Parker Security Complete Series

by Camilla Blake

  “Did you hear what I just said?”

  I looked up, dropping my phone. My co-worker, Lena, was glaring at me. We were all sitting in the conference room at Parker Security Services, where I’d been working since I’d graduated with a bachelor’s in commerce and business and realized I wasn’t actually interested in becoming a financial analyst or a hedge fund manager, much to my parents’ great relief. The O’Keefe clan couldn’t handle having a white-collar, financially successful member among their ranks; it would be sacrilege or something—just ask them. But one thing you could say about my parents was that they sure knew how to party, and that was the event I was eagerly counting down the moments to—Doug and Mara’s thirty-fifth wedding anniversary celebration.

  “Sorry,” I said, trying to slide the phone under my thigh before Lena saw and accused me of checking my Instagram when I should’ve been hanging on to every word she was saying. What the hell was she talking about? I glanced to my right, where Jason was sitting next to me on the couch, hoping he might clue me in to whatever we’d been discussing. He wasn’t even looking my way, though; he had this dreamy expression on his face—obviously he wasn’t paying any attention, either, but of course Lena was only calling me out about it. Jason, the lucky bastard, was still riding the high of the honeymoon phase, which had been going on for so long now that we in the office had secretly started a bet over when it would finally end. Not that we wanted it to end—our boy deserved sheer and utter bliss as much as the next person—but come on. Jason and Emmy were so happy together that even I had to look away sometimes. “What were you saying?”

  Lena gave me a withering look, as if I had just come up to her with a steaming plate of dog crap and asked her if she’d like to take a big bite. “I was talking about our newest contract,” she said, her tone indicating that she’d already said this information at least once. “With Lowell Academy. Both the principal and the board of directors want there to be at least one armed guard present at all times during school hours.” Lena glanced over at Drew. “I was thinking Jason might be a good candidate for the position since he just got his BSIS Firearms Permit.”

  Drew, Jason, and Ben all had their firearms permit; I did not. A childhood friend had shot me in the face with his father’s 9mm. There were no bullets in it, just blanks, but he’d fired close enough to me that the explosion had knocked me off my feet and gunpowder had gotten in my eyes. I’d somehow managed to not lose my sight, but the pain was incredible, and there weren’t even any bullets involved. I’d had the option to get my permit, but for now I was fine with just the guard card.

  “I really hate that we’ve had—what?—four or five different calls from schools lately?” Ben shook his head.

  “I think it’s good,” Lena said. “They’re being proactive. Someone’s going to be far less likely to try and commit a mass shooting if they know that there is at least one armed guard there.”

  “Yeah, I’m not saying I think it’s bad that they’re being proactive about it,” Ben said. “It’s just that I hate that it’s come to this in the first place. Did any of us ever have to worry about something like that when we were in school? We did fire drills and bus-evacuation drills—not lockdown and active-shooter drills.”

  “Things are certainly different now, but resisting them isn’t going to change it,” Drew said. He patted Ben on the shoulder. “Trust me, man; I’d trade all the new school contracts we have if it meant there wouldn’t be any more school shootings. Right now, the best we can do is offer our services to hopefully prevent something like that from happening around here.”

  “You could always move,” Jason said. He held his hands up when Ben shot him a look. “I’m not saying I want you to move. But Emmy and I were just talking about this recently, and mass shootings like this just don’t take place in other countries.”

  “No one’s moving,” Drew said.

  I glanced at my phone again. Politics didn’t really interest me. Lena and Ben could talk politics all day, but that sort of thing just wasn’t how I wanted to spend my time. I was more of the fun-loving sort, so I hoped this work meeting wasn’t going to veer off in the direction of an all-night political discussion, because I had things to do. Places to be, people to meet, that sort of thing. Plus, tonight was also kind of a big deal because Carrie was going to meet my parents—and the rest of my family—for the first time.

  Carrie and I hadn’t even officially discussed whether or not we were in a relationship but we’d slept together a bunch of times and gone out on some dates, and did the whole Sunday brunch thing, so inviting her out tonight just seemed like the natural progression of things. We’d met in line at Superior Coffee Co., which was right near our office and a place I went to all the time. How had I never seen her before, this adorable little blonde pixie? My sister, Liz, often jokingly referred to me as “the golden retriever of the family” because there wasn’t anyone I wouldn’t talk to or be friendly with. I knew that sort of thing annoyed people—like Lena, for example—but it had always seemed better to me to go through life on amicable terms with people rather than trying to fight everyone around you.

  The conversation about Lowell Academy continued, but I felt my mind start to drift. I didn’t want to count my chickens before they hatched or anything, but I had a good feeling about Carrie and the direction things were going. In fact, it would probably make sense if we talked about making our relationship official; maybe after dinner tonight would be a good time for that. Cole and Carrie. It had a good ring to it—not that I was thinking about it that much or anything.

  And then the meeting was over, and people were standing up. Jason was talking to Ben and Lena about something, and Drew had motioned for me to come over, but then his phone started to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at it.

