notes? Passing exams? Shit.

  And all this from someone who shouldn’t have affected me like that.

  As Max and I sat down in the security office, I replayed that moment when Troy had visibly relaxed after I’d said I’d be meeting him here in the morning instead of on campus. He was hostile to the idea of me being in uniform, but it was abundantly clear he wanted me with him before he even set foot at the university.

  Because of some general harassment?

  What the fuck?

  And what was with his insistence about not wearing anything that even implied I was or had ever been military?

  I’d been irritated for weeks about taking bullshit duty, but things weren’t adding up. Something was weird. Including my own fucking brain, considering the way Troy had thrown me off with a glance.

  Either I’d just stepped into the Twilight Zone, I was being punk’d, or I was way in over my head.

  I wasn’t sure which of those options I preferred.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, I put on a set of civvies—jeans and a plain white T-shirt with a black button-up shirt pulled over it to hide my shoulder holster. The weapon was completely invisible, and my attire gave zero indication that I’d ever been anywhere near the Navy.

  Running a comb through my hair was a little weird. This was the first time in fifteen years I hadn’t had to keep a regulation haircut. I wasn’t used to my hair touching my ears or my collar, never mind needing to be arranged before I looked presentable—but I’d get used to it.

  And as much as I wasn’t thrilled about my assignment, I was definitely getting used to the idea of being less strict about shaving. A full beard would have annoyed the crap out of me, but shaving once in the morning and not giving a shit if I got scruffy? That was a nice switch. It always took about six months at a new command before I could go a week without someone asking me why the hell I hadn’t shaved, presenting them with my he-really-does-shave-it-just-grows-back-faster chit, and then getting my ass chewed anyway because they were sure I was being lazy.

  So just for the hell of it, I didn’t even bother shaving this morning. With a dark shadow of stubble on my jaw, because why the fuck not, I headed over to Admiral Dalton’s place to pick up Troy.

  I went in through the back door to the security office to check in with Max and arm up.

  As I tucked my service weapon into my shoulder holster, Max smirked. “Better hurry. You’ll miss the bus.”

  “Fuck you.” I chuckled and pulled my button-up shirt on over my T-shirt so it covered the holster.

  He laughed, but then his expression and tone returned to strictly business. “You carrying a personal weapon too?”

  I nodded. “Ankle holster.”

  “Good.”

  I eyed him. “Doesn’t this seem like overkill for general harassment?”

  He shrugged. “Orders are orders. The old man would probably give the kid a full entourage if there weren’t so many budget cuts these days. Doesn’t mean it’s necessary. And necessary or not, there is room in the budget for you.”

  “Lucky me.” I fussed with the strap on my shoulder holster. “And the university knows about all this? Specifically, that I’ll be armed?”

  “Absolutely. It’s been cleared with the university at every possible level.” He handed me a small folded piece of paper inside a credit-card-size plastic sleeve. “Keep this with you in case anyone gives you a hard time. It’s a copy of the letter from the dean, your orders, and a letter from the admiral. The university’s security has copies of everything too. Anyone hassles you, just cooperate until the admiral or myself gets everything straightened out.”

  “Will do. Thanks.” I tucked the sleeve into the back pocket of my jeans. “See you this afternoon.”

  “Don’t forget your lunch!”

  I flipped him the bird and headed out of the office.

  When I stepped into the hall, Admiral Dalton was loitering a few feet away. He was dressed for work, from the spit-shined shoes and gleaming insignia to the black-and-white cover tucked under his arm.

  “MA1 Ayhan,” he said.

  “Sir.”

  He gestured for me to walk with him. “I trust Chief Fowler has given you the letters from the dean? Approving your right to carry a weapon on campus?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Good.” He adjusted his cover under his arm. “You know, a friend of mine handpicked you for this detail.”

  I glanced at him, not sure what to say to that.

