Battle of the Bulge Page 2

  Or a good orgasm. Not since…not since the man whose name shall not be spoken, whose face will only be remembered as that of a heinous reptilian beast with a slithery tongue. And devil horns. Coming from his chin. Yes, heinous.

  Wait. I hit pause on my mental effigy to the Horned One, remembering that my mom will be home any second and Sam is standing in my driveway. If she sees him, she’ll absolutely wonder why he’s here, and she can’t know about my new job. No. Freaking. Way.

  A. She’ll kill me.

  B. She’ll keel over.

  C. What was the point of having an abominable snow-snatch in my pants for four weeks if we’re both dead before I make any money?

  Point is, my mom would never approve of my new job. No parent in his or her right mind would want their daughter taking a bullet for a stranger. Not that I intend to, but that’s what being a bodyguard essentially boils down to, doesn’t it? If you fail at preventing the bullet from leaving the chamber, then that bullet has your name on it.

  The good news is that whatever team Sam assigns me to, my role is what he refers to as “the owl” position. Eyes and ears only. I’ll be the person who hangs back and blends in. Anything suspicious, I report it to the lead, who’s the guy or gal with real training you always see in movies, standing beside the client in full view like a warning sign to anyone who wants to try something. Me, I’m part of the crowd, minding my own business, texting or window-shopping or whatever seems appropriate given the location and the client. Being an owl is low risk for “civilian types” like me, even though I have to be prepared to defend myself or the client in a pinch.

  I just hope whoever my client is, she’s someone smart who won’t needlessly put anyone in harm’s way. And I hope she’s someone important. A Nobel Prize winner or—Oh! I know. A scientist who’s going to make the first commercially sold male-bot who does your dishes, folds your clothes, and orders your favorite dishes at restaurants so you can say you’re not hungry and then eat all his food anyway. Sadly, no matter how important the client, this job will worry my mother to death. It will make her feel like a failure as a parent if she knows I’m putting my life on the line for money. For her. For us.

  “Sam, I don’t want to seem rude or ungrateful, but you need to go. If my mom sees you, she’s going to—”

  Sam crosses his ripped arms over his chest, the fabric of his black blazer stretching to its limits. “You didn’t tell your mom about working for me?”

  “No.” I grab his elbow and pull him to the side of our yard, between two tall hedges bordering the next-door neighbor’s property. “And I don’t plan to.”

  He frowns with those cool, silvery eyes.

  I won’t lie. I used to have a tiny crush on Sam when we met at the pharma company I interned at last year. Believe it or not, he was an FBI agent posing as a sales VP, trying to bust the company’s executives for a bunch of dirty business involving black-market cancer drugs ’n stuff. Georgie interned there too, and then she and Sam ended up together. Lucky. He was the best thing ever to happen to her, and since she’s like a sister to me, Sam now feels more like a big brother rather than an ex-marine, ex-FBI agent, and my new boss. I just hope working for him doesn’t cause friction between me and Georgie. She’s my best friend.

  “Abi, you’re going to have enough stress dealing with the job. You don’t need to pile on by keeping secrets from your mother. You might need her for support.”

  I glance at my watch. It’s six oh five. She’ll be home any second!

  “It’s none of your business, boss man, and who are you to lecture me about keeping secrets?” I raise one brow for emphasis.

  “I was undercover. That’s not the same thing.”

  “Fine. You got me there, but this is still my personal life, and you can’t—”

  He grabs my shoulder and squeezes gently. “Georgie is already upset with me for hiring you. The only reason she backed off is because I told her how perfect you are for this role and that you really want it.”

  I roll my eyes. That’s Georgie for ya. “Why does she always have to be so supportive and nice?” I grumble petulantly.

  “Because she loves you. And she will be all over my ass if she thinks you’re not serious. Serious people don’t run around and keep their new jobs a secret.” He shrugs. “I happen to agree.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If you’re not all in, then you’re a danger to yourself, the entire team, and the client. You can’t work for me.”

