Battle of the Bulge Page 8

“Good. Because I can’t wait to go to Miami with you for a little M & M.”

  “You mean R & R.”

  “Nope. M & M. Mischief and mayhem.”

  I hang my head. “No, Georgie. No to both. If I get any downtime, I need peace and quiet. Maybe a poolside massage, a bubble bath, some serious Netflix time.”

  She smiles with that sneaky grin of hers, which sets off alarm bells. “Yes to all of those.” She takes a tiny sip of beer, makes a sour face, and sets the mug back down. “This tastes funny.”

  She’s trying to change the subject. “Georgie…” I growl in warning.

  “I promise. Every free second you have will be utterly and totally dedicated to relaxation.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I know. But what choice do you have now? I’m coming with you to Miami, and your boss is my fiancé, so you just have to suck it up like a big ol’ Hoover.”

  “I hate you with my eyes.” I glare at her.

  “And I love you with my heart. So, wanna ride the mechanical bull?”

  “I thought it was broken?” I say.

  “It was. Now it’s fixed and ready for your sorry ass.”

  I raise my brows. It’s funny how Georgie is the shyer one, but somehow always manages to push me outside my comfort zone. It’s what I love about her. “Sure, but I’ll have to do it sidesaddle.” I point down to the hem on my super-short dress.

  “I’d pay money to watch that.” She laughs. “I’m sure a bunch of the men here would too. Wanna see?”

  I’m game for new experiences. And who doesn’t have sidesaddling a mechanical bull on their bucket list? “Let’s ride.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  When I pull up to my house in the Uber, only slightly bruised on my ass from the three-second bull challenge, I’m comforted by the lights turned off inside and my mother’s van in the driveway. She’s safe, sound, and asleep.

  I thank the driver and slip from the car, immediately going for my flashlight app. By now, my mom has locked up the house, so I’ll need to grab the key from around back.

  “Abi,” hisses a male voice from the direction of the hedges.

  “What the!” I swivel my head and jump back, fumbling with my purse to get to my weapon.

  “It’s me. Leland.” A tall shadow emerges from the hedges.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He approaches with his hands raised. “I just wanted to be sure you were all right, love.”

  “Don’t you ‘all right, love’ me, you big fat liar. And how do you know where I live?”

  He drops his hands. “I am a reporter; it’s my job to find information. And my sincerest apologies for the ruse, but I meant no harm. I merely wished to—”

  “Lie to me? Make me think you’re someone you’re not so I’d give you information you’re not entitled to?”

  “Well, yes. But that doesn’t mean I wished you harm. I simply want the truth.”

  Grrrr… “Well, then, you won’t mind hearing my version of it.”

  “Not at all, love.” He pulls a recording device from his coat pocket.

  Ass! “The truth is that you have no clue what you’re messing with. But when you publicly single out someone like me, someone who is supposed to stay in the shadows, being a lookout, you expose me. And that,” I poke his chest, “means you are placing someone’s life in jeopardy. Mine. Yours. The client we protect. And everyone around us.”

  “So you’re saying Mitch Hofer is in danger. Do you know any details? When the next attempt on his life might be? Who’s behind it?”

  Ohmygod. “You’re missing the point. You’re also an asshole. That’s what I’m saying. And if I ever see you within a hundred yards of me or anyone I know, I’ll personally get a restraining order.”

  He chuckles. “Good luck with that, dove. Freedom of the press and all.”

  “Leave. Now. Because I have a gun in my purse, and I’m not afraid to shoot a nut with it. It’s a mini pistol, so I’m fairly sure it’s the perfect size for such a small job.”

  I expect this douche to leave, but instead he steps closer. “Abi, do you even know why you’re guarding a world-famous swimmer? Do you know what he’s really involved with? Because if you did, I doubt you’d be putting your sweet arse on the line for him.”

  Hmmm… All right. I’ll bite. “Why don’t you tell me what you know, and I’ll confirm yes or no.”

