Anthony John Thorne.
“Ihave something I need to ask you, and you can’t say no.”
Tom barreled into my office, tossing a glossy magazine onto my desk. The type you see in the waiting room of a B-grade dentist.
“No,” I drawled, not bothering to look up from my Apple screen.
Chuckling, my business partner fell into the seat across from me, loosening his collared shirt.
“Did I invite you to sit down?” I asked, still typing.
“It’s important,” he said mildly. Everything about the fucker was mild—his nature, his looks, his tone. I found his averageness appalling. Less so than the general population, but still annoying enough that I didn’t want his company unless I specifically asked for it. Which happened never.
This begged the question—why the fuck was he here?
“Out.” I crushed the end of my pen with my teeth.
“Not before we talk.”
“Talking is overrated. Silence is golden.” I spat the pen out onto my desk. It rolled and fell in Tom’s lap.
He probably wanted to invite me to a family dinner, or worse, golfing. For reasons beyond my grasp, my business partner did not understand the fact I gave zero fucks about socializing, and minus fifteen fucks about his beloved geriatric sport. My hobbies included CrossFit, pussy, and red meat. Above all—being left alone. I didn’t have a family, and I liked it that way. Trying to rope me into his didn’t win him any brownie points.
His insistence on validating our shared past only encouraged me to spendlesstime with him. We’d already spent our youth together. And neither of us enjoyed it.
“It’s work.” He grabbed a stress ball from my desk, crushing it in his palm.
I tore my gaze from the screen reluctantly, taking a break from emailing a client to notify him that he was three seconds away from getting violently robbed if he continued flaunting his Rolex collection on Instagram.
I was the co-owner of Lockwood and Whitfield Protection Group. As such, I spent my day explaining to dumb, rich people why they needed to stop doing dumb, stupid shit that could land them in danger. In this case, the heir in question was not complying with my company’s contract. The agent I’d appointed to protect him complained that Vasily informed his 2.3 million followers in which New York hotel he was staying, including what floor.
The man did not deserve his wealth, not to mention the oxygen he consumed.
Babysitting rich morons wasn’t a dream come true. It paid well, though, and it sure beat everything else a man of my skill could do for employment. The other option was a hitman. Although I disliked humans, I did not particularly yearn for prison time.
Tom dumped the magazine onto the desk between us.
“What am I looking at?” I grabbed the tabloid. A shit-faced young woman with hair like a Disney mermaid was staring back at me. Her tit was spilling out of her torn dress. Her nipple was covered with a tiny yellow star. The headline read:Hallion in Trouble! Party Girl Suffers a Nip Slip.
“Never mind.” I threw the magazine back in Tom’s lap. “I got my answer—a fucking mess.”
“Ahotfucking mess,” Tom corrected, grinning. “Uncensored pictures appear inside.”
“Great news for my thirteen-year-old self. Grown up me wants to know what she has to do with us?”
“Hallie Thorne.” Tom boomeranged the magazine back into my hands. “Ring a bell?”
“Should it?” I sat back, already bored with the conversation. I never watched TV. It was full of people, and as established before, I hated them. Television also reminded me other people had shit I didn’t—friends, family, hobbies. This woman looked like the type to give someone a mediocre makeover on a cable show.
“President Anthony Thorne’s daughter.”
I spared the magazine another disinterested look. “Must’ve taken after the pool boy.”
She looked nothing like her father. Then again, her father didn’t look like an OnlyFans pin-up girl.
“Anyway,” Tom continued, “I just got off the phone with Thorne’s former chief security officer, Robert McAfee. He knows me from a hole in the wall. Thorne wants to hire security for her after this incident.”
“You mean public indecency.”