  I don’t intend to do this forever, but I do take it seriously. Proof being that I just spent four weeks playing Arctic penguin because my future is riding on the money. I need to finish my last semester of college, and I want to eventually open a nonprofit. Watching my mom struggle after my father’s death made me realize how little help there is for mothers who find themselves widowed. One day, your husband is alive and you’re both paying the mortgage, making ends meet, and saving money for retirement and your children’s future. The next you’re alone and facing being homeless with mouths to feed. But if you don’t have family to lean on or friends to help you, then you’re on your own. Banks won’t loan to you. Too risky. Mortgage companies don’t care. Credit card companies keep sending bills with more and more interest tacked on. There has to be a better way to help these women restructure their finances—low-interest loans, negotiating with lenders, pro bono assistance in selling their homes instead of losing them in foreclosures. Something. They shouldn’t have to face the loss of their husbands and their homes too. Once I get that off the ground, I’ll extend to widowed fathers.

  I take a deep breath. “I am serious about working for you, Sam. And I promise I will tell my mom when the time is right.”

  “Soon, I hope?”

  I nod. “Soon. But you need to go. She’s already heard about your new company, and I don’t want her putting two and two together.”

  “I’ll leave, but we still need to talk.”

  “About?”

  “About your first client. It’s why I came in person.”

  “Oh no. What’s wrong? Who is it?” I hope it’s not some scummy, man-whoring musician or some lame-o diva who just wants to look cool and have an entourage.

  Sam looks away, that scruffy jaw pulsing with tension. “Be at the office at six.”

  “In the morning?” I whine.

  He slides on his mirrored sunglasses, all seriousness. “Your first job starts tomorrow at seven thirty, but I need to brief you.” He glances over his shoulder. “Your mother just came around the corner.” He walks off through the neighbor’s yard and gets into his black SUV parked at the curb.

  A minute later, my mother pulls up in her white van with her Carter Designs logo, a scripted font CD, on the side.

  Wait. How did he hear her coming from four blocks away? That man is so mysterious.

  “Abi!” My mom, who has long brown hair and light brown eyes—almost a moss green at times, just like mine—flies from her van the moment she spots me. “Baby, your cheeks are all red! And you cut your hair!”

  “Thought a tomato face and bob might suit me,” I lie.

  We hug tightly, and I feel the tension leave her body. “You have no idea how much I missed you. I almost cried every night, worrying.”

  And this is how she reacts when she thinks I’ve been somewhere safe. There’s no way she can ever find out about my new job. Of course, I can’t tell Sam she doesn’t know because he’ll fire me.

  Now I have to deal with this mystery client, too? Jesus. Why do I feel like four weeks in Alaska was just the start of this grueling journey?

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I’m sorry, but did you just say…did you just say…?” The next morning I’m in Sam’s new office—a sterile-looking space with almost no furniture and a big window overlooking the parking lot—feeling my knees knock so hard that I’m about to fall over.

  This isn’t happening. I plunk down in one of two gray armchairs facing his spotless desk.

 
“Abi,” Sam pumps his palms in the air like an ode to the god of tranquility, encouraging me to keep it together, “I know you have history with Mit—”

  “No! You won’t speak his name. Not to me. Not ever. The Oh-Slimy-One is never to be mentioned in my presence.” I seriously want to cry, which is why I cover my face. “How could you do this?”

  “Abi.” Sam’s computer chair creaks as he gets up. A moment later I feel his hand on my shoulder. “You told Georgie that the night with him meant nothing. You said you’d forgotten it and couldn’t care less.”

  I drop my hands and shrug. “Yeah, well…” There’s no way I’m going to tell my boss what happened. I should have known better than to believe I meant anything to that…to that degenerate penis hooker. Pooker. I got played. Plain and simple.

  Sam sighs and throws in a throaty grunt. “If I was incorrect in my assumptions about the situation, then I understand if you don’t want the job. And I certainly don’t want you to take it if you hold animosity toward the client. But the way Mit—”

  “No. Do not say his name.”

