PROTECT HER
By: Chloe Fischer
Book One in the “Protect” Series
Copyright 2017 by Chloe Fischer - All rights reserved.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.
Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
Protect HER
CHAPTER ONE
The first thing that people notice about Cleo is her hair. Although she always tries to play it off as strawberry-blonde, it is decidedly red. Long and wavy, the fire can be seen flowing down her back, kissing the top of her buttocks from a mile away. Today she had it tucked in a bun, in an attempt to hide it from view since she was trying hard to blend in to her surroundings. Her eyes were almost as startling as her hair. They were a sparkling green that showcased a sense of confidence not usually found in one so young. And finally, if one failed to notice these two features, her lithe body and wicked smile completed a package found in sirens in Greek mythology.
But as Cleo stalked down the empty street, she did all she could to hide these distinguishable features. She wore a grey hoodie, hunched her back over and even had a pair of dark sunglasses on -- despite the thick cloud cover that blotted out even the smallest hint of sunlight.
The street she found herself on was one that she didn't usually frequent. It was on the other side of town. The one left to the degenerates of society; the bums and criminals that couldn't hold down a job for longer than a week, and more often than not, didn't want to. This was evidenced by the closed shop fronts with boarded up windows and the litter that created a small minefield on the sidewalk, the broken bottles and discarded trash that covered the roads and the stale musk that hung in the air.
She purposefully ducked down a narrow alleyway located next to an old bottle shop, checking over her shoulder as if worried someone might be watching. What she sought was likely located down at the end of the alley, and although she didn't think anyone would be watching her, she knew that in this part of town, one couldn't be too careful.
"My horoscope told me it was going to be a good day," a reedy male voice echoed from the end of the alleyway. "I had no idea just how good it meant."
Cleo smiled to herself when she heard the voice. She knew who it belonged to, and was happy to have found its owner sooner rather than later. "I didn't know horoscopes were usually so vague," she said back. "Did it hint at anything else I need to know about?"
Halfway down the alley, Cleo came to a halt as the owner of the voice stepped from around the corner. His name was Stan, and he stood in stark contrast to what his voice may have suggested. He was skinny to the point of being malnourished. He had a beak face, terrible teeth and skin, and greasy hair that hung down to his shoulders. It was hard to believe that he was only twenty four years old.
“Is it really you, Cleo?” Stan said with more than a little awe in his voice. “I haven’t seen you in years. What’re ya doing around here?” Cleo just smiled.
“And that hoodie and those glasses," Stan continued as he approached Cleo. There was a quiver in his voice. It was pretty evident that he was excited about seeing Cleo. "That disguise doesn’t do much good if you don't cover your face properly. I spotted you half way down the road."
"And why would I want to cover my face up?" Cleo asked coyly. "Most say it's my best feature."
"I won't argue that. But considering who your brother is, I would think you wouldn't want to be seen in these parts?"
"True. But I'm going to be quick... or at least I plan on it. But that really comes down to you."
"To me?" he asked, puffing out his chest as he did. He and Cleo were standing right in front of one another now and the power dynamic couldn't be more obvious. Stan, eager eyes and beaming smile, was like a puppy; looking up to an owner he desperately wanted to please.
"Yeah," Cleo said, flashing him a charming smile. "You... you do want to help me, don't you?"
"Of course," he said quickly. As he did, he flipped the backpack he was wearing into his hands. "What are you after? I'm packing today. I've got over fifty grams of --"
"Actually, Stan, I was after a slightly different favor today..."
"Oh..." he paused, crestfallen, with the bag still in his hands.
Cleo had known Stan since grade school. Although they weren't friends back then, Cleo had always tried to look out for him. Stan was an awkward kid from the wrong side of the tracks. He attended Cleo’s school as part of a program hoping to give unprivileged but academically gifted kids the chance to get ahead by rubbing elbows with kids from upper middle class families. In school, Stan frequently got picked on – until high school that is, when Stan discovered the power of being the weed distributor to a high school full of teenagers rebelling against their staid, strict, and demanding parents. Who knew that Stan might come in handy one day? Eight years later, and Cleo’s acts of kindness back in grade school were the very thing she was hoping would help her out now.
Cleo had been debating for the last two days whether Stan was the person to see for what she needed, and after crossing out all her other options, she realized that she had no choice.
"You've been doing this for a while, haven't you?" Cleo asked casually, deciding to work her way into it.
"You mean dealing? Yeah, for a few years. I was going to go to Harvard, but decided this was more aligned with my career path," Stan joked.
"So, it's probably safe to guess that you've built up a little nest egg for yourself?" she continued. As she did she took a step into Stan, getting just close enough so that he would be able to smell her.
"Maybe..." he breathed in deeply, savoring her fragrance.
"I was wondering – and please, let me finish first. But I was wondering if you wouldn't mind lending me some cash --"
"You've got to be kid --"
"I said let me finish," Cleo cut back in. As she did, she reached up and pulled out the scrunchie that was holding her hair in a bun. In one slow motion, she released her hair, whipping it back and forth as she let it flow down.
