Bad Judgment

by Sidney Bell

  With Mario inside, Brogan took up his position at the door. The basic gist of their protocol was that the primary—Mario today—would shadow Henniton. As backup, Brogan’s duty was to ensure that nothing interfered with Mario’s ability to keep bullets away from the client. He made sure the car wasn’t tampered with, that their route was safe, that points of egress remained open, and he reviewed anyone who wanted access to Henniton in order to weed out trouble.

  When the elevator dinged again, Brogan got ready to clear whoever stepped out, only to freeze in place when the doors opened.

  The man who emerged was absolutely, excruciatingly exquisite.

  For three entire seconds, Brogan couldn’t breathe. If the stranger had pulled a weapon, he’d have had the hit no problem because Brogan was standing there staring like a complete fucking idiot, barely able to keep his mouth from dropping open in full advertisement of his own stupidity.

  The stranger was in his early to midtwenties, whippet-lean and graceful in a brutally tailored dark blue suit with a sharp vest and nearly obscene trousers that made his legs look ten miles long. Night-dark hair had been slicked into a conservative style and provided sharp contrast against pale, creamy skin. He had aristocratic features—high cheekbones, a slim, straight nose, a hard jaw and slashing brows that give him a somber, intent air—but his mouth, by contrast, was sweet, almost delicate.

  Brogan’s brain finally woke up, and he took a second glance at the stranger, this time searching for signs that he was a threat. He carried a brown leather briefcase in one hand, staring down while he thumbed the buttons on a smartphone with the other. There were no bulges in his clothing to suggest he was carrying, and there was nothing overtly menacing about him.

  The receptionist paused in her typing to say, “Good morning, Mr. Ford.”

  “Suze,” he said politely, looking up.

  His eyes were big, black and shrewd.

  His gaze traveled to Brogan, cool to the point of disdain, and then he walked past him without hesitating.

  Brogan fumbled to find his tongue. “Sir, if you could wait a moment.”

  “I’m on the list,” Ford said without stopping.

  “Yeah,” Brogan said, turning to follow gracelessly. He recognized the name from the conversation with Timmerson, and the fact that the receptionist knew him was verification of his identity, although Brogan still needed to give Mario a heads up. He was just a few seconds behind, though, and those trousers were as perfectly cut in the rear as they were in the front. Frankly, Ford had an ass that made Brogan’s mouth go dry all over again, because fuck—

  Ford entered Henniton’s office without knocking.

  And Brogan stood there like a stupid bastard and let him.

  “Everything clear?” Mario’s voice sounded through his earpiece, the question vague enough, fortunately, that support wouldn’t realize that Brogan fucked up.

  “Uh, clear,” he said, activating his mic.

  “Copy.”

  It took him a good five seconds to recover.

  “He is on the list, if that makes you feel better,” the receptionist—Suze, apparently—said, hints of a smile curving her lips. “He’s Mr. Henniton’s executive assistant.”

  “Yeah,” Brogan managed. He gave her a flustered shrug. “He’s not gonna try to shoot Henniton, then.”

  “Less likely than most,” she replied, the hint of a smile becoming a full grin. “And don’t be too embarrassed. More than a few of the women have had that same reaction.”

  “Great,” he said, shaking his head. Now he’d broken protocol and outed himself in the same thirty seconds. An auspicious start to the day.

  Brogan sat back down and Suze resumed her typing, the click-click of her fingers on the keyboard disappearing into the background. He studied the hall, determined not to mess up again, angry with himself for mishandling a simple thing. Verifying identity and telling Mario that Ford was here, that was all he’d had to do.

  Brogan had never been that guy. He didn’t think with his cock, didn’t let himself get distracted. He wasn’t married to the rules or anything—he could improvise with the best of them, even preferred it at times—but he was a professional, for crying out loud. His brain had never stopped functioning just because something gorgeous walked by, and he’d be damned if he’d let it now.

