I should’ve been fired.
I did try to quit.
Just as I started signing the termination papers, Akara grabbed the pen out of my fucking hand and Banks locked me in a room until I promised I’d stay on. The main reason why I’m still here is… Jane.
I didn’t want to give up on her. I didn’t want to quit on her.
I care too much about her well-being and safety, and she needs real stability. Placing her in the hands of a new bodyguard felt like ripping the rug from underneath her feet.
I couldn’t do it.
And I know, well and fucking good, that dwelling on the past isn’t going to help Jane.
“What happened, happened ,” Banks whispers, still staring at me. “But we’ve all got to push forward together.”
I nod a few times, taking a deeper breath. “Watch the sea. I’m not the objective.” We’ve had issues with paparazzi boating to shore this summer.
He fixes his earpiece. “You’re such a fucking gabbadost’.” You’re such a fucking hardhead. His Philly lilt overpowers the Italian-American word.
I almost smile. After another quiet moment, I tell him, “I’m snapped to.”
His lips slowly rise. “Right on, right on.”
I instinctively pin my sights on my client.
Jane looks up from her spot near the fire, and her blue eyes crash against my brown.
My chest lifts, but I hardly fucking budge.
She tears our gazes apart and checks over her shoulder like the lights to the neighboring town are suddenly of interest.
Goddammit.
Banks scans the bonfires and then briefly glances at Jane. “She’s still not talking to you?”
Affirmative. “I’m fixing it,” I say stiffly.
A beat passes.
“Like now,” Banks says. “You gotta stop tormenting yourself and just go.”
“She’s with her family, Banks.” I raise the volume on my radio, but comms chatter has been nearly silent tonight. Everyone is in the same space. Not much happening.
“She’s always with her family. If you don’t move out, I’ll push your ass in the fucking sand.”
I give him a hard look. “You threw your fucking back out and you want to push me in the sand?”
He makes a move toward me, and I grab his bicep so he doesn’t do anything stupid. Just then, in my peripheral, I spot Maximoff heading towards Farrow.
Leaving Jane alone. She wedges her empty bottle in the sand.
I release my hold on my brother’s bicep. “I got this,” I tell Banks.
He smacks the back of his hand against my chest. “Don’t nuke it, man.”
I nod and hike up the beach.
That phrase keeps rushing past me. Our dad would toss a football back and forth, and when Banks fumbled, our dad would just pat his shoulder and say, Don’t nuke it, kid. It was his way of telling us to not overthink it.
Jane doesn’t see me coming yet. She rises to her feet, brushes sand off her ass, and then goes to retrieve another beer. Aimed for the blue cooler near the dunes.
My stride is stringent. I pass the bonfires, heat stinging the back of my neck, and in seconds, I close in on her position.
Jane spots me, just as she crouches at the cooler and collects a beer from the melted ice. She hesitates. Frozen in place. I watch her beautiful blue eyes dart to the bonfire where her whole family congregates.
Don’t use the word “beautiful”.
I’m breathing hard through my nose, and I stop right in front of my client. Towering over Jane while she’s squatting. She stares more curiously at me and then untwists the cap of her beer.
“Jane,” I greet.
She straightens up. “Thatcher.” The top of her head barely reaches my shoulders, but she lifts her chin and looks me right in the eye.
She replied to me.
Which is a good sign.
“Can we talk?” I ask, my voice gutturally deep. All the time.
She considers, silently.
I glance at her cold beer bottle. My joints lock. It strikes me that she’s been drinking, and I should’ve factored in alcohol. Fucking unprofessional. “We should wait until you’re sober—”
“I’ve only had one beer. I’m not even buzzed.” Her cheeks are rosy, and she tentatively checks on the families again. Maybe even glancing at Farrow and Maximoff.
I don’t follow her gaze to confirm. I’m only looking at her and the empty beach on my nine. “If now’s a bad time, you can tell me, Jane.” It’s my job to alleviate pressure in her life. Not add to it.
Jane thinks for a moment. “We can go for a short walk, you and I.” She must really want to hear what I have to say.
The private beach has been secure all day and night, so I don’t need to lead the way like I would if there were crowds.
Jane is able to journey ahead, but I keep pace and flank her left side. I click my mic at my collar. “Thatcher to security, I’m Oscar Mike. Jane is going for a walk on the beach.”
Jane glances curiously at me after I release my hand on the mic, but she thinks against speaking and turns her head forward.
Yeah, I need to unfuck this.
It’s driving me insane.
Akara sounds in my ear. “Copy.”
Keeping the team informed of changes in positions is important. Only a couple bodyguards have consistent problems with this rule.
Like Farrow. Figuring out where he’s fucking off at during regular days is like playing Where’s Waldo.
The more distance we add from the firelight, the more darkness descends over us. I turn my head to Jane.
She looks over at me.
We say nothing.
I’m trying not to think anything I shouldn’t.
She focuses ahead again, and my flexed muscles contract. I keep the pace she sets. We’re several meters away from her family. Tension snaking around us in thickening silence. But the rush of the sea grows louder as we leave behind the chatter.
We’re alone together, but in my line of work, it’s not uncommon at all that I’m alone with Jane. But it’s not usually under the pretext of “can we talk?”—and I need to fucking talk.
My jaw feels wired shut.
Jane appears the furthest thing from annoyed when I’m quiet, and that stuns me. She just looks me over with that mounting curiosity, and she scuffs sand with her bare foot. Humidity expands the volume of her hair, and wind carries the strands.
“Can you hold this?” Jane lifts the beer up to me.
I take the bottle, and she ties her frizzing brunette hair into a low pony. We drift closer to the water. Making boot-prints and footprints in the damp sand.
I glance strongly back at Jane. Being assertive is my natural state, and I just say it, “I want to make this right.”
Finished tying her hair, her arms drop.
I hand the bottle back.
“Merci,” she says, her features harder to read in the dark. “After you apologized to Farrow and Maximoff, they forgave you.”
I could believe Farrow and Maximoff would give me another chance when I didn’t deserve one because they’re both good men. It didn’t shock me, and it doesn’t surprise me that Jane is still conflicted.
Her loyalties are to them. As they should be, and I hate that I’ve put her in a position where she felt like she had to cold-shoulder her own bodyguard.
I fix my earpiece and tuck a few strands of hair behind my ear. “I meant I want to make this right with you.”
Her eyes slowly widen, and we come to a stop. “In what way?” Her shoulders curve forward, goosebumps pricking her skin. We’re far from the fire now, and she didn’t bring a jacket or blanket.
I unbutton my shirt.
“Oh—” Her lips part. “I can’t take your shirt, Thatcher…you’ll be terribly cold.” Her breezy voice and distinctive way of speaking is like honey dripping down my throat.
It’s my job to make her life safe.
It’s not my job to imagine tasting her words against my tongue while I push deep inside—don’t .
Don’t.
My muscles sear as each tendon contracts.
Before I became her bodyguard, Banks warned me that being around Jane would be hard on my end. Figuratively.