  Sam raises his large hands in surrender. “From the way our client spoke, I got the impression that you were both out to have a little casual fun. Nothing more. Which I completely respect since you’re both adults, so no judgment here.”

  “What?” I snap. “There was nothing casual about it, Sam. He literally grabbed my clothes the next morning, threw them at me, and shoved me out the front door!” I had been invited by that horrible man’s cousin to that horrible man’s housewarming party. Horrible man and I ended up dancing and talking, and when he kissed me, I lost it. It being my ability to reason.

  How the hell did I let “the Bulge” sweet-talk me? Seriously, maybe I deserved the humiliating dismissal. I mean, the only reason I wanted to sleep with Oh-Nameless-Scummy-One is because he’s hot. So, so hot. And because he’s known for being…well, well endowed.

  But don’t get the wrong impression. I’m not that woman. Shallow. One-nighters. Wanting a man for his meat instead of his brains. But Mitch Hofer had looked so sexy with that tall, rock-hard swimmer’s body and unkempt light brown hair with golden streaks. After all the things he said—tender and real—I decided to throw a little caution to the wind, which is probably why things turned out so damned horrible. Karma. We were naked, I was ready, and he was apparently sleepy because Mitch passed out right on top of me. I tried waking him—cheek slapping (the ones on his face), cheek pinching (the ones on his ass), and some vigorous shoulder shaking.

  No dice.

  No sex either.

  I was disappointed, but I figured maybe we could pick up where we left off in the morning. I fell asleep only to be thrown out at the crack of dawn. What a first-rate asshole! I’m so happy we didn’t have sex.

  “Well,” Sam says, “like it or not, he is the client. An important one. And I’ve made a commitment to make sure he has around-the-clock security.”

  Sam’s only been in business a little over a month, and I know he needs this contract. For starters, just look at these offices. With all the cameras and security doors, it’s got to be costing him a fortune. Not to mention the location is near downtown.

  Still, “Why didn’t you tell me he was the client?”

  “Protocol. No one gets names until they’re assigned to a team. But I listened carefully to what you said to Georgie: ‘Nothing. He’s nothing.’ That’s what you said, Abi. And when I proposed you come on board, I told you that you might not love the clients, but we don’t get paid for that. We get paid to keep them safe. You said yes.”

  Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! He’s right. I was so desperate for money that I failed to consider I might not be working for the savior of humanity.

  Sam takes the other gray chair beside me in front of his desk. He looks worried—frown, flat lips, and lots of slow breathing.

  Oh no. This is a strong man. Tough. Trained. Dedicated. To see him stressing is the sort of thing that makes an impact.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I ask.

  He sighs with exasperation. “You’re the perfect owl for the job, Abi. You dress right. You talk right. You have balls, but look like a wallflower. You’re a Trojan horse in a skirt, which is why I offered you the surveillance position. But if you can’t put your life on the line for him, then I can’t hire you.”

  “I need the money, Sam. This isn’t just a job—”

  “Georgie told me about your situation. She also told me you refuse to take charity, which I respect. But know that if you really need the money, I’ll mortgage my house if I have to. I’ll help you any way I can. But I can’t put Mitch in any more danger than he already is, and that will be the case if you’re not all in.”

  The look in Sam’s eyes is so intense that I don’t complain about the mention of his name.

  Sam adds, “My sources at the FBI and CIA confirmed that the threat is real, Abi.”

  “Can you tell me what kind of threat? I mean, who are these people? Why are they after a swimmer?” Besides the fact he’s a jackass and maybe they want his hide for a nice jackass coat. There’s a market for everything these days. Example: the horrible swimsuits Mr. Jackass wears from his sponsor, Weeno. They have things like panda or elephant faces on the front, positioned just so, in order to make the animal’s nose protrude like little penis puppets. Ick. So wrong.

  “I can’t give you specifics about the source of the threat, Abi. I’m sorry.”

  “That hardly seems fair.” I fold my arms over my chest.

  “It’s not because I don’t trust you. Some of the information is classified.”

  “What about the portion that’s not?”

