Christ, just thinking her name has me grinning like an idiot. One of those fools that go on about butterflies flapping in their stomach and walking around on cloud sixty-nine.
There’s just something so enticing about her. Fierce and fascinating and fuck-all arousing. On the outside, she’s straitlaced, buttoned up and proper, but beneath the surface there’s more. A sharp wit, a willfulness, a fire.
I remember the taste of it on my tongue—the taste of her.
And I could feel it yesterday reeling me in like a randy moth towards a slick, simmering flame. I can’t wait to see her again, tease her again—make those pretty, pouty lips tighten in that kitten-fierce scowl again.
And if I play my cards right—I’ll get to feel the scrape of her claws down my back, while I’m sliding deep inside, making her moan.
Abby’d be a scratcher—definitely.
That part will have to wait until after our job is finished, of course. I don’t mess around with clients. It’s a rule. While I’ve never put much stake in rules, in our line of work, messing around on the job is dangerous. If you’re getting off with the woman you’re supposed to be guarding, you’re sure as shit not paying attention to possible threats.
At least not if you’re doing it right—and I always do it right.
So, clients are off-limits. But former clients? They’re fair game.
* * *
“Keep your left up, Harry!”
The private protection racket is not a huge industry. The clientele pool is small and there are only a few companies who can meet their needs.
“Oh! Nice shot, Owen!”
Reputation, word of mouth, is everything.
Because those who require our services need to trust that we can keep them safe—and more importantly, that we’ll do so discreetly. Old Winston, who first hired me to be on Prince Nicholas’s team, used to say personal security is like a wireless fence that keeps the pups in the yard—impenetrable and invisible.
“Somebody call the priest—Harry’s gonna need last rites!”
You’ve got your celebrities, entertainers—they can be particular about ridiculous things and get prickly if a bodyguard steps into their shot or bars the wrong person from sitting at their VIP table. But it’s the politicians and dignitaries—bigwigs with pristine reputations—when things get really interesting.
“Sweep the leg, Johnny!”
I’m talking clandestine meetings, shady deals, bizarre compulsions, illnesses, secret lives and entire second fucking families. Once in a while, we’ll get a disgruntled citizen gone mad or a run-of-the-mill assassin . . . but on an average day, the biggest threat to our clients is the press. They’re usually chomping at the bit to sniff out any speck of dirt and splatter it across the front pages. Journalists are relentless, unmerciful and smart.
We need to be smarter. And that doesn’t happen by accident.
“He’s making a comeback! I told you he was a scrapper. Go, Harry, go!”
I left school after Year 10 and Lo didn’t even get that far—but neither of us are stupid. Each round of new hires goes through seven weeks of training in defense, weapons and evasive driving. S&S Securities is housed in an abandoned warehouse that we refurbished into a reception area, offices and a full-sized gym with a shooting range and driving course out back.
“Aaand time!” I call from outside the ropes of the ring, where our newest crop of recruits is rotating through sparring sessions. I reset the stopwatch around my neck, while Logan claps Harry and Owen on their backs.
“Good match, boys.”
Harry’s a lanky fellow with shoulder-length dark hair and a careless, cocky attitude—nothing gets under his skin. Owen is stocky with fists like two bricks, but young. His ID says he’s eighteen, but the baby fat of his cheeks and smooth, hairless chin make me think he’s more likely two years shy of that age. They’re East Amboy boys—a rough, poor neighborhood—but with the right guidance, they’ll grow into outstanding guards.
Because when you come from nothing and belong to no one, you’ll do anything to protect something worth having.
We only hire people with a raw skillset—they come to us like soggy, sad lumps of clay—and we mold them into polished, sleek, unbreakable shields. Also—we don’t hire dicks. It’s the Golden Rule. If a rotten apple will spoil the bunch, a full-blown wanker will make us all miserable.
I scan the clipboard in my hands. “Beatrice, Walter—you’re up next.”
Now this is going to be fun.
Bea is a tiny blond thing, but she’s got mad skills. Her dad’s American, former CIA—real covert operations shit that the general public will never hear about. Her brothers are Special Forces and from the time little Bea could walk, they taught her everything they knew.
“Are you joking?” Walter asks, gazing down at Beatrice like she’s an insect we’re asking him to swat with a sledgehammer.
“Threats don’t just come in large and ugly,” Logan explains. “You need to know how to take down the cute ones too.”