  “I’ve got to take this call—can you stick around for a little bit?” he asked. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Er… I’ve got to meet up with Carrie soon; it’s my parents’ anniversary party tonight at Arete. Will it take long?”

  Drew nodded. “Right. I forgot about that. Tell them I said congratulations. You available tomorrow at all, say late morning or early afternoon?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think I have anything planned.”

  “Could you swing by then? It shouldn’t take too long, but it is something that I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

  “Sure.” My interest was piqued—tomorrow was Saturday, and unless we had an event that we were working, people weren’t expected to come into the office. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Have a good time tonight.”

  Drew walked off toward his private corner office, phone up to his ear. “Hey, there, Ed,” was all I heard him say. I was about to ask Jason or Ben if they knew what Drew wanted to talk about when my phone chirped—incoming text. Mostly likely Carrie. I pulled it out, a smile on my face. There was a big block of text. I started to read.

  Cole, I feel really weird sending this message, but I think it’d be more awkward to do it over the phone or something... I don’t think it’s going to work out. I’m really sorry, you’re a super-nice guy and funny and I like hanging out with you but... I think it’d be better if we went our separate ways. So I’m not going to be able to go to the dinner thing tonight for your parents. I’m sorry. I don’t really know what else to say.

  “What the hell is wrong with you now?” Lena asked.

  I looked up from the phone, trying to rearrange my face into an expression that was not the one I currently had there.

  “Uh... nothing. Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You’re an awful liar.”

  I looked back down at the phone again, certain that I had read it wrong, or that it was just a joke, or that she had meant to send it to someone else, or that or that or that...

  But there it was, and it hadn’t changed. Was I supposed to respond to that? If so, what the hell was I supposed t
o say?

  Lena had come over and stood next to me, peering at my phone.

  “Get away,” I said.

  “Damn,” she said, letting out a low whistle.

  I jerked the phone away. “What are you, some sort of speed reader or something?”

  “Something like that. That’s cold. Breakup over text.”

  Jason looked over. “Breakup?” He and Ben walked over and the three of them huddled around me.

  “Everything okay?” Ben asked.

  “Come on, guys,” I said, putting my phone back into my pocket. “Everything’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not,” Lena said, and it was hard to tell if that was a note of satisfaction in her voice or not. “Just look at your face. Has anyone ever told you that you wear your emotions on your sleeve? No, not on your sleeve—more like plastered over your entire body, with a heavy concentration on your face.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I said. “Of course I show emotions on my face. Am I supposed to be like you and show them on my ass?” I pushed past them. “I gotta run, guys. I’ve got to meet up with my parents and everything.”

  I all but fled out of there. I hadn’t brought my bike into work that day, though now I was wishing I had; I could’ve escaped that much faster. But luckily, no one followed me, and there was no one in the elevator when it finally arrived. I wasn’t going to cry over this, but I at least wanted the opportunity to have a sad look on my face without anyone grilling me over it.

  Chapter 2

  Stella

  “You’re smiling.”

  My mother’s lips stretched into a frosty grimace that I was supposed to conclude was a smile in response to my own. She came over and stood behind me and we looked at our reflections in the three-way mirror. “So, you like it then,” she said.

  I hated it. The dress, that was. It was ridiculous. This royal-purple minidress. Cut asymmetrically, of course, in order to hide the jagged scar that ran from my left hip down to almost the middle of my thigh.

  “I designed it myself,” my mother said, her hand on my shoulder feeling heavy and hostile. It felt weird standing this close to her, a fact which did make me feel a little sad. When had things gotten like this between the two of us? We used to be a lot closer, my mother and I; I wasn’t quite sure what had happened over the past few years. Had she changed? Had I? Maybe we both had. “Your father will think it’s lovely. At least one of us still has the ability to make him happy. And Marina’s been working on it for several weeks now. I was thinking a pair of silver- or champagne-colored pumps would be the perfect pairing.”

  I barely heard a word she said. I wasn’t smiling because I was so thrilled at the sight staring back at me—my smile was because I’d been recalling the look on Nate’s face when I’d informed him that, regardless of what my father said, I was no longer in need of his services. I’d been more frank about it at the time, included a few four-letter words, and might have even thrown something—that may or may not have struck him close to the temple. And then, I might or might not have snapped a photo of him and posted it to Instagram, right when he “got a speck of dust in his eye” (or so he claimed). He had no recourse because of the contract he’d signed, which I knew about, but I would’ve posted the picture of him crying anyway. What did I care?

  “I’m not wearing this tonight,” I said. I had only put it on so my mother could see that it did in fact look as amazing as she imagined it, only for me to tell her that there was no way in hell I was going to wear the dress out in public, or in private, for that matter.

  “But, Stella,” my mother said. She pulled her hand away, narrowing her eyes. “It’s your father’s birthday party tonight. His fiftieth birthday party. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “I’m well aware of that fact,” I said. “And I’m planning on being at the party. Which is at some hole-in-the-wall Mediterranean place where the priciest thing on the menu is probably... oh, I don’t know, twelve bucks?”