  Still seated, Sam rubs his rough chin. “Bottom line, we don’t know specifically who’s coming after Mitch, and we don’t know when. We only know they are coming and they’ve been given a million dollars to make it happen.”

  I squint my eyes. “We are talking about Mitch Hofer here, right? Swimsuit model, giant ego, loves paddling around swimming pools all day like a giant man-child?”

  Sam shakes his head with disapproval at my comment. “All you need to know and accept is that the danger is very, very real or I wouldn’t have taken Mitch as a client. We’re not a fashion accessory. Our clients have credible threats. They need genuine security. So if you can’t provide it, I’m sorry, but you’re off the team.”

  I crinkle my nose. “No other assignments?”

  “Not unless you think you can be an owl for a sumo wrestler in Tokyo or a Russian diplomat who’s anti-Putin and in exile in Norway.”

  I toggle my lips, mulling it over. I can’t blend in with a sumo posse—I wouldn’t know the first thing about walking around in a kimono with those weird flip-flops—and both locations are much too far away from my mom. With the exception of the last four weeks, we hang out and talk almost every day. Usually over dinner. There was a time when I hated how she forced me to do it, but now I’m glad. She refused to let my angsty teen years drive a wedge between us. She and Georgie are my best friends.

  I sigh, thinking about the twenty thousand dollars I need by the end of next month just to stop the bleeding. I get paid nothing for bootcamp since it cost Sam over ten thousand to send me, so if I don’t take the job guarding Mitch, my mom and I lose our house, her interior design business goes under, and Sam is out ten K.

  Shit. I can’t quit on her, and I can’t do that to Sam. Not when I know he took a huge leap of faith by hiring me. I have no military training. No background in law enforcement. Nothing. He picked me because he thinks I’m smart and he needs a woman who can look the part. Surveillance is the cornerstone for this kind of work.

  “I will…” I swallow down a resentful lump of pride sticking in my throat, “do my part to keep Mitch safe. I promise.”

  His cool gray eyes are filled with skepticism. “You sure, Abi?”

  I nod.

  “All right. Because as you’re aware, the client travels with an entourage of women.” Sam gets
up and walks around to the other side of his desk.

  “You mean groupies.”

  “More or less. And it’s why I need someone like you. Someone who won’t get distracted by Mitch’s looks.”

  “It’s your lucky day, because I have zero interest in that man.”

  “Abi, I’m serious. It’s strictly prohibited to get personally involved. To do so is grounds for immediate dismissal. No exceptions.”

  Exactly which part of my revulsion is he mistaking for the desire to hook up with Mitch again? I get that Sam is afraid if he assigns a woman to Mitch’s entourage, she’ll end up jumping into bed with him or spend all of her time drooling, but I’d rather give up romance novels for an eternity than hit that.

  “You have nothing to worry about, Sam. I need this job. There’s no way in hell I’d risk losing it.”

  “Excellent. Because you’ll be accompanying Mitch on photo shoots as well as swim practices and competitions. It’s imperative that you’re focused on what’s around you instead of his swimsuit. Or what’s in it.”

  What Sam means to say is Mitch’s “giant shlong.” Well, I’ve already seen it. Sort of. Mitch and I didn’t have sex, but we did engage in some very vigorous foreplay. He’d taken his thick cock and rubbed it right over my—

  No! I push away the memories of my night with Mitch Hofer. A generous salami does not make up for his despicable personality.

  I clear my throat. “I repeat, I will not be distracted by the client.” Not him. Not his ripped tanned abs or muscular back. Not his bulging swimsuit or those sultry bedroom eyes. And I definitely won’t be distracted by his sex-lips.

  “Then welcome aboard, Abi.”

  I stand, expecting Sam to shake my hand, but he hands me a case instead. I open it, and inside is a shiny silver gun no bigger than the palm of my hand.

  “It’s loaded,” he adds. “Be careful. And your gear and outfits are with Cray.”

  Cray. Short for Crazy, I guess? He’s Sam’s operations manager. Gear, reservations, anything at all, we go to Cray.