Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Is this really necessary, Slater?” My head tilts to the side in obvious irritation. “It’s your apartment.”
“And you are mine to protect, Arley.” The shades of blue that rush toward me are bright. Bold. Unbending. “I’ll decide what’s necessary or unnecessary.”
“But-”
“I’m not askin’.”
“But-”
“And I damn sure ain’t arguin’.”
Irritation has me itching for a fight – a fight I know we’re going to have sooner or later – yet instead of allowing sooner to be now versus later, I slam my mouth shut.
Swallow my objections and lift my hands up in surrender.
I like that he wants to make sure I’m cared for, but I don’t like that he thinks that means I don’t get a say about it.
Slater swipes his keycard to grant us access inside and slowly opens the door, flashlight attached to his Glock, instantly lighting up the otherwise dark space.
The two finger “follow him” directive is taken without hesitation; however, holding in my snark regarding the situation isn’t. “Can I turn on the light when entering the room Brash Bridges or is that something I need to run up the chain of command before doing?”
“Funny,” he sarcastically states, blue lettering jagged. “You know…in a bein’ a twat to the man tryin’ to protect you sort of way.”
Shock sends my jaw to the recently polished floors. “Did you call me a fucking twat?”
“Negative,” my best friend swiftly insists while examining the kitchen space, “but I did refer to your shitty play on words in that aspect.” He positions his back to be flush with the outside wall and prepares to whip around the closest corner. “Do with that what you will.”
Huh.
If I didn’t think this whole living together thing was going to be a bad idea before, I damn sure think it’s going to be now.
I flip on the light next to the intercom, illuminating the area as well as his stealthy actions and carefully slide my shoulder bag onto the ground beside me. From a slightly crouched position, Slater cautiously maneuvers around his luxury space, weapon extended forward, ready to fire first and ask questions later. Every door he passes is opened. Light turned on. Room inspected. And then reinspected before moving onto the next region. Intrigue over the amount of dedication he’s delivering despite knowing he doesn’t have to – after all I’m just his best friend not an actual high dollar client – is what leads to me bracing my back against the door and watching his actions more intensely. Admiration effortlessly amalgamates with awe each time he deems an area secure while desire threatens to demolish them both every time, he cuts a glance my direction to ensure I’m still here.
Still safe.
Still untouched by anyone that isn’t him.
And contrary to the very uncomfortable pissing contest I witnessed earlier, I don’t want anyone else but him.
I haven’t wanted anyone else since that day in the elevator he teased me for giving him “blue balls” rather than blueberries, a moment we still laugh about every time we come across the fruit whether we’re alone or together.
Too bad he doesn’t see that.
Or maybe can’t?
Unexpected vibrations begin in the pocket of the Pac-Man pajama bottoms I’m wearing redirecting my attention away from cowboy guardian down to the buzzing device I quickly retrieve.
Harv: Go ahead and send out those drafted emails whenever you’re ready.
Wonder if he means now?
Or was that meant to be like when I feel up to working again?
Or is he just looking for an excuse to text me?
To check on me?
To prove he isn’t the same guy he was when we dated forever ago?
Rather than dig at that ancient burial ground, I click over to the messages waiting to be sent to the department heads in which I’m requesting their records and begin emailing accordingly. Unlike Harv and Slater, I’m not necessarily convinced that the attack I suffered has anything to do with the shit I’m looking into. It could’ve been related to something else. Practically anything else. When you evaluate and analyze the amount of data that I do, about the types of people that I do, it’s impossible not to come across something no one wants found out.
But like is trying to kill me for discovering you have a mistress or gambling problem or an STD from your favorite stripper really the right call?
That seems excessive to me.
“Clear,” my best friend announces upon his return to the kitchen. “The scene is secure.” He tucks his weapon back out of sight as he announces, “There haven’t been any security announcements on my phone, but once you’re asleep, I’ll review the footage closer in search of any abnormalities.”
“Abnormalities?”
“Odd or suspicious noises in the hall. Attempts to enter my apartment with the wrong keycard. Questionable delivery individuals. That sort of thing.”
The question fumbles off my tongue before I can even think of stopping it. “Is doing that really necessary, Cowboy?”