Chapter 7Flynn
“I want out.”
Silence fills the line, and I know it’s Deacon’s way of forcing me to think about my words and giving me a chance to change my demand. I don’t. I won’t. Staying here is a mistake. Chasing after a grown woman who insists on acting like a toddler is a waste of everyone’s time. Especially mine. Especially since holding her last night felt way too good. Especially since I woke up sweaty and breathing hard after she managed to invade my dreams once I was finally able to crash.
“No,” my boss finally says once he realizes I’m not going to backpedal.
“What the hell do you mean, no? This is the most ridiculous assignment. She’s grown.”
“She’s accepted what she has to deal with to stay at that house.”
“This has to be illegal,” I argue. “I’m like a damn prison guard with this girl, and honestly, she’s a damn escape artist. I run marathons and I’ve never been more tired before in my life. I’ve only been here two days and I have bags under my eyes.”
“And you’re starting to sound like Brooks. I can ask him what his skin care routine is if you like.”
Two different chuckles fill the line.
“Is he in there with you?”
“Exfoliate and moisturize!” Brooks yells from somewhere near Deacon.
“Very professional, boss.”
“You called me. We were discussing a case. I didn’t call him in here to give you a hard time.”
“Is he chasing a girl around the city and getting arrested and thrown in jail like a perverted criminal?”
He snorts another laugh, and I squeeze my cell phone so hard, I wouldn’t be surprised if I cracked the screen.
“He’s gaining intel on a corporate espionage case.”
“Yeah,” I grumble. “Seducing beautiful women into spilling secrets is backbreaking work.”
“We all have our crosses to bear.”
“I want out,” I repeat, even though I know I’m not going to change his mind. “Her parents are crazy for even asking this of people to begin with. Did Wren tell you about the cameras?”
Deacon sighs. “Yes. He told me that there is nothing untoward going on with them or Mr. Blair’s check-ins. No one is sneaking peeks of your half-naked girl.”
“She’s not my girl,” I hiss.
Silence once again fills the line, and I have no idea what look Deacon has on his face, but it’s serious enough that even Brooks isn’t making jokes in the background any longer.
“Flynn.” I know that tone. This is the tone he has to use all too often with Wren when the IT specialist crosses virtual lines that could get Blackbridge Security shut down. “What’s going on?”
“She’s driving me crazy. Can’t you just tell the Blairs that this job isn’t the right fit for us?”
“Has anything inappropriate happened?”
“Other than her acting like a child?”
“You know we do extensive background checks on all clients. As strange as it may seem, the Blairs check out. Remington has an agreement with her parents that she’ll have a personal security detail at all times. In exchange, she gets to live happily in her perfect life in her cushy mansion and want for nothing.”
“She’s not happy,” I mutter.
“What?”
“How long? The last guy was here for two years. I love my job, but I didn’t sign on with Blackbridge to do this type of work for extended periods of time.”
“Then make her see reason. If the girl calms down and stops acting out, then another company, one that doesn’t require BBS’ skill set, will be able to take over.”
“You want me to tame her?”
A snort of laughter comes from the phone, and even though I can tell it’s Brooks and not Deacon, it still makes me see red.
“Did Wren forget to add that part into the dossier he prepared?”
Pulling the phone away from my ear, I stare down at the screen. Did he really just say that?
“Deacon,” I growl.
“You’re doing great work. It’s been two days and she hasn’t gotten seriously hurt or injured. Although the photos that leaked of her at lunch yesterday are less than desirable, at least it’s not scandal worthy.”
“Photos?” I ask but Deacon cuts me off.
“We have work to do. Keep up the good work.” The phone goes dead.
Admitting I want out of this house, out of this city, and out of this entire situation sits heavy in my gut, forcing me up the stairs to check on Remington once again. I’m torn, figuratively, right down the middle. If I stay, it’s only going to make things worse. I’m going to do or say something I won’t be able to take back, something that’s going to put another black mark on my record. If I leave, I know I’ll think about her constantly which is utterly absurd. I’ve known this girl two-and-a-half days, not even seventy-two hours, and she’s invaded every fucking thought like an incurable virus.
When I crack open her bedroom door—a violation of her privacy I refuse to acknowledge—I find her still snuggled under her blankets, completely cocooned in her bed. She’s normally up by now, and it makes me wonder if she got sick last night out on the damn grass.