  He wags a finger in front of my nose. “Nuh-uh-uh…” he chants. “My information comes with a price. You help me, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “But you don’t know anything. You’re full of shit—a fact we’ve already established on this fine evening.”

  “Have we now?” His tone is pompous yet playful, like he actually thinks this is some big game.

  It’s not. Which is why I really want to know what he knows. “Give me one good reason to believe that you have any information of value or deserve my trust.”

  “Mitch Hofer is a witness to a murder being investigated by the International Court of Justice.”

  I laugh. “Are Aquaman and Wonder Woman helping out?”

  “Laugh all you like, Abi, but the war criminals who go on trial there do not.”

  Oh. That international court. “You’re serious.”

  “Yes.”

  “What war crimes are we talking about?”

  Leland smiles. “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.”

  I stop to think before responding. If what Leland says is true, then the threat against Mitch is much deadlier and much uglier than I thought.

  Damn that Sam! I want a raise. And yes, maybe a tiny part of me, buried deep down inside, underneath my secret desires for Santa to be real, that tossing coins into fountains really does grant wishes, and food in liquid forms doesn’t actually count, there’s a whimper of concern for Mitch. I may detest the man, but I don’t want him dead. Shhh… Tell no one.

  “Fine.” I huff. “What do you want to know?”

  “Where you’ll be. When. With whom.”

  “How do I know you won’t feed that information to Mitch’s would-be killers?”

  “Because I was there the day this all started, thinking it was just another assignment—spying on a celebrity for an exposé.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you just say you’re a witness, too?”

  “Yes. And no one can know. Not ever. But the faster I can expose the people behind everything and have them put away, the safer we all are.”

  “And the woman who showed up at the party—the one you were whisper fighting with?”

  “She’s a mistake. Someone I never should have trusted.”

  I’ve been there before.

  “So we have a deal?” he asks.

  I give it a moment of thought. Obviously, he could be full of complete BS. Which is why I could tell him some information, something that was already public knowledge so there’s no harm in sharing. It would give me time to validate whatever he tells me. Once trust is established, we’ll see what comes next.

  “Yes. We have a deal,” I say. “Now tell me what you know.”

  Mitch

  It’s almost midnight when I hear the doorbell. I freeze on my padded plank, where I’ve been doing inverted sit-ups for the last twenty minutes. This weekend is the big swimsuit fashion show in Miami, and my sponsors don’t pay me to have a one-pack.

  Which you’ll be getting if you don’t back off the empty carbs—my all-time favorite food. I know the category isn’t a food. Not specifically. But a guy like me doesn’t discriminate—white bread, cookies, donuts, candy—I dream about them all. Lately I’ve been so damned stressed out that I’ve been falling into old patterns. Yeah. That was me, the kid who looked like a giant beach ball. It was the reason my uncle, who was also my guardian, put me into swimming. At first, I hated the sport because, let’s face it, no boy wants to wear those damned salami hammocks if they’ve got a spare tire. Or two. Ankle biters at that age are monsters. But after a f
ew days, I realized that when I was in the pool, no one could really see me. I spent as much time as possible in the water—first to arrive to practice and the last to leave so fewer people would see me. A few months later, that baby fat began turning into muscle. Puberty kicked in and the rest is history. I got taller, leaner, and most important, faster. I can’t say I’ve ever struggled with weight since I exercise year-round, but my body doesn’t perform if I feed it crap.

  I glance longingly at my giant Italian sub with extra cheese and cold cuts, waiting for me on the little side table near the door of my workout room. Don’t go anywhere. Mitch loves you.

  I get up, go for my cell, and tap the app to view my front porch. Whoever’s here was likely let through the gate by one of the two blokes patrolling outside, but can’t be too careful these days, especially since those evil bastards are after me.

  The brown hair and agitated movements are immediately recognizable. Abi. Why’s she here?

  I pull on my gray T-shirt and go to let her in since my indoor staff is gone for the day. When I open the door, Abi pushes past me, yelling so fast, I can’t understand more than a few bits and pieces. I surmise she’s found out more than she should.

