My job is about split-second choices that affect his life. And I subtly and quickly weigh risks. My window faces an overgrown magnolia tree that obstructs the street view. Also, if he cared about being caught on camera, he wouldn’t actively go for the window right now.
Conclusion:
Risk = low.
Window = have at it, Moffy.
I keep an attentive eye on him and remove my black sheets and bedding from my duffel.
Maximoff wrenches the crusted window open, muscles flexed. The old wood screeches as it reaches the top.
When he returns to my mattress, he cracks his knuckles. Moffy scans my bedding, his phone buzzing in his jean’s pocket, but it’s been vibrating since I first saw him today.
Earlier, I deduced that he’s ignoring his texts. “Do you need a minute?” I ask.
“For what?” He’s rigid, but he always stands at attention like he’s one breath from sprinting into a fight to save his family.
I nearly smile. “A minute to let this sink in.”
He inhales a strong breath. “Sure. Just change that minute to a century, and I’m good.”
I rest my knee on the mattress, my hand slipping in my pocket. “If I give you a century, you’ll be dead.”
“Great. You can guard my corpse.”
My brows hike. “That’s really adorable that you think I’ll outlive you.”
“Who says you won’t?”
“I’m five years older than you.” I find a piece of gum in my pocket and peel the foil. “And I’m still taller than you too.” By one inch.
“I forgot that in your fucked-up alternate universe, height determines one’s life expectancy.”
I laugh a short laugh and pop my gum in my mouth.
We stand still on either side of my bed, and neither of us really moves. I skim his wardrobe, just a green T-shirt, jeans, and a cheap canvas watch. He looks like he’s worth twenty bucks, not over a billion.
His quiet humility makes him seem even older.
My eyes flit up to his, and he visibly tenses.
One of us needs to speak. Not jokingly. No humor. I rarely have serious conversations with him, and to be his bodyguard, our serious talks need to outweigh all the others.
I rake both of my hands through my hair for the third time today. Pushing the strands back. “What are your plans for tonight?”
My words must wash over him like a bucket of ice water. He cringes, looks away and shakes his head a few times. “This is too fucking weird.”
I slowly chew my gum, thinking of how to approach this. I’m attaching myself to his life. Not the other way around. I’d be just as irked if our positions were reversed.
“Help me make my bed,” I say.
Maximoff easily takes the detour, and he motions for me to give him the corner of the sheet. I do.
He’d never reject someone’s request for help. I can’t even remember the last time I asked him to help me with anything.
Most likely never.
We both hook my fitted sheet onto the corners of the mattress, and then I toss him a pillow and the black pillowcase.
I stare at him for a long moment, and his daggered green eyes lift to my brown. We slow down, and neither of us needs to speak to be aware of the taut air.
I know the source.
He knows the source.
It’s sex. Sex is the untouched topic.
Maximoff Hale is the most eligible bachelor in the country. It’s public knowledge that he frequents nightclubs and bars. It’s my job to hide how many one-night stands he has from the media.
The security team gossips, but Declan never shared with anyone how many people Maximoff fucks. I’m now supposed to safeguard that mystery. And whoever he wants to sleep with, I have the distinct responsibility of not only meeting them.
But interrogating them.
I’ll get them to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement. I’ll stand guard at his bedroom door in case something bad happens. I’ll be there until they leave. I’ll even escort them out of his townhouse.
I’m the one who has to protect his cock. And his heart.
“You can trust me,” I tell him.
He shakes my pillow into its case. “I have to trust you. There’s a fucking difference.”
I pop a bubble and tilt my head back and forth, considering both statements. “You’ll see that you can trust me sooner rather than later. I work for you now. Not your mom.”
Those words loosen his shoulders a fraction. The whole security team often refers back to the parents since most of the Hale, Meadows, and Cobalt children are still underage. Out of fear of parental wrath and subsequent termination, many bodyguards would snitch on Maximoff in a heartbeat.
I won’t.
I fear none of the parents or the possibility of being fired. Three years, nearly 24-hours a day protecting his mom was no joke. She’s shy, a sex addict, and her gangly build and soft features make her look perpetually young: round cheeks, shoulder-length brown hair, and green eyes like Moffy. Hecklers see her as an easy target.
