Hushed Guardian: Brandon's Story

by Shandi Boyes

  “What’s going on?” Isabelle asks, stopping to stand next to me.

  When her narrowed eyes dart between the agents laughing at Isaac’s deranged once-lover scuffling with the head bouncer of Isaac’s nightclub, I clue on to which disaster she’s referencing. “Megan Shroud. She’s brought out so much crazy today, even Alex is taking notice.”

  We’ve noted Megan outside of Isaac’s club many times the past few months, but today is the first time she’s gone full-blown skitzo like she is now. She’s kicking and thrashing against the brute of a man who usually stands on the door of Isaac’s dance club. She’s tiny, but even the man who’d easily be six-foot-five is struggling to keep her contained.

  When she breaks free from the bouncer’s hold for the second time, Isabelle paces closer to the window. “Why isn’t someone calling the police?” Her crackling voice exposes her worry. “She’s clearly unstable and not just a threat to the public. She’s a threat to herself.” When no one jumps in to ease her worry, she strays her big brown eyes to Alex. “You need to call the police.”

  A flashback of Leesa’s wide, panicked eyes in the minutes leading to her turning rogue whiz into my mind when Isabelle runs her hand down Alex’s arm. It’s clever to use her femininity to her advantage if she were using it on anyone but Alex. Just like me, he’s immune to anyone who isn’t his soulmate.

  “Isaac made his bed, now he has to sleep in it.”

  While Alex frustrates the agents hovering around the window by lowering the blinds, Isabelle locks her eyes with mine. She stares at me, wordlessly begging for direction. I honestly don’t know what to do or say. I don’t want to encourage her to do one of the many dangerous things I see in her eyes, but I also don’t want her to hang around here. Albert has been Vladimir’s right-hand man for longer than Isabelle has been born. If they cross paths, he could recognize her.

  When I shrug my shoulders, truly unsure about what to do, Isabelle makes a beeline to her desk. She removes her Bureau-issued pistol from her second drawer before scanning the room. Once she’s confident she isn’t being watched, she secures her revolver to her ankle. I wait for the hem of her pants to touch her shoes before nudging my head to the corridor, so we can have a private word. I have no clue what I’m planning to say, but I have to say something, don’t I?

  Isabelle agrees to my request but raises her finger in the air, requesting a minute. Although my curiosity is piqued, I make my way to the corridor, awarding her a trust I don’t often give anymore.

  Approximately thirty seconds later, Isabelle joins me in the corridor. She looks like she has something important to say, but I talk before she has the chance. “I’ll follow her.”

  Her face screws up. “They’ll know you’re gone, Brandon. They won’t notice me as I’ve spent the last four weeks in the supply room scanning documents. Nobody ever comes in there looking for me but you. Cover for me, and I’ll owe you big time.”

  She has a point—regrettably.

  I run a hand over my head while contemplating. If she’s investigating Megan, she won’t be here, exposed to a high-ranked man in her father’s crew, but then she’d be thrust into Megan’s line of sight. From the hospital records Isabelle unearthed on her months ago, there’s no doubt Megan is unstable, but I doubt her crimes are worse than Albert’s.

  Believing an unhinged woman is the lesser of two evils, I dig my keys out of my pocket and place them into Isabelle’s palm. “It’s a blue BMW coupe half a block down.”

  She looks utterly shocked—so much so, she darts down the corridor without a word seeping from her lips. Just before she reaches the stairwell, she pivots around and races back my way. I’m taken aback when she slings her arms around my neck and hugs me tight. “Thank you, Brandon. I would have never made it this far without you.”

  I return her hug, both smug from her compliment and worried. “Be careful, Izzy.”

  After inching back, she nods, winks, and then sprints back down the corridor. I wait until she clears the first floor of stairs before re-entering the office. The buzz of Megan’s antics is keeping the energy high. It’s been like this most of the day. Tobias always said good agents have a knack for feeling change in the air. Great ones make it happen.