The effect was instantaneous. Stan's knees just about buckled at the sight of her hair, whipping in his face, and he let out an audible gasp.
The thing was, Cleo didn't even need the money for herself. Cleo's best friend Tish was from Australia, but she had been living in America for the better part of five years. That was all well and good, until Tish belatedly realized that her visa was going to expire – and would NOT be renewed. Organization was definitely Tish’s weakness. She had ignored the notices again and again until the situation was now critical. Visas were always expensive, but they were even more so when one needed to go through illegal channels to secure one. Thankfully, Cleo knew some people who could wrangle a visa for her fast – only it was going to cost her.
When she had volunteered to help her friend raise the money, she had assumed that she would have the time to start saving up for her. However, time was quickly running out and Cleo was still five thousand short in her “Save Tish” fund.
"Five thousand dollars is all I need, Stan. That's a pittance compared to how much I know you have stashed away."
"Cleo, come on.
You know I would but..."
"One month, Stan. That's it. I'll have the money back to you in one month. Please." Cleo begged. Even if she had to go without eating, driving, going to the spa, and foregoing her daily Starbucks stop.
"Wh... wha... what about that brother of yours? The cop? Can't you ask him?" Stan stuttered his way through the question, his lip quivering as Cleo battered her eyes at him. She could tell that it was taking every ounce of his will power to deny her.
"I could, but I'm asking you." The reason Cleo wasn't asking her brother was because she didn't want to. If her brother knew she needed the money -- regardless of the reason -- he would hold it over her head for all time, thrilled by the fact that she needed him. No, she wasn't going to be indebted to him, not for anything.
"And... and what do I get out of it?"
"Well," Cleo began. She reached out and placed her arm gently on Stan's hand. She could feel him shaking. "You mean apart from my gratitude?"
She had him. She knew she did. Even as Stan worked to come up with a reason why he couldn't lend her the money, she could see that with another push or two he would be putty in her hands.
"Ah... I want to, Cleo... I do... but... I mean..." He was about to break, seconds away even. But, just as he opened his mouth to say the words, Cleo saw his eyes look over her shoulder and flash open in fear. Something had come up behind her that frightened the living daylights out of him.
Cleo spun on her heel, instantly seeing what it was. Parked at the end of the alley, clear as day, was a cop car. The lights were flashing on top and whoever was inside the vehicle had seen the two.
"Shit!" Stan yelped.
"Don’t run," Cleo urged, grabbing Stan by the arm. "I've got this."
"Got this?! You do, but I don't!" He went to run, but she held on firm.
"Don't worry. I can --"
"This bag has fifty grams in it! He takes one look inside and I'm locked up for longer than --"
"Give me the bag," Cleo said quickly. Her eyes were still trained on the end of the alley, where the cop was slowly climbing from his car. The alley was a dead end, and the cop obviously knew that. They were trapped.
"What? No, I can't do that," Stan yelped again.
"Seriously. He won't search it if it's on me."
"But... but... this stuff isn’t mine. It's Drax's. You know who Drax is? I either give him back the drugs or the money I make from them. That's the way this thing works. I don't get him the money and --"
"I don’t know who Drax is. But it won't matter if you end up in prison, will it?" The cop was a portly fellow, waddling down the alley. He was taking his time too, obviously enjoying the way the two squirmed as they watched him.
"OK," Stan relented, shoving the bag into Cleo's hands. "But seriously, I need that back. If I don't get Drax his money from that I'm de --"
"Shut the fuck up," Cleo hissed. "I'll get rid of this guy and then you can have your precious bag back--"
"What's going on here?" the cop called out, finally within yelling distance. "I hope I didn't interrupt?"
"Not at all, officer," Cleo said pleasantly. She instantly turned on the charm, batting her eyes and running a hand through her hair. "We were just talking. That's not illegal, is it?"
"That really depends on what you were talking abo... Cleo?" the cop asked, pulling up. He was roughly twenty feet from the two now, and at that distance, Cleo realized that she actually knew the cop in question.
"Oh, hey Brian," she said with a sigh. The cop was a good friend of her brothers. That should have been good news, but to Cleo it was a nightmare. It meant that her brother was going to hear about her being in this part of town – something she had been hoping to avoid.
"What the heck are you doing here?" he asked, frowning heavily as he shuffled in closer.
"Just catching up with an old friend from school," Cleo offered. "Stan. We've been friends since --"
"I don't care how long you've been friends for," Brain scolded. "It's dangerous out here. You should know better than to -- here, I'll give you a lift back into town. Come on."
"Oh," Cleo said, surprised. "That's not necessary. I was going to get the bus and --"
"It's not necessary, but it's happening," Brain said. He dropped the pleasantries and doing his best to sound authoritative. "If your brother knew I'd left you out here he'd take my gun and pistol whip me back to the eighties. Now, come on."