  “Why, Mitch? Why did you refuse to go into witness protection?” She plants her hands on her waist. “Do you have any idea what’s going to happen to you?”

  “They’ll kill me?” I wrap an invisible rope around my neck and pull up.

  “Ohmygod! Do not joke at a time like this.” She shoves a finger in my face. “You don’t fuck around with people like that.”

  I notice that she’s still wearing her short purple dress underneath her partially unbuttoned black coat. Does she have any idea how distracting she is when just in normal clothes? But this dress… So damned sexy. I have to wonder if she’s doing this on purpose—her way of punishing me for the way I treated her. First the dress, then throwing herself at that guy during my fundraiser. She wants me to suffer and see what I’m missing.

  “Who said I’m fucking around?”

  “Mitch.” She grabs my hand, which throws me off. It reminds me of that night. Her touch did things to me. Dirty, exciting things. Right now, it’s reminding me how hard I wanted to fuck her.

  She goes on, oblivious to my true feelings. “It’s not a question of if. It’s a question of when they get to you. You have to run. You have to go into hiding.”

  “You’ve been talking to Sam.” I close the front door and lock it before heading back to my workout room, where that sandwich is calling my name.

  With all this damned stress, I need something not on my regular diet, which is high calorie but no fun: lean organic meats, organic fruits and vegetables, lots of healthy fats—like avocados and raw nuts—and tons of slow-burning complex carbs. The shit I crave, like cookies and French bread, sabotages my swimming. Sugar crashes are the enemy when you’re training and trying to maintain muscle mass.

  “No,” she says, following on my heels. “I have not been talking to Sam.”

  “Then how did you find out?” I grab my sandwich and head for the kitchen to find a cold brew to go with my snack. She can yell at me all she wants, just as long as she lets me eat. This sub has extra mayo and bacon, too. If I could inject it into my veins, I would.

  “The how doesn’t matter,” she replies. “What does is the fact you’re insane if you stay here or go to Miami or anywhere public for that matter.”

  I sit at the breakfast bar in my large chef’s kitchen with top-of-the-line appliances and two of everything. The house was built for entertaining, but I bought it because it was also built to keep people out. The guy who used to own it was some sort of money launderer. Sam told me about the place after the feds seized it.

  I pick up my guilty pleasure with both hands. “I’m not going to give up everything I’ve worked for just because a bunch of rich thugs are after me.” I open my mouth and go in for a big bite, only to have the entire sandwich swatted from my grasp.

  “They’re not some group of petty criminals from Podunk!” Abi yells. “These are powerful people. And you’re a witness to a murder they arranged. Your uncle’s murder.”

  “Hey!” I turn my head and snarl. “That was my sandwich!”

  She takes her spiked black heel and stomps on the thing, grinding it into the floor. “Not anymore. And how can you be thinking about your stomach at a time like this? Someone tried to stab you tonight. Your uncle is dead.”

  She thinks I don’t know that? I watched him get gunned down in broad daylight right outside our house back in Sydney. All because he had some old WWII photos he intended to give away to a local war museum. Albert, my uncle, had no clue what the photos were. He thought they were part of a large collection belonging to my grandfather George—God rest his soul. He obtained them during his time as a war photographer in the 1940s. It turns out the photos were evidence thought to have been buried long ago.

  “Abi, you should leave. And then keep going. Away from me.”

  She folds her arms across her chest, and I try not to notice her breasts swelling beneath the deep V of her dress. Damn. I love her breasts. They’re round and firm. Not too big and just enough to play with during—

  “Ha! Fat chance, Mitch. If you’re not running, why should I?”

  “Because I made my choice, and it’s my problem. You can walk away.”

  “You think I took this job so I could quit at the first sign of danger?”

  “If you were smart, you would.” I get up and go to my fridge. I’ll have to make another sandwich, but it won’t be nearly as delicious as the one she so cruelly murdered from my new favorite sub shop. Poor sandwich…it will never know its home: the inside of my stomach.

  “What are you doing?” she gripes while I go for my boring whole-grain bread, turkey slices, and low-fat cheese.