  Another issue was that Brogan wasn’t out at work. His family and a couple friends, Mario included, knew he was gay, and he didn’t live in the closet. He pulled at gay bars when he wanted to and he didn’t do a damn thing to conceal who he was beyond keeping his mouth shut on the topic around his colleagues. It was one of the few things that Brogan actively disliked about his job—a hyper-masculine field like security wasn’t even close to abandoning old-school bigotries about orientation, and while he doubted he’d be in danger if he were outed, he really didn’t want the hassle.

  All in all, he wasn’t pleased with himself for how he’d reacted.

  He had his game face on by the time lunch rolled around and he got his first look at Joel Henniton in person. The guy was six-and-a-half feet of brawn with shoulders that could put a freight train in its place, and hands like mallets. He made Brogan feel small—something he wasn’t used to—and towered over Ford, who was, unfortunately, every bit as impossibly beautiful as he’d been the first time he walked past.

  As Timmerson had predicted, Henniton didn’t deign to notice Brogan.

  Brogan held the elevator doors for the others, ensuring that he and Mario stood in front for the ride down, and he ignored the quick once-over of concern that Mario threw his way.

  Henniton said, “I don’t like Neeley for this. He’s disloyal. He’ll turn on us as quickly as he’ll turn on them.”

  “It’ll be free market information in less than six hours,” Ford replied. “If we don’t go with Neeley, we’ll lose our head start while we search for another source.”

  Brogan listened with half an ear. Most of his attention was on his radio, where he’d hear about any trouble that might meet them beyond the elevator doors when they got to the lobby. Henniton considered Ford’s words then said, “Okay. Call him.”

  “All right. Now, about facilities management. We need a new director. I’m not working with that idiot anymore.” Ford’s voice was pleasantly deep—not that Brogan cared—but his words were astringent.

  “You put up with him for longer than I expected,” Henniton said. Given what he’d heard about Henniton, Brogan half expected fireworks. The tone didn’t seem to offend the man, though. If anything, he sounded amused. “Fire him, then. Although I’d like to point out that I’m supposed to be the cutthroat one, Embry.”

  “Thank you,” Ford said.

  The elevator stopped on the fourteenth floor, but Mario told the woman waiting there to catch the next one.

  When they were on their way again, Ford said, “We should promote Kensing to the position.”

  “Which one is he?”

  “She is the one who argued for the new plumbing system in buildings ten through sixteen last year.”

  “That cost a fortune, didn’t it?” Henniton mused.

  “$26,755.” Ford rattled off the figure like recalling numbers from a year ago was nothing.

  “Too much,” Henniton said.

  “Not compared to the fortune it would have cost us if we hadn’t done it. The great flood of last winter, remember?”

  “Oh, that. God, what a nightmare,” Henniton said. He heaved a melodramatic sigh.

  “She’s my choice, and she’ll leave if we try an outside hire. Promote her.”

  “Fine,” Henniton said.

  Ford made a satisfied noise and typed something into his smartphone.

  It appeared Joel Henniton allowed his executive assistant—someone who didn’t look old enough to rent a car—to dic
tate a surprising number of his business decisions. At least Ford seemed viciously competent so far.

  The elevator doors opened on the ground floor and Brogan and Mario exited into the busy lobby first, surveying the area as Henniton stepped out behind them. The atrium rose several stories high and people on upper floors could look over the railings all the way to the lobby. The south wall, where the main doors were set, was entirely glass-fronted, letting plenty of gray January overcast in, and the lush greenery, mahogany reception desk and leather couches extended a quiet elegance to visitors.

  Gorgeous, but a security nightmare. Too many lines of sight, too much space and cover. Brogan’s skin crawled.

  “I’ll be back at one,” Henniton told Ford. “And don’t forget, we’ve got the evening meeting tonight.”

  Brogan, in the midst of sweeping his gaze around the lobby, caught the quiet nod Ford gave Henniton.

