Page 9 of Keep Me

But for the first time since I started guarding her, something other than disdain and resentment flickers in me when I follow her into the alley behind Trixie’s. I know everything about her daily habits and movements, and none of those include smoke breaks. So, when I see her pull out a pack of cigs, I am hit with a zing of…I wouldn’t call it excitement, but it’s something other than boredom.

She’s finally making a move.

I don’t know what it is until the anemic alley light catches on a flash of metal and I’m staring down the barrel of a gun.

Her eyes are as dark as her hair, and there’s a fire in them that I can’t describe but instantly recognize. I can’t help but smirk back. Fucking finally, this is getting interesting.

“Who sent you?” The question takes me by surprise, but her voice is calm and her hands are steady. She appears relaxed and not frightened, but the wildness in her eyes, like prey backed into a corner, is what tells me she truly doesn’t know why I’ve been trailing her.

“Your father.”

“I won’t miss at this distance, so you better think twice before lying to me again.” I reach behind me, catching on to the way her eyes widen subtly and her breath stutters at the perceived threat. She thrusts the gun in my direction and chides, “Hands up.”

I keep my hand in my pocket still, unmoving, and cock my head to the side. “Shoot me, and you’ll never know who sent me.” Her jaw grinds, and my lips quirk smugly before pulling out my phone. The tension in her shoulders deflates when she sees it's not a weapon. I hold it out flat in front of me so she can watch me dial a number and press call.

It rings twice before a rough voice answers bluntly, “Sí.”

“Sir, it’s Roan. Would you please tell your daughter to lower her weapon?”

“¿Regenia, qué?”

“¿Papá, qué significa esto?”

“Cálmate, mija, él está ahí para protegerte. Juan told me about the package. Until we find out who sent it and what they want, I want you protected. If anyone can keep you safe in June Harbor, it’s the Foxes.”

Some sort of realization dawns on her face, and she looks up at me. “You’re a Fox?”

I ignore her question, and her father huffs on the other end of the line. “Well, are we good? I have things to do—”

She shouts into the phone, “Wait, no—”

“Don’t shoot him, mija. And, Roan, don’t give her a reason to. She’s a great shot and won’t miss.”

“So I’ve been told,” I respond, and he hangs up with a laugh. I tuck my phone away and look back up at her. “This explains why you’ve been treating me like I’m a puppy murderer and not the person saving your ass—”

“You haven’t saved me from shit.”

She doesn’t lower her weapon, and I can’t deny the crackle of energy. There’s nothing quite like the tension between oneself and the barrel of a gun. I was eight the first time I flinched at the sight of a gun. That was, of course, unacceptable to my father. So every day for months, he would randomly draw his pistol on me. Eating breakfast, waiting for the school bus, tucking me into bed. Any moment was an opportunity. The tests didn’t stop until I quit flinching.

My young brain made a game of it. If I could smile before I flinched, I won. If I won enough times, maybe it would bring her back.

It didn’t bring anyone back. Now it’s just a dance with an old friend.

A gust of wind down the alley makes strands of her raven hair flutter around her face. She brushes it out of her way with one hand. She hikes the hem of her dress up with the hand still holding the gun, exposing a stretch of warm brown skin to holster it. It’s the only soft part of her; everything else is hard and fierce.

“I’m going back inside to enjoy the rest of my night.” She pushes past me. “You stay at the bar, but try not to look like such a fucking creep.”

I snatch a fistful of her long, silky hair and yank her around. Her eyes ignite, and irate defiance cuts across her features. Her hand shoots to her thigh, but I smack it away, forcing her neck back to stare up at me. Angry breaths punch from between her parted lips. Mine tug into a sneer as I say, low and deadly, “You’re not the Cortez I take orders from. Bark at me again, and I’ll be the one you need protecting from.”

Reggie

Would my father ever actually hurt me? No. Would he send me a threatening package in an attempt to deter me? Yes.1 I’m stubborn as a mule with ADHD. I won’t let something go once I’m hyperfixated and he knows it. Perhaps not even to deter me, but to give himself a reason to hire someone to spy on me under the guise of protection. The Foxes are a notorious crime family, but they aren’t known for one specialty. They’ll take any job that offers a big payday.

So, sure, Roan could really just be a glorified babysitter, but he could also be hired for ten other things while disguised as another.

I don’t know how my father is tied to the bodies being dumped at the institute yet, but anyone he hires is looking pretty shady to me. So, I’ve given myself fucking cabin fever, locked up in my apartment for two days while trying to keep as much space between me and Roan as possible.

But tonight, I’m finally getting those drinks with Matthew and Stephen. If Roan will be driving there anyway to keep an eye on me, I may as well get something out of this arrangement and make him my DD.

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