Being on my feet at dawn is like any other day.
But what’s congregating on the old street—it’s not the type of shit that I deal with before I can even shower.
“Hey, man,” a stocky redheaded temp bodyguard greets me, coming up to my side. “I can’t see much, but they keep calling her name and paparazzi are waking up.” I hear multiple car doors shut.
Through an eerie layer of fog, I make out maybe…three or four men leaving their respective vehicles.
One is already on the street.
“Jane! Are you home?!” a guy yells. His whining desperation sounds less like typical demands of paparazzi.
He’s a fucking suitor.
It’s a polite term that the Alpha lead wants us to use.
Ever since the Cinderella ad, a bunch of delusional fuckbags have been congregating outside the townhouse. Swarming the street, along with the media.
It’s been one week since the ad’s been in print, and this should’ve died down already. But it’s gotten worse. More suitors keep coming in from out of state, staking claim to a girl that they cannot fucking have.
I fit in my earpiece. “Get eyes on the pap vans and keep watch of the left townhouse. I’ll handle the other targets.”
In the filmy haze, I see a line of paparazzi vehicles camped out on the street. Most are parked on the adjacent sidewalk to free the road. Some have been there long before the Cinderella ad, but the media attention has doubled. Cameramen are also waking up earlier than usual.
Several already spill out of their cars.
One cameraman is squatting on the sidewalk, positioning the lens towards misted windows of Maximoff’s room. Blinds and curtains shut.
Another guy sets up a tripod.
I look to the temp guard as he hesitates. “Copy?” I ask.
He frowns. “Sir, what’s protocol if these targets bring Jane gifts?”
I drop my voice another octave. “Do not touch whatever they try to hand you. Don’t accept any packages. Just tell them to fuck off without antagonizing them.” I let the cord to my mic hang on my bare chest, and I hawk-eye the most vocal suitor right now.
“Thanks, sir.” He exhales. “My shift is usually inactive.”
I nod. Understanding.
Temp guards are on a rotation right now. Around the time Maximoff and Farrow’s relationship went public, we had to hire 24-hour stationary guards outside the townhouses. Usually one man is enough at dawn.
That’s drastically changed this week. And I got called out of bed to help.
Of all the properties the famous ones own, this is the most unsecure location. No gates. Too easy access for the public. Fans constantly take selfies on the stoop, and we had to disable the doorbell.
Other than the 24-hour guards, there’s nothing the team can do to make it any safer. I’d build a stone fortress around the whole structure if I could, but city codes, violations, and all of that shit.
It’s red fucking tape.
I glance at the temp guard. “Stay alert, watch your sector.” And then I aim for the vocal suitor.
“Jane!” he wails, nearing the curb. “Jane Eleanor Cobalt!”
I approach with authority and intent.
He’s older. Most of the suitors are between early-thirties and late sixties. It’s disturbing, and I don’t want Jane to see their faces. I don’t want them to occupy space in her brain.
Clear them out.
Quick visual assessment: mid-forties, plain face, thin silver-framed glasses, jeans and scuffed white sneakers. He has a laser focus on the front door and a bouquet of red roses in hand.
“Sir.” I block his path.
He skids to a stop.
“You need to back up.” I point to the car I saw him get out of. “Go home.” Through the fog, I notice the Florida license plate.
He stands uneasily in the middle of the street, his eyes growing behind his glasses. Staring up at me like I’m a character from Game of Thrones. Ready to smite him down with an axe.
Intimidation is one of the first defenses in this job. We have to scare them off, not provoke them or beat them to a bloody fucking pulp. No matter how much they antagonize and ridicule these families, people we genuinely care about.
“I just want to see Jane,” the man squeaks out.
“You wanna see her?” I glower. “You can’t.” I hear my Philly lilt break through. Banks jokes that my accent is stronger the more pissed I get.
I don’t think that’s true.
He wavers, like he’s considering outrunning me.
I stake him with a harsher glare. “You touch her property, and I’ll escort you to your car. I’m not going to be nice about it.” A threat hardens my voice.
He scuttles back, tripping over his untied shoelace. He drops the roses. “Sorr-so-sorry,” he stammers, abandoning the flowers in the street and jogging to his car.
One down. Many more to go.
Comms ring in my ear. “Akara to Thatcher, what’s the level of the threats?”
I stare down a white guy whose jeans are unzipped, his cagey eyes darting left and right, an envelope and box of chocolates in hand, and I click my mic. “Same as yesterday—” I almost say over at the tail end, and I cut myself off before I do. Military comms are much different than security’s radio protocols. It was a hard transition at first.
But so was civilian life, and I jumped straight into security after my four-year tour ended.
I pick up more SFO comms chatter, and I listen while I motion to other middle-aged suitors to get the fuck out.
What I hear:
“Buncha skeevy fucks,” Donnelly says, South Philly lilt thicker than mine.
Oscar sounds in. “At this rate of motherfucking deception, we’re gonna need eyes on Grandmother Calloway.”
“I’m sure she’d love your eyes on her, Oliveira,” Farrow says next, his voice naturally rough and amusement audible.
Oscar laughs. “Maybe we should send you, Redford. You’d probably kill her before she hits ninety.”
I grit my molars, forcing down the urge to tell them to shut up over comms.
Before joining Omega, I was always an Epsilon bodyguard. Since SFE works with minors, the differences between the two forces are night and day. SFE has more rules to protect the kids, and Omega has more freedoms working with adults.
But my biggest irritation is the radio. Omega uses comms like a gossip network or complaint hotline. It was fucking painful during the FanCon. Banks and I say that it’s 104.1 Call-In-Your-Bullshit channel.
And look, I’ve got complaints.
A list fucking ten feet high. I’m concerned, like Oscar is, that someone in the families was able to pull this stunt. It’s why we weren’t tipped about the ad before it went into print.
I’m concerned that these fuckbags aren’t going to ever get the message. Responding to that ad in the first place takes some guts, and it’s been unnerving Jane all week.
But I’m not airing this shit on comms, and right now—I can’t worry about any of that.
I send seven more suitors packing, clearing out the small crowd. Except for paparazzi. Can’t do anything about that.
“Excuse me!” a suitor shouts, closer to where paparazzi are setting up tripods. He keeps his shined loafers off the curb, an inch from where I’d yell at him.
Only two strides later, I block him and scrutinize his features. Quick assessment: slicked-back dirt-brown hair, tailored suit, angular face, maybe early-thirties.
He looks like he made a wrong turn and ended up here instead of PHLX.
“You’re in the wrong area, sir,” I tell him. “Walnut Street is that way.” I point in the direction, further in Center City where the Philly Stock Exchange is located.
He opens his mouth, but then gets distracted. He takes out his phone, screen lit with an incoming call.
I keep an eye on him but also survey the area.
Where’s my guy? I quickly scan for the temp bodyguard. He’s one fucking block down. Chatting with a mom and a daughter, who are probably bartering, tempting, bribing him—doing something they shouldn’t—just to see the famous ones.
Come on.
He shouldn’t have left his sector.
I’ll deal with that later. Hand-holding temp bodyguards is routine, but this early and with Jane at the crux, I wish that the temp were Farrow right now.