  “What does it look like. I’m hungry.”

  “Ugh. Such an ass.”

  “Would you like one?” I offer. She looks hungry, too, but maybe that’s because she’s much thinner than when we first met. Back then, she was a bit curvier and fuller in the hips. Very sexy. Now she’s got these tiny muscles in her biceps, and her stomach is flatter than mine. Sam mentioned this bootcamp he sends his team to is tough, but I’m guessing he didn’t tell me how tough. Regardless, I like this version of Abi, too.

  “I’m starving. Thanks,” she says, “but don’t change the subject.”

  “Can’t help it if you want to talk about the wrong topic.” I grab two plates and a butter knife from the utensil drawer. “Which is the fact that you should leave here and never look back. Finish your degree, live your life, be happy. Don’t get mixed up in this shit for a paycheck. It’s not worth it.”

  In fact, why don’t I just write her a check. I set down my knife and go to my home office just down the hallway, returning a moment later with my checkbook.

  “What are you doing?” Abi’s golden brown eyes look like they’re about to bolt from her skull and accost me.

  Well, too bad. I’m doing this. “Will twenty thousand do the trick?” I start filling out the check.

  She swats my arm again, and the pen goes flying.

  “You’re getting on my last nerve, woman.”

  “My name is Abi, not woman. And you think you can throw money at me, and I’ll give up?”

  “You see me writing a check, don’t you?”

  Her tiny nostrils flare. “I don’t take charity. And I don’t quit.” She lifts her chin defiantly, and fuck me, but she looks so damned hot. It may have something to do with the fact that I’m not a quitter either.

  Don’t care. Don’t want her. She needs to stop this game of pretending to be a bodyguard. A) She has almost no training. B) How can someone smaller than me protect my life?

  You mean like she did tonight? I argue with myself.

  It was luck. Plain luck, I counter.

  I throw my hands in the air. “And what are you going to do, eh, when some bloke shows up with a magazine full o
f bullets that have my name on them?”

  “Well—well…”

  “You can’t do anything. Which is why I’ve already told Sam that you either stay put here, or I’m cancelling his services.” I stand tall and hover over her. It’s not lost on me that I enjoy this position.

  No. Not her. Not anyone. My days of being a player are long gone, even if I still have my entourage, who are paid by my swimsuit sponsor’s PR company. It’s an image thing the sponsor demanded. The ladies are to accompany me to any publicity events for Weeno, “The swimsuit for real men with real substance.”

  Wankers. Why don’t they just call them “Hey, I’m a shallow prick.” The irony is that they sell the bathing suits—or swimmers, as I like to call them back home—with a special insert to make the guy’s cock look bigger, so if anyone sees you wearing a Weeno, they automatically think you’ve got a shrimp in your shorts.

  Once my contract is over after the fashion show, I’m done. I’ll sign on with someone more respectable, like Wheaties or something. My body wasn’t put on this earth to be a marketing tool. I’m an athlete. I have four gold medals. I’ve broken five world records. Yeah, sure, it’s nice not having a micro-penis, so you’d never catch me complaining about my big cock, but this whole “Bulge” thing is out of control. I never asked for the attention to my downstairs, and I can’t help it if I have to wear a uniform that gives me the appearance of showing off. On my regular days, when I hang at the beach with my mates, I wear board shorts like a normal guy.

  Of course, my normal days are over. Being around me is dangerous. I’ve already told Weeno that my entourage can’t come to this final event. It’s one thing for them to show up to a small TV studio or closed photo shoot, but the Miami Swimsuit Fashion Week is bloody chaos. There are thousands of people everywhere, security is flimsy, and Sam’s made it clear he can’t guarantee my safety. No one can, which is why he doesn’t want me to go.

  I look at Abi. “You can’t come to Miami with us. I won’t allow it.”

  “Mitch.” Abi grabs my right hand. The subtle note of genuine concern in her eyes makes me want to give in to her. “I can at least be there to tell you to duck or run or do something. If I go, your odds of survival dramatically increase, and isn’t that what your family would want?”