ZANDER
Twenty-four-hour care is the standard for each client contracted with The Firm. A partner will be on the premises at all times, with additional detail on standby within a thirty-minute radius of the property. If at any time more security is required, it will be addressed immediately and without hesitation.
The door of the rented room sticks on my way in. Its resistance in the new autumn sunlight, slanting down the motel wall, echoes what I felt leaving Ella’s house twenty minutes ago. There’s a magnetic pull to her I can’t fathom. She’s a beautiful distraction who’s mesmerized me. I could’ve listened to her talk all day, or even longer, about virtually nothing. It was as if a door had cracked open, letting in a little light. Her eyes hadn’t seemed so haunted. Guarded, yes. Cautious—especially when Cade was mentioned.
This may be a different kind of case, but her reaction isn’t unlike other clients. My reaction, though … is certainly unusual. It’s typical for our clients to react that way—relaxing a bit, once the initial awkwardness dissipates. Although I hardly interact with the clients. That’s Cade’s job. It’s rare that I’m required to be social, and more than likely for the best. I’m a bodyguard, plain and simple. What makes our company, and our talents above the competition, is the attention to detail. The monitoring, the research. Knowing who the threat is and more importantly why. What motivated the need to call us. Emotions don’t factor into it nearly as much as simply knowing people.
When it comes to Ella, though … The first day has certainly been different from all the others.
My gaze drops as I toss the keys down on the barren dresser that doubles as a TV stand. It must’ve been a bit of a relief, sleeping in her own house with us to watch out for her.
I wouldn’t know much about that. I’ve been alone for a long time now.
Inside the room, I close the door and lock the dead bolt. Cade secured a row of rooms in a mom-and-pop motel on the edge of the city. It’s cheap but homey. Well cared for. You can tell the owners take pride in the place. My room has a queen-size bed with stark white, fresh bedding. A table and two chairs sit by the front window, the table decorated with a few stems of some pink flower in a vase. Fresh flowers, not fake. It’s a nice touch, but the feminine flair is lost on me. They’ve repainted recently, because the new paint smell still lingers. I fall into one of those chairs and kick my shoes off, one at a time.
Alone.
Part of me relaxes at knowing there’s nobody watching me. All night at Ella’s, I felt eyes on my back. Maybe I was anticipating the moment she’d come down the stairs and say my name into all that quiet.
Maybe I was hoping she would do just that.
But Ella slept all night, and then this morning she lifted that spoon to her lips like it wasn’t the most delicate, graceful thing I’d ever seen and told me about those songs she liked. I’ve already got them downloaded on my phone. They’re already taking up space there, waiting for me.
Old guilt crashes in at the thought.
I let it hit. The waves bring exhaustion with it.
I can keep it shut out for the most part. I’ve had two years to learn to live with it. And I do live with it. There’s no other choice. I’m alive, and I live with this hole, a wound, where someone else used to be. It feels like a deep gouge, but I know better. I’ve been to doctors about physical pain.
This is something else. Something I’ll have for always. Even the psychiatrist said so. Two little blue pills may help me sleep, but when I’m awake and conscious, that pain will never leave.
It’s the pain of hesitation. Of the loss of strict focus. Once upon a time, I fucked up. I wasn’t honest about what I wanted because I was afraid of the outcome.
Now, even thinking about exposing that truth—to anyone—feels like acid in open wounds.
Those wounds are best kept hidden. Tucked away like the words inside a closed book. Though I don’t know how long that will work, either. Cade’s been making noises for six months about how much time I spend on my own. I keep telling him that’s how I like it. No demands on my free time, except for when I spend the weekend with Damon. We’ll grab a beer every now and again. We’ll work on some project or another. Go to the shooting range or gym to have company. He knows loss as well as I do.
Even Damon’s made a few comments. I don’t know what they want from me. I work for The Firm as much as I can, and in my downtime, I try not to think about the shit that almost destroyed me.
It might still destroy me. The heat kicks on as I unzip my duffle bag. Two suits are already hung in the three-foot-wide closet. I go through the motions of this part of the job without much mental effort, just as I have for the past few years. The job keeps me moving. The requirements are all-consuming. So I take them all. Falling into place and performing as needed. This one, though …
It’s more complicated, what with the news I got about the trial.
Stripping off my shirt, I drop to the floor and do a set of twenty push-ups. Then another. Followed by four-count breaths. Twenty more push-ups and the burn seeps into my muscles, stiffening my shoulders. I hold the position and do twenty more, faster, letting the heat break along my skin. Holding the upright position and then I break in another four. After eight sets the crush of guilt around my lungs eases up, and I head into the tiny bathroom for a shower. My chest rises and falls deeper, needing to steady, but my mind still races.
Turning the metal knob, the squeak of the old piping is followed by a spray of ice-cold water. By the time I’ve stripped down, steam has started pouring into the stall.
This, at least, is standard for missions. An affordable motel. A series of night shifts. I’m used to places like these, and schedules like these. I know how my brother prefers to put money into family businesses, local places that are less well traveled. I also know that he prefers contracts with clear end dates.
We don’t have one this time. That’s yet another difference with this mission. We’re here as long as she needs me.
Needs us.
I work shampoo through my hair and try to ignore a tension in my back. You’re in the wrong place, it says as I stare blankly at bland white tile and let the hot spray batter against my chest. The fuck is wrong with me? My eyes close and I do what I can to shake the thoughts of her away. She doesn’t fucking need me. She’s only a distraction, although … It seems as if she may need a distraction as well. Someone to listen to. Someone to talk to. Someone to tell her it’s all right to feel whatever it is she’s feeling. That thought is what breaks the dam. I can’t stop picturing her sitting at the island in her kitchen, her bedhead swept back from her face and her eyes looking more alive for the first time, with a spark of mischief and the dare on her lips that there’s no conflict of interest.
Tilting my face, I let the water splash there, condemning the disgraceful images that flick through my mind. I could so very easily get her to talk. One night with her and she would spill whatever it is that I wanted to know.
I can’t stop picturing how she looked when she slept, one hand tucked under the pillow, her expression open and dreamy. I can’t stop remembering the silence of her house. The expansive, open-concept space. All the room we’d have away from the outside world to—