Seventeen Years Old…
Heavy, wet tears drop to my cheeks, causing me to sniffle to contain the sorrow pouring out of me.
My heart feels too heavy, cracking inside my chest like a glass paperweight being dropped into the rocks of the ocean. People around me watch me with sympathy and pity. I hate it. They don’t know me—no one does. Mom was the only person who really knew me, truly, and now she’s gone. I’m really alone.
Dad’s hand grips mine tight as if to remind me that’s not true…only it is. He mumbles down at me to wipe my tears, stuffing a tissue in my face with his free hand. He loves me, but he loves his career more, and I’ve always known my place in the world he created for himself. Mom knew her place too, and she performed her role like she was created to be a politician’s wife. Grown in a field and picked as the ripest wife. Perfect childbearing hips, pretty face, refined grooming, well-taught manners and views on world topics, but not too much to be confused with her thinking her opinions matter.
She was there as a prop to my dad, and I was an extension of that prop. Americans loved nothing more than a family man with home values.
When the crowd finally parts, Dad begins to tug me away from the hole in the ground they lowered my mother’s casket into. The urge to pull free and throw myself down there with her is so strong, Dad has to tighten his hold on me like I’m a petulant child. His eyes scorn me, frown lines tugging down his brow. Will I ever be allowed to grow up?
Set myself free, give myself some room to just breathe and accept I’m alone.
Swallowing my grief, I dig deep for courage and allow Dad to drag me away.
His crisp blue suit stands out in contrast against everyone else wearing black. Mom always loved him in blue. She bought him that suit. A rock has formed in my throat, restricting me from speaking when a woman joins us and asks me a question no one should have to answer minutes after burying her mother.
“How are you coping with the passing of your mother?”
“Not now,” my father barks toward her. Flashes of camera lights spark in my face, stunning me and causing me to almost stumble backward in the silly heels my dad’s PR team insisted I wore. Who knew I needed to be dressed a certain way to appeal to the public at my own mother’s funeral. But Marjorie—Dad’s own personal public relations advisor—insists I must sparkle, even in his shadow.
Before I actually fall to the ground, a pair of strong arms come around my waist to steady me, making a little gasp whisper through my parted lips. Before I have time to gain back my equilibrium a wall of muscle surrounds us. Four men shielding us from the glare of the lens. Their backs protecting me from the overzealous media trying to impose on such a delicate time in my life.
I’m ushered by the man behind me toward a black limo parked on the grass verge. His arm grips me against his firm, built body, his jacket coming around me to hide my face as the other three men in front of us move until we reach the car and I’m deposited inside. My chest is tight and my breathing is ragged from the ordeal. Before I have time to compose myself, all four men accompany me within the car, causing a trickle of fear to engulf me when one sidles up next to me. Scanning them one by one, no recognition sparks and I’m about to flee when the door re-opens and my dad gets in with us. Exhaling the breath I’d been holding, I fidget a little in my seat, knowing all eyes are trained on me.
My gaze travels around the array of bodies, all eyes piercing and penetrating something inside of me I can’t grasp a hold of or explain. Strong jaws, defined features, and muscles that strain their suits. They look like something from an action movie.
“Clove, this is my new security team. Integral Defense Security. They’ll be looking after us from now on,” my dad announces before typing something into his cell phone.
Taking them all in, my mouth opens and closes, causing the one sitting in front of us to smirk.
“Clove, huh? Like a four-leaf clover?” He smiles, his hazel eyes curious and slightly amused. I frown in response. “Ford Cross,” he says before pulling open his jacket to reveal a gun and three knives carefully tucked away. “Executive Weapons Specialist. Pleased to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I mutter, leaning back in my seat some.
“It’s okay,” the one next to me informs me, his shoulder nudging into mine like we’re old friends. His cologne surrounds me, filling the air with an intoxicating scent of citrus and coconut water. My eyes lift to meet his. Bright green, enchanting eyes. Golden skin to match his golden-brown hair. He practically glows, like a handsome prince from one of my fantasy novels. “The name’s Leo. Leo King. I’m IDS’s Open Source Intelligence Agent. In a nutshell, I find out anything and everything about everyone. You’re safe now and we will always be here to protect you from them,” he says, nodding toward the throngs of people outside the limo, “and anyone else.”