  Then Henniton was striding away, Mario at his side, and Brogan only got one last glimpse of dark, cool eyes and a lovely, unsmiling mouth before Ford vanished into the crush of people bustling through the lobby.

  Stop looking at him, asshole, Brogan told himself. And get focused before you get yourself killed.

  Chapter Two

  The road leading to Touring Industries was guarded by a squat structure and a thick yellow rail only raised once visitors had been cleared by the two guards on duty. The cameras peering down from the roof were monitored by the Touring security department and, now, by Security Division employees in their support office. Past the guardhouse, the road wound up a long hill toward the administration building, twenty-six stories of silver and glass shining even in the winter-dull sun amid acres of unenthusiastic grass. The sixteen outbuildings—warehouses, manufacturing plants, and the like—sprawled out in the distance, all of them connected by gravel paths and lined with large parking lots.

  It would’ve been a stunning place, Brogan thought, driving Mario and Henniton back on grounds after a lunch meeting, but for the razor wire atop the chain link fence lining the perimeter and all the armed guards and dogs on patrol.

  Brogan resumed his position outside of Henniton’s closed office door, watching reception and the elevator. Mario had his mic open, and occasionally Brogan overheard bits of Henniton’s phone conversations.

  When Ford returned, Brogan looked him over once for signs of distress or trouble, and when he found none, said into his radio, “Mr. Ford entering.”

  “Copy,” Mario said.

  Brogan held the door for him. Ford never looked up from his smartphone, although he did offer a frigid, “Thank you.”

  Brogan nodded. He did not turn to watch Ford’s very firm ass in those exceedingly flattering trousers, because he was a fucking professional, and professionals didn’t do that sort of thing no matter how much they might want to.

  After the door closed behind Ford, Brogan thought, that’s how this morning was supposed to go.

  When the escort portion of his shift ended, Brogan drove to Henniton’s home to familiarize himself with the property. After he announced his presence to the guys on shift with Henniton’s wife, the black iron gates lumbered open and Brogan guided his truck between massive oaks down a long, curving drive to a mansion—there was really no other word for it.

  He was met at the front door by Wiley Santos, a shrimp of a guy who was nonetheless an excellent operator. Together, they made their way through the house, discussing potential problems on the grounds, like the ridiculous amount of foliage that blocked line of sight from the first floor windows. When Brogan asked Wiley if Henniton would let them cut some of the branches back, all he got in reply was a snort. He’d sort of anticipated that answer anyway.

  Brogan met the wife as well. Alyssa Henniton was in her late thirties, excruciatingly well-maintained but apologetic anyway, like she’d failed the world at large by daring to approach her forties at all. She patted her hair or smoothed her silk blouse every thirty seconds and her eyes roamed around as if she anticipated the arrival of the second trophy wife at any moment.

  Brogan met the household staff as well, learning their names and their routines so he could instantly identify if someone was allowed on the property. Then he wandered outside, learning the boundaries and fences, testing the range of the motion-sensor lights and the potential hiding spots where someone might conceal himself. He would mostly be scheduled at Touring, but just in case, it was important that he know his way around.

  Once he’d finished at the main house, he drove to the Hennitons’ other property, a small but lavish apartment in a luxury building downtown. Security Division had someone stationed in a van in the parking lot 24-7, monitoring cameras that Mr. Touring had paid to have installed. After stopping at the van to check in, Brogan introduced himself to the manager, who peered at his ID and called support to confirm his identity. While he waited, Brogan decided that this whole setup was further proof of Henniton’s demanding nature—rather than give up visiting the apartment until the death threat situation was resolved, Henniton had his boss paying through the nose to ensure that he had the option to drop in any time he liked.

  After he was approved, Brogan went upstairs and let himself in with his brand new key.

