Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Cops arrested Sneakers and will charge him with public indecency. Lewdness. The best security can do is a restraining order.
Target destroyed.
But his insistence to keep coming around—after so many bodyguards told him off—makes me think he’ll be back. He’ll violate his restraining order. Go to jail.
The cycle will continue, and I shouldn’t be emotionally invested in this situation. I should be able to handle this without wanting blood. But I just keep thinking that this middle-aged fucker was in a car and rubbing his dick almost in sight of Jane.
Too close.
Too fucking close.
And this is the girl who I’m sleeping with. Who I’m protecting and have held while she’s cried against my chest—so I’m not feeling fucking even-tempered. Not as much as I should be. As any bodyguard should be.
“My civic duty,” Akara banters, “keep Thatcher from murdering targets.”
Banks smiles. “Amen.” They clink bottles and swig.
I uncross my arms, opening the fridge to grab a water.
“Did Jane text you?” Banks asks me.
I nod. “She heard the cop sirens and asked if everyone was safe.” I start putting some leftover containers next to Banks. “I texted back that a minor threat was being detained. She didn’t want more.”
“Sulli is like that,” Akara says, beer to his lips. “She doesn’t ever want extra details.”
“Who would?” Banks asks.
“Maximoff,” Akara and I say at the same time. Though, my brother knows this too. His question was really rhetorical, but we just didn’t give a shit.
I pop open the container of roasted goose and potatoes.
Banks sniffs the meat. “Smells like roadkill.”
“No it doesn’t.” I stick a fork in the cold meat.
He steals the container and holds it to Akara.
Akara is texting, but he sniffs it anyway. He smiles. “Smells like a Cobalt Empire Wednesday Night Dinner. Three days old, still edible.”
I grab the container from Banks.
Jane always brings her leftovers from every Wednesday family dinner. Usually for Maximoff. Sometimes she’ll put a container in security’s fridge.
Only Cobalts have ever attended. No Hales, no Meadows. Never bodyguards.
What goes on there is almost urban legend on the security team. No one really knows. Except that if you have a Cobalt client, they’ll usually fight to make it back to their childhood house every Wednesday, every week.
Akara glares at his cellphone, then he takes off his baseball hat and pushes his black hair back.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“You remember Will Rochester?” Akara throws his cell on the counter. “Apparently he’s planning on throwing Sulli a Hallow Friends Eve party the day before Halloween.” He shakes his head repeatedly. “I don’t like where this is fucking going. He seems…”
“Like he’s into her?” Banks finishes. “Because that’s one-hundred percent certain—”
“I know that,” Akara growls, heat flashing in his eyes. “That’s not it.”
He established a buddy-guard friendship with Sullivan Meadows, and he walks a blurry line like he was born on one. No sweat. Better than I could with my feet cemented to the thing.
But ever since last year, he’s picked up that Sulli is starting to show real interest in dating. And his overprotectiveness and his level of care for his client has shot through the fucking roof.
“You’re not jealous?” Banks wants confirmation.
Akara glares. “Shut the fuck up.”
I don’t make those comments about him and Sulli. He gets enough shit from the rest of SFO. But Banks eases up faster than the other guys would.
“Is it a sixth sense?” I ask Akara about Will. Wondering if his caution is based on gut or intel.
“Yeah, it’s just a feeling. He’s renting out a farm.” Akara fists the neck of his beer and puts a container of Ripped Fuel on the counter. “He’s taking an entire open field and putting together haunted houses from scratch .”
“Rich guys can do that,” Banks points out.
“I’m rich,” Akara says, “and I can’t do half of what he’s planning.” Akara had about the same wealth as Farrow growing up.
His dad was a big shot broker. But he died when Akara was seventeen. Akara used the life insurance money to open up Studio 9.
“The Rochesters are old money.” I unscrew my water, pushing back my chow for a second.
Banks nods. “They can afford mega yachts.”
Like Jane.
I sometimes forget she’s that wealthy. She lives modestly in comparison to her parents. I look to Akara. “How many people will be at the farm?” Wherever the Hallow Friends Eve party takes place, I know Jane will be there, and I need the details.
“I don’t know yet,” Akara says. “But Will promised that every single guest would sign an NDA or they wouldn’t be permitted on the grounds. It’s their ticket into the party. Sul said it was really sweet of him.” His hand slips on the Ripped Fuel container and pills spill out. “Shit.” He cleans it up.
Banks nods to Akara. “So this Will guy lives around here. How deep is he?”