  “I told him what I needed,” the admiral went on. “The details of the case and whatnot. He immediately suggested you.” He glanced at me. “You came highly recommended, MA1.”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. Was that an undercurrent of I would suggest you don’t let me down I detected?

  I hooked my thumbs in my pockets just for something to do with my hands. “That’s good to hear, sir.”

  He gave a curt nod but didn’t say anything until we stopped in front of the massive staircase in the middle of the house.

  “Well.” He checked his watch. “I should be going. You’ll let me know if anything happens?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Good.” He clapped my shoulder and wavered for a moment, as if debating saying something further. Then he repeated the gesture, muttered, “Good,” and turned to go.

  Watching him disappear down the hall, I swallowed. If all this was an act or a cry for attention, Troy was definitely committed. Enough that he’d convinced his father, anyway. The man had a full security detail at the house, and he still stuck around to touch base with his son’s bodyguard before we headed to class? When he, like any man of his stature, likely had a full docket of meetings with people of nosebleed-level pay grades.

  That didn’t add up to being self-righteously reckless with government resources.

  I still wasn’t too sure about this. Seemed like a hell of an overreaction to generally nonviolent harassment.

  But at the same time, I couldn’t shake the memory of Troy’s demeanor last night. Or anything, really. Bottom line, Admiral Dalton thought this was necessary. Max thought it was waste, fraud, and abuse by a senior officer.

  And Troy…

  Troy had seemed genuinely relieved to know I’d be going with him, and that I’d be in plainclothes.

  Footsteps turned my head, and I looked up as Troy started down the staircase with that horse-hellhound-hybrid creature on his heels.

  Wow. He definitely took his look seriously. Whether it was meant to be goth or punk or some new trend I hadn’t heard of—was I getting old?—I couldn’t say, but he sure fucking committed. It must’ve taken him all morning to get the eyeliner and smoky eye shadow perfect. Not to mention painstakingly arranging his unkempt hair.

  He paused on the bottom step and gave me a down-up, arching his triple-pierced eyebrow. I couldn’t figure out what the slight curl of his lip meant. It could’ve been nice try, old man, or I have to be seen in public with you, or any number of things.

  Whatever. I wasn’t going to worry too much about judgment of my sense of style coming from a kid whose ink-black hair
matched his eyeliner and probably contained enough hair product to make the 1980s wince.

  Then he grabbed a backpack off the bottom step and put it on his shoulder. “Ready to go?”

  “Is, um…” I glanced at the dog. “Is he coming too?”

  Troy smirked. “Nah. History lectures bore him.”

  “Oh. Right.” I wasn’t sure what tripped me up more—the playfully sarcastic suggestion of Talos sitting through a lecture with us, or Troy actually making a joke. I coughed into my fist. “Uh, anyway. Ready whenever you are.”

  “Let’s roll.”

  The massive dog walked us to the door. Troy stopped to scratch its ear, and then we continued outside, and I would’ve been lying if I’d said my heartbeat didn’t level out once there was a closed door between me and Talos.

  I exhaled. It was going to take me a long, long time to get used to the family’s dogs, especially that one.

  Note to self—ask about dog situation before reporting to next protective duty assignment.

  On the way down the steps, Troy asked, “Your car or mine?”

  “That depends. Who’s driving?”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I will, then.”

  “Whatever.” He glanced at me. “And you’re armed?”

  I nodded.

  His pierced eyebrow rose.

  “No, I’m not going to show you.”

  I expected him to roll his eyes like an impatient brat, but he planted his feet and held my gaze with a mix of postadolescent contempt and…something else. Something that reminded me of the way he’d been last night, both irritated with my presence and relieved by it.

  “No games, Iskander.” His tone was flat and icy. “Are you carrying or not?”

  “Yes. I’m carrying.”

  “Prove it.”

  We locked eyes.

  “The whole point of carrying concealed is—”

  “Humor me,” he growled, but the upward flick of his eyebrow added an unspoken plea.