  My mother pursed her lips. “I don’t need you to remind me of the particulars,” she snapped. “We’re going to Arete because it’s your father’s favorite place—don’t ask me why.”

  “Well, the food is good, for starters. And it’s cheap.”

  “Cheap? Your father has been on the cover of Forbes.”

  “I know. You have this amazing ability to work that little tidbit into a conversation on a regular basis.”

  “The point is he could go to any restaurant he wants. Yet he’s choosing to go there.”

  She looked at me, waiting for me to agree, though by now she should have known that there was no way in hell that would ever happen. I was not the proper little socialite that my mother had always envisioned having as her progeny. I wasn’t like my best friend Lauren, who wouldn’t think twice about dropping thousands of dollars in minutes on whatever it was that struck her fancy. She had no qualms commandeering her family’s private jet for a weekend jaunt to Ibiza or Koh Phangan—though when I say commandeering, I certainly don’t mean she piloted the thing herself. Our parents were friends, which meant Lauren and I had been friends since we were little, before we really had a choice in such matters.

  “So what?” I said. “It’s his birthday. That’s where he wants to go.”

  “And I’m sure he would love it if you wore this dress. It looks lovely on you, if I do say so myself.” I watched in the mirror as her eyes swept down the length of my body and then back up again. I was really all set standing here, having to look at my own reflection, thank you very much. But us standing here was less about looking at me than admiring my mother’s creation. “I see you’ve been working out again.”

  I snorted. “Really? You can see that?”

  “You’re starting to get back some of your muscle tone.”

  A tiny part of me was pleased to hear her say that. After my accident, I’d been laid up for months; it had been excruciating. I wasn’t the sort of person who was used to being bedridden; I sure as hell wasn’t a good patient. Physical therapy had been grueling and all I really wanted was to get back on my bike. My parents had been understanding of this, but thought that, by “getting back on the bike,” I meant going into my training room and hopping on one of the trainers. No. I wanted to be outside, out of the city, back in the woods, on the singletrack. The condition for that was that a bodyguard accompany me.

  “What about yoga?” my mother said. “What if you shifted your focus to yoga? There’s some really excellent trainers out there—Melinda was just telling me about one who’s got a waiting list that’s about a year long but I’m sure we’d be able to arrange something. She would come right to the house; you wouldn’t even have to leave. Maybe I’d do it with you.”

  “Leaving is kind of the point,” I said. “Well, part of the point. I’m not really that interested in doing something indoors.”

  “Don’t you think it’d be fun if we had something that we could do together? Remember how we used to go to high tea when you were little? Wasn’t that fun?”

  I had hated going to high tea; I’d hated having to wear the frilly dress and sit there and eat these lame little cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. But the scones had been good, and I did like the teacups, so I went, but it certainly wasn’t the highlight of my childhood as my mother so clearly believed.

  “You could always come for a bike ride with me,” I said.

  My mother shuddered as though I had just suggested she give herself an enema with an electric eel. “It’s so dangerous,” she said. “The closest I’d get to something like that is a spin class—maybe—but I don’t know if I’d like that high intensity of a workout. A bike is not something that I’m really interested in. And I certainly wouldn’t want to be doing it out in the woods or anything. And definitely not around the city. I can’t even imagine—”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “I get it. No bike riding for you.” I walked away from the mirror. “I’m still not wearing this dress, though. If you had let m
e know that you were doing something like this in the first place, I could have told you not to bother.”

  “I wanted to do something nice.”

  “You know I’m a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl.”

  “Even tonight? Even for your father’s birthday celebration?”

  I shrugged. “We’re just going to Arete. I think it’d be a lot weirder if I wore this there.”

  “Fine,” my mother said coolly. “I’ll leave you to get changed, then. Do whatever you’d like with the dress.” She walked primly out of the room without another word, though the air still felt heavy with her disapproval.

  I sighed and took the dress off. She should know better than to think that I was just going to parade around in whatever outfit she dreamed up. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a black-and-white-striped shirt. With a pair of strappy sandals, it would look a little dressed up, but not too over the top.

  I heard my phone chime and I went over to my bedside table to look at it.

  Stay off the bike. Would hate to see something bad happen to Daddy’s little girl.

  That’s all it said—number unknown. There were other messages from this unknown number, which had started coming in maybe a month or two ago. They were all short warnings, thinly veiled threats of one sort or another: You’ve made a remarkable recovery. Would hate to see something bad happen again. Broken girls shouldn’t ride bikes.

  Perhaps a more logical person would have told someone about this. My parents, a friend, the police. But if whoever was sending these messages was hoping they’d scare me, they were in for a surprise. Nothing scared me anymore, not after what happened. Lauren, my mother—they all thought, after someone had tampered with my bike and I’d gotten into that horrific crash, that I’d give it all up, that I’d stick to safe things, like going out on the yacht and taking selfies on some Caribbean beach and checking to see how many likes each of my posts had gotten. Even if I never raced professionally again, I wasn’t going to spend my days like life was one big vacation. Because it wasn’t—which was something I’d always known but had really had the point hammered home after the accident.