  With that in mind, I make my way down the corridor I saw Detective Carter guiding Albert down only minutes ago. I’m not surprised to discover the conference room walls have been frosted. It’s a pity for Agent Russell and Alex that Detective Carter has no trouble raising his voice to express his annoyance at the Bureau attempting to ‘piss on his turf.’

  “I brought him here as a mark of respect for your tip, not for you to gloat. If I want to hear a rooster crow, I’ll visit a fucking farm.”

  I can’t hear what Alex replies with, but I’m certain he’s the one who’s talking. His tone is too deep and low to be Agent Russell’s.

  Barely three seconds tick by before the conference door slings open, and Detective Carter steps out. “Two minutes and not a second longer.”

  His exit from the room is too quick for me to make out I wasn’t spying. It’s for the best. Detective Carter doesn’t seem like the type to believe shit is chocolate. “You’re the agent from the alleyway.” Since he’s not asking a question, it doesn’t sound like one.

  “I am.” I fill the gap between us with three quick strides before holding out my hand in offering. “Brandon James.”

  He hesitates for a second before accepting my hand. “Brandon, as in Izzy Brahn’s Brandon?”

  My chest shouldn’t swell at his assumption, but it does. Still, I try and downplay it. “A lot of people are called Brandon—”

  “Not in this town, they’re not.” He takes in the bland walls like they’re covered with family portraits while stepping closer to the main hub of the office. “Have you been here long? Prime commercial real estate like this hasn’t been on the market in years, so you’ve either been here for a while, or you don’t use the same channels as us regular folks.”

  I smirk, amused he thinks a friendly persona will have me slipping up. Local authorities are aware the FBI has a task force in Ravenshoe, but they have no clue who we’re here for and exactly how long we plan to stay.

  “I can see how this location can be popular for some, but it isn’t up to my standards.”

  That gets a smile out of him, albeit reserved. “I thought this neighborhood would be right up your alley. Who doesn’t want a big fancy nightclub straight across the street.” He shifts on his feet to face me, his smirk smug since he knows who we’re targeting without me needing to mention it. “Especially if you’re a dancing type of guy.”

  “I’m not much of a dancer, either.”

  “No?” he fires back, his brows arching. “I wouldn’t have guessed that. I’ve seen you at a handful of clubs.”

  My brows are dying to stitch, but I won’t let them. The more impassive I act, the more Detective Carter’s game plan will become exposed. “You don’t have to be a dancer to enjoy a nightclub. More times than not, the view makes up for the annoying buzz in your ears the next three days.”

  He nods. “True.” His lips twist as he struggles to hold back his smile. “If you’re there for the female clientele.”

  His reply has me smirking like a smug prick. Our brief conversation exposes he saw me follow Isabelle to the Dungeon dance club weeks ago, but he has no clue about our kiss, which proves he’s not watching Izzy. The only thing I need to work out is if he’s targeting the same man our taskforce, is or is he playing devil’s advocate.

  I lose the chance to underhandly work it out of him when he taps on his watch, announcing the two minutes he gave Alex with Albert is up, but his murmured comment when he heads back to the conference room door ensures I’ll be keeping an eye on him. “Tell Dimitri I said hello.”

  I’ve only worked my jaw side to side twice when he guides a handcuffed and bloody Albert past me. I’m not shocked Albert was roughed-up by Alex, the Rogers are well known in the Bureau for their ‘invest
igative tactics.’ I’m just stunned he had the gall to do it in front of an IA agent. There’s only one way in and out of the room. Agent Russell didn’t leave.

  I discover that Alex’s tactic was successful when he hands me a crumbled piece of paper with a handwritten sequence of numbers on it. From the length of the digits, I’m going to assume it is a bank transaction. “I need to know anything this number could correspond to, and I needed it last week.”

  “Does this correspond with our target or the man who just left with a broken nose?” When he glances up from his bloody knuckles to me, his glare furious, I add, “If I know who to focus my search on, I’ll have more chance of working out what these numbers correspond to. It could be anything.”

  Alex’s trust appears as low as mine, but he still gives it to me. “I didn’t have enough time to get more out of him, but I’d recommend adding both our target and Vladimir Popov into your search parameter.”