I’ve been spit in the face numerous times. I’ve taken right hooks to the jaw, uppercuts to the ribs—all meant for her. I’ve broken a fucker’s cheekbone and was subsequently sued. Though, he was the one who tried to reach beneath her dress.
I’ve disarmed gunmen, knife-carriers, and hecklers wielding plastic water pistols, bags of glitter, dildos—any hard projectiles. I’ve driven Lily out of passionate crowds that rocked her car. I’ve cleared thousands of rooms and bathrooms before she entered. I’ve made sure no one in the fucking world would put a hand on her.
I live by my actions, and my actions say: I’m the best at whatever I do.
And if someone really wants to fire me, they would’ve done it years ago whenever I turn off my coms and leave blanks in my daily “where did you go” and “what did you do” write-ups. That standard practice serves more to ignite gossip in the security team than to protect my client.
Maximoff tosses my pillow down. “So what is this, a promotion or demotion for you?”
I tuck in my black comforter. “It’s a transfer. Everyone on security earns the same amount of money. Except you make more if you’re a lead of a Force.” I wipe sweat off my forehead with my bicep, the heat not dying down.
Moffy uses the hem of his shirt to rub his own forehead. Revealing his cut abs. Damn. I casually avert my eyes.
I pop another bubble with my gum. “But this little housing situation is a definite demotion.” I look up and smile as he uses his middle finger to point at the door.
“There’s the exit if you can’t handle it.”
“I can handle anything, Maximoff.” I bite my gum into a wider smile. “I’m stating a fact. This townhouse is old and small. Where I lived before was brand new and a mansion.” The Hales, Cobalts, and Meadows families live on the same street in a rich gated neighborhood. Not far from here.
Philadelphia suburbs.
One street over in that same neighborhood, they bought two eight-bedroom mansions just to house the 24/7 bodyguards. Security Force Alpha and Epsilon all currently room there; basically the ones who protect the parents and the underage kids.
Omega, those of us who protect the eighteen-and-older children, are the ones spread out.
Our movements mimic our clients. We don’t choose where we live. We just live wherever our clients do, and bodyguard shuffles happen.
Someone quits to start a family or concentrate on their kids. Someone is fired for incompetence. Someone wants a life-change. Whatever the case, the three security leads will shift many of us once a vacancy appears.
That person just happened to be me this time.
I never became a part of the “cliques” of Security Force Alpha. Because I hate cliques. And I was too much of a maverick to be accepted by the older, regimented bodyguards. Now that I’m a part of Omega, I’ll see Alpha less, which is perfectly fine with me.
Moffy tucks in the last corner of my comforter. “So wh
en security found out you’d be my bodyguard, no one sent you condolence cards or told you that you’d be better off rocketing to the fucking moon?”
He’s fishing for information on how security perceives him—because Declan obviously told him shit. “No one had time to send me cards,” I say. “But if they did, most would say good luck trying to steer that ship.”
“Sounds about right,” he says. “Is that it?”
Wow, he knows nothing. If I came face-to-face with Declan today, I’d shake his hand and say, you’re a fucking asshole. But I’d have to do that with two-thirds of the security team. We all have different relationships with our clients.
I prefer the mutual kind.
“No one would pity me.” I slide my empty duffel beneath my bed. “It’s not like when Oscar was transferred to Charlie’s detail. We all threw him a funeral.” I raise my brows in a wave at Moffy.
He smiles a bit and shakes his head a couple times. “Charlie.”
Charlie Cobalt, his nineteen-year-old cousin and the oldest Cobalt boy, is notoriously difficult to follow around. One day he’ll be in Ibiza, the next Paris, then Japan—he’s spontaneous, unpredictable, and out of all the kids, his frank tweets and comments go viral the most.
Only a second passes and Moffy’s lips start to downturn, his cheekbones sharpening. I’ve heard rumors from security that Moffy and Charlie don’t get along.
I’ve even seen them argue before. If he rarely hangs out with Charlie, then I’ll rarely see Oscar.
That’s how this works.