Page 89 of South Beach Bodyguards

“Sure. That way I don’t have to give you directions, either.”

“Great.” I handed her the keys.

She pulled out, a steady but fast driver and almost immediately whipped into a Walgreens drug store. Without a word, or asking me if I wanted anything, she went inside. I took that to mean my company wasn’t required. I sat in the car and waited, opening my own glove box. I had no idea what was even in there. I found condoms and spare bullets. And some soy sauce packets. If that didn’t sum up my fucked up life, I didn’t know what would.

Olivia came back and tossed a plastic bag at me. “Here.”

I peered inside and found a box of bandages and medical tape. I was touched, I admit it. “Thanks.”

She made a sound but said nothing. I did watch her as she drove. Her jaw was set and she gripped the wheel tightly, but she seemed to have gained control of her emotions by clinging to anger. I was fine with that. Having her pissed off was easier for me to swallow than her on the verge of tears.

I wanted to say something, but nothing felt right. So I just watched her. She knew it. Her shoulders stiffened. “What?” she asked finally.

“Nothing.”

“Then stop staring at me.”

“It’s a free country, kid.” But rather than make her even angrier, I did turn to face forward and stop watching her.

Olivia scoffed.

It wasn’t a long drive, but her neighborhood was nicer than mine, a mixture of large, suburban homes and college housing. She lived in a low apartment building. Nothing special, but nothing torn up, either. Just dated. Affordable. I walked her to the door even after she said I didn’t have to.

“Thanks.” She stopped without opening the door.

“Lock up after you go in,” I said. “And please, if anything seems off, call the cops or call me.”

She nodded. I figured she would be more inclined to call the cops than me, but so long as she was safe, I didn’t care.

“Are you okay to drive home? How much whiskey did you have?”

That touched me. She really was a good person. “I’m fine, I promise.” I brushed her cheek with the back of my hand. “Goodbye, beautiful. Take care of yourself.”

“You, too. Try to dodge bullets.”

That made me laugh softly. “Maybe if we had met a different way…” The minute I said it out loud I knew it was bullshit.

She did, too.

“We would have never met a different way.” She gave me a brief smile. “Or if we had we never would have said more than two words to each other. I’m not your type.”

“How do you know what my type is?”

“You liked my sister because you thought she was dumb and sweet.” Her nose wrinkled. “I am neither.”

There was enough truth to it that I was defensive. “What’s your type, nerd boys?”

“I don’t know what my type is,” she said quietly. “But I know it’s not…”

She stopped speaking, squeezing her lips together tightly.

I knew what she meant. It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did, like a nasty knife stab to the heart. I had purposely gone straight, yet I wasn’t good enough for her. I wasn’t good enough. “What, it’s not me? Too tall, dark, and sexy for you? You must hate orgasms.” Because when I was cut, I sliced back.

But her jaw dropped. “I wasn’t going to say you, jackass. I was going to say my type isn’t rich guys but that sounded wrong, so I stopped myself. What I really mean is I’m not into cheaters and drug dealers. Other than that, I’m not sure I have a type.”

Oh. Well, now I didn’t know what the fuck to say. “That’s a good plan,” I finally said. “Stay away from drug dealers.”

She gave me a thumb’s up. “I’ll do that, thanks.”

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