  24

  Brandon

  While climbing the stairs of my apartment building, I rub at a kink in my neck. If I had any doubt Isaac’s many corporations weren’t shady, I don’t now. It took me over four hours to discover the sequence of numbers Alex handed me was a transfer of ninety-three hundred dollars from an offshore account of one of Isaac’s many shell corporations to a casino in Las Vegas.

  Whoever organized the wire transfer has a strong knowledge of cybercrime. Grayson taught me everything he knew. I’ve hacked into servers that are supposedly unhackable. Alas, even I’m struggling to work out exactly who the funds were transferred to. It probably doesn’t help that I stopped my investigation partway through to help Isabelle write up a report on the evidence she located when she followed Megan to a Motel 6 on the edge of town.

  Alex was as cocky as fuck when he told Isabelle he’d place two agents on Megan in the morning. He wasn’t lying when he made his statement. That’s how confident he is that his arrest warrant for Isaac will be issued overnight, freeing up a handful of his agents for less pressing matters like psychotic stalkers with a fascination for pop stars.

  It turns out Megan isn’t an ex-lover of Isaac’s. From the evidence Isabelle unearthed, her eyes aren’t set on a broody, enigmatic businessman. She wants his little brother—the playboy guitarist who’s almost the polar opposite to his big brother. Nicholas Holt was put under the spotlight when the Bureau arrived in town. It didn’t take the agents following him long to realize he had no clue about his brother’s shady businesses. Other than sleeping-in until midday and playing lead guitar in his band, Rise Up, Nick occupied the rest of his time chasing a strawberry-blonde teenager lightyears out of his league.

  Hey, don’t judge. I’m just telling you what the reports said. They were taken by a rookie agent who seemingly had a crush on Nick’s girl, so do with it as you may.

  My hand drops from my neck to my chest when a shadowed figure moves into the light hanging above my apartment door. The lights in the hall were hardwired by the building supervisor, so I have no choice but to have my door lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “Good evening, Agent Russell. A bit late for a house call, isn’t it?”

  She smiles at the snark in my tone instead of reacting negatively to it. “I heard Alex was a hard-ass. Wouldn’t have believed it unless I had witnessed it for myself.” Her tone is familiar, yet completely different to the ball-crusher one I handled when we first met. I guess since she believes I’m a cooperative witness, she has no reason to ride my ass anymore.

  Don’t misconstrue. I only told her what I wanted her to know, but, for the most part, it was honest. She knows how I joined the Bureau and why, she just doesn’t know what keeps me here. No one knows that. Not even me.

  When Agent Russell spots the heavy groove between my brows, her smile sags. “Could you spare a few minutes of your time? I bought food.” She holds up a bag of Chinese, doubling my suspicion. Women don’t feed you unless they want something. I fell for that trick with Olivia. I won’t do it again.

  “It’s late. I’m sure anything you need to tell me can wait until the morning.”

  I freeze with my key halfway into the lock of my front door when she asks, “Even if it regards Melody?”

  The tightness of my jaw is heard in my reply. “I doubt you have anything of interest to me.”

  “You haven’t given me the chance to present my findings, so how can you say that?” Agent Russell fights back.

  I finish shoving in my key, twist the lock, then push open my door. “Because there’s nothing you could tell me about her that I don’t already know.”

  “Once again, I beg to differ.” To ensure I can’t slam the door in her face, which I had no intention of doing, Agent Russell shoves her foot into the doorway. “I’m just going to leave this here in case you change your mind.”

  I eye her curiously when she places the bag of Chinese on my entryway table along with her business card and an almost flat FBI-sealed envelope. When she catches my curious gaze, her lips curl into a grin. “I already ate. Seeing a perp roughed up has always made me extra ravenous.”

  I throw my head back and laugh, stunning both Agent Russell and myself. She watches me in shocked awe like I did when I heard Isabelle giggle for the first time. It gives me a newfound appreciation as to why Isabelle acted like she was suddenly bombarded with hives. It’s kind of creepy, and if I were honest, highly-craved. When you dig yourself out of the trenches every once in a while, even the most unsuitable suitor appears appealing. Don’t get me wrong, Agent Russell is attractive, but not even a death wish would have me acting on any of the inane thoughts in my head.