  It was an elegant place—deep cream carpets, lots of light and space, a wrought iron railing around a spacious balcony. The furnishings were stylish in that bland way that spoke to the tastes of an interior decorator working for someone he or she hadn’t met: beige walls, couches and chairs with button-tufted backs, and a discreet entertainment center, shelves appointed with refined bric-a-brac.

  It was also deeply suspicious.

  Someone was living here full time, for one thing: while the place was neurotically neat, a dirty coffee cup rested in the sink, fresh produce chilled in the fridge, and a novel sat on the bedside table with a bookmark two-thirds of the way through. There were two toothbrushes in a cup in the bathroom.

  This, Brogan realized, was an apartment for a mistress.

  No wonder Alyssa Henniton looked so damn twitchy.

  Brogan wasn’t here to snoop, but part of him was curious about the woman. He’d never met an actual mistress, and he wondered about the kind of person who got into this sort of arrangement with a married man. A good quarter of the books on the shelves were written in French, and she had a comprehensive collection of Nina Simone on vinyl that Brogan stared at for a long minute with pitiful lust. There was a print of Madonna of the Pinks hanging on the wall behind the sofa and a small, melancholy oil painting over the bed—a woman sitting in a field, her parasol discarded beside her.

  He tried to avoid the thought of Joel Henniton in the enormous bed with the mystery woman. He did not need that image in his head.

  There was only the one way in and out, and the apartment was on the sixteenth floor, several stories higher than any of the surrounding buildings, so there was little risk of sniper fire through the windows. The alarm system was sophisticated enough that an invader would need significant skills to enter without alerting anyone, and the Security Division guard out in the van was in contact with the support desk.

  The place was reasonably secure.

  Brogan was torn about working an evening shift now, because while he was mildly disgusted at the idea of waiting outside while Henniton cheated on his wife, he was also intrigued by the mistress. He imagined a Frenchwoman in black silk, probably with enormous boobs and a sultry laugh.

  With a last glance around—the mystery woman should hold out for someone better, he thought—Brogan left.

  * * *

  The rest of the week went by in much the same pattern. Brogan worked day shifts, mostly as the backup escort or in support, but sometimes he was sent to inspect restaurants and hotel conference rooms before Henniton was scheduled to be there. During his support shifts, he made headway with his orientation packet, which outl
ined the people most likely to be trouble—rival VPs and such—although Timmerson was right. There wasn’t much information available, and it bothered him that there was so little to cover.

  Thin research meant things slipped through the cracks. He wanted to kick Henniton for being a secretive, pouty bastard.

  But Brogan was settling in. He worked with Mario every third or fourth day, and while Henniton had yelled at plenty of his own employees, he’d only ever ignored Brogan.

  In short, everything was going fine.

  Well, except for Ford.

  He showed up in hurried bursts, appearing out of nowhere to update Henniton on one thing or another before vanishing again. Each time, Ford seemed oblivious to Brogan’s existence, which bugged him considerably.

  The problem was that Brogan had always been the kind of man who found competence sexy. And Ford was, quite possibly, the most competent person he’d ever met, especially for someone who should’ve still had zits (but didn’t) from tripping over the last vestiges of puberty. In fact, Ford’s mastery of his environment meant that he’d single-handedly terrorized half of Touring’s middle management into excellent work performances as well.

  It wasn’t that he said anything rude or personal or mean, because he didn’t. He simply annihilated excuses and attacked poor logic in a calm, cold voice while staring at people as if they’d spilled soup all over themselves. The only thing that didn’t prompt his palpable scorn was flawless proficiency, so everyone busted their asses to provide it. He was not well-liked by his coworkers (Brogan had seen more than one dart in the opposite direction when they saw Ford coming), but the reason Ford always had whatever Henniton asked for was that he ran the tightest operation Brogan had seen since he got out of the army.

  And he did it while looking perfectly put together: shoes shined, shirt starched and every hair in place. Brogan managed to avoid staring at Ford all the time, but it was difficult to resist. He’d never had such a powerful, instantaneous reaction to someone.