Cleo stood frozen, not sure what to do. She looked from the very stern face of Brian, to the panic stricken one of Stan. Stan's eyes flashed from the cop to the backpack strung over Cleo's shoulders. His hand half moved to grab it, but didn't. Instead it kind of just dangled in mid-air, unsure what to do. Cleo would have loved nothing more than to give him back the bag - and she sure didn't relish the idea of climbing into a cop car with a bag full of cocaine on her. But she also knew she couldn't risk it.
With no other options left to her, Cleo did her best to give Stan an 'I'm sorry' look before nodding to Brian and walking down the alley toward the cop car.
"And you," Brian said to Stan. "Don't think I don't know who you are. I see you around Cleo again and you'll be jumping in the back there too. Only with cuffs on, and my night stick up your ass." He then turned and followed Cleo down the alley.
Cleo climbed in the back seat of the cop car, the back pack weighing heavily on her lap. As Brian climbed in and pulled the car onto the road, she caught Stan's eyes one more time. His face was bone white while his mouth hung open. And his eyes... she had never seen him look so worried.
Damn! Not only had Cleo failed to get the money she was after, but she now had a bag full of drugs on her, while riding in a police vehicle! She knew Brian would never dream of searching her bag, she was more concerned with time, and if she would have enough to get the bag back to Stan and get the money off him... if he was willing to part with it now, after all this.
Somehow, she doubted he would be.
CHAPTER TWO
The entire street had been closed down for the spectacle today. Entire lanes of traffics were diverted and forced to find a new route as throngs of people clamored down the sidewalk and onto the road of the sectioned off street. There were thousands of them too, all yelling, all screaming in excitement, all desperate to get a glimpse of the one and only Beatrice of Estria.
Beatrice of Estria was a European aristocrat. Although her country was currently in the throes of civil war, and she was actually visiting America as a form of international diplomacy, she still managed to take time out of her schedule to stroll down the busy street and wave and greet her adoring 'fans.'
In the 21st Century, with the aid of social media, fans were easy to come by and usually paralleled how attractive a person was, rather than how important they were. Beatrice was both. Not only was she an international icon, but she was also stunning. Only thirty or so years in age, she had a body that most women envied and most men wanted. Her face was perfectly set, her eyes sparkled and her blonde hair shone in the sunlight.
And so she strolled down the barricaded street, waving and touching the hands of the people who had come to see her. They were separated by a small waist high barricade, but the excitement was such that it threatened to burst at any second as the people pushed up against it as a means to get closer.
Yes, the air was electrifying. Every single person on the street was bursting with joy and excitement. Well, everyone but Dallas.
Dallas couldn't have been more annoyed if he tried. He looked over the heads of the throngs of people as they screamed and shouted, doing his best to pay attention and keep his mind sharp.
When the day started and Dallas had arrived at his job, he was his usual, alert self. The job was about as simple as they came – to act as a security detail for Beatrice -- but to Dallas, each job was as important as the next. He hated to be dramatic, but he knew that one slip up could quiet literally cost lives.
However, as the job progressed, he quickly learned that the person he had been h
ired to protect, took very little interest in her own personal safety - to the point that whenever Dallas tried to assert some authority, she shot him down and told him to stop being so silly.
"Nonsense," she scoffed as they drove to the street earlier that day. They were in the back of a limo, and she barely paid him a lick of attention as she touched up her make-up in a small handheld mirror.
"Ma'am, I can't emphasize enough how --"
"Listen. This is my first time in America in three years. Do you really think I'm going to ignore my fan base?"
"I'm not telling you to ignore them. I'm simply saying that if you were to do it indoors and --"
"Indoors?" she exclaimed as if it were the most ridiculous thought in the world. "It's a perfect day and my skin is absolutely aching for some sun. No, we will do it how I've planned. And you... you will stand in the corner and be the good security guard you've been hired to be."
At first, he argued. And finally, he told her that her safety was no light matter and that if she didn't take it seriously, she could die.
"You really have a flair for the dramatic, don't you?" she chuckled as the limousine pulled up. It was Dallas' final attempt at getting her to see reason, and it had failed. "Look, here's what you're going to do. You're going to stand in the crowd, watch me as you've been hired to do and... and try to blend in, will you? You look like you're going to a funeral."
Blending into the crowd wasn't something that Dallas was so good at either. Standing at over six feet three inches tall, with very broad shoulders, a jaw that looked like it had been carved from granite and piercing blue eyes, he stood out like a sore thumb. That, added to the black suit he was forced to wear, meant that Dallas looked exactly like what he was – a bodyguard.
Dallas hated being called a bodyguard, and more than that, he hated being treated like one. He found the term demeaning, and underplaying what he actually was. Ever since he had quit the Navy SEALs two years earlier, Dallas had worked for a high-class protection agency that specialized in the security of wealthy individuals. It was a job that was rewarding in its own way, and brought him some level of satisfaction – when he was allowed to actually do his job. But as Dallas climbed from the limousine and made his way to the crowd, he realized that today wasn't going to be one of those days.
Protect Her Page 1