  “Call me when you’re ready.” The heavy stomp of her feet when she spins on her heels and gallops down the stairwell nearly drowns out what she says next, “I left my private cell number on the back of my card.”

  The heavily weighted door on the front of my apartment building slams shut a few seconds later, then I make my way inside. I had planned to hit the shower before calling it a night, however, the scent of peanuts and marinated chicken alters the direction of my course. Agent Russell might work within the Internal Affairs division of the Bureau, but at the end of the day, we’re on the same team. I’m also starving. That alone has me skipping the protocol I usually do to ensure my food hasn’t been tainted.

  After snagging up the bag of Chinese along with Agent Russell’s business card and envelope, I make my way to my room to get changed. Once I’m donning a pair of gray sweatpants and a casual tee, I stack my pillows on top of one another before slipping between the sheets. Although I usually eat in the living room, with how heavy my eyelids are, I doubt I’ll make it halfway through my meal before I fall asleep, so I’d rather eat in bed.

  “Damn, she got the good stuff,” I murmur to myself when I pry open the first container of Chinese. She purchased the most expensive items on the list, including abalone, which is a combination of shark fins, snails, and sea cucumbers.

  With my nose screwed up, I dump the container of abalone onto my bedside table before digging into the combination fried rice and satay chicken. My grandfather’s hard work may have lined his grandchildren’s pockets with money, but that doesn’t mean I’m a snob. Usually, two tablespoons of peanut butter get me through the night before I slather it on toast in the morning.

  I’m three quarters the way through my meal, and almost comatose when my cell phone dings, announcing I have a text message. Considering the late hour, I’m confident it’s Grayson, so you can imagine my surprise when I discover it’s a text from an unknown number.

  Unknown number: What are you wearing?

  Assuming they have the wrong number, I reply.

  Me: I think you have the wrong number.

  Curious, I watch the three dots float across the screen instead of finishing my dinner.

  Unknown number: Blond, five-eleven, 170ish pounds with a cute, although slightly wonky smile.

  Cute?

  Through twisted lips, I tap out my reply.

 
; Me: Sounds about right. I still think you have the wrong number, though.

  Unknown number: It’s egotistical to think your smile is cute, BJ.

  As I sit up straighter in my bed, my heart races. There’s only one person young enough to be up this late who calls me BJ. She’s in another state, engaged to another man. But that doesn’t matter, right? We’re texting, not organizing a hook-up. This is a perfectly acceptable form of communication for once best friends.

  Now I just need my cock to get the memo. With the taste of peanuts on my lips, it’s not recalling any of the years Melody and I were friends. It’s remembering the time Melody obliterated my love of peanut butter by making it an obsession.

  Ignoring the throbbing rod of flesh sitting heavy on my thigh, my fingers fly across the screen of my phone.

  Me: It’s only egotistical if it isn’t untrue.

  A grin curls my lips when Melody’s reply pops up. She doesn’t use any words. She just sends an eyeroll emoji.

  I could let that be the end of our conversation, but with my brain a little mushy from a lack of sleep and way too many carbs, I tap out a reply.

  Me: Do you still want to know what I’m wearing?

  Good one, Brandon. Slot straight into creeper mode, you fucking creep.

  I stop inwardly lecturing myself when Melody’s reply sends my cock from semi-aroused to painfully thick in an instant.

  Unknown number: I’d rather see for myself.

  Before I can reprimand myself for not wearing underwear, the message screen on my phone is replaced by an incoming FaceTime request.

  As my thumb hovers over the connect button, I scan my room. Don’t ask me why. There’s nothing in here but a giant bed, one I’m-so-fucking-alone-I-only-need-one-bedside-table and me in dowdy sweatpants that don’t have a chance in hell of hiding my raging boner. I can see the outline of my cock, and I’m under a bedspread for crying out loud.