Page 41 of My Damaged Protector

I nod.

“Thank you,” he says, suddenly serious.

It's not unusual for fans to thank me for my work and say that it impacts them so much.

“You're welcome.”

“No seriously, thank you. We were so worried you would say no.”

Okay, is it just me or is this guy talking more than a fan would?

“I'm sorry?” I ask, my guard now up.

I push away the drink he bought. I don't want to be drinking anything he's going to be paying for if he's a creeper or whatever he is.

“I should probably introduce myself properly,” he says with a sigh, a somber look coming over his face.

Yeah, he should. And then get the fuck away from me when he's done because whoever he is, I have no interest in prolonging this conversation.

“Hi, I'm Peter Brown, your stepbrother.”

I'm going to need a stronger drink.

13

IAN

I don't makea habit of going to places where I've been made aware that I'm not wanted, but when it comes to my work, I'm deaf to instructions.

It's been two weeks since I left Glazer Ville. Fifteen days since I last saw Sarah.

Have I been thinking about her?

Every goddamn minute of the day.

I don't have anything to do, and I'm low on cash, so of course, who else would I be thinking of to keep myself sane?

Ironically, thoughts of her drive me madder than focusing on my current situation does, but still, you'll find me thinking about her more than dwelling on my problems.

Eventually, I drag my ass away from home one evening and go in search of Richard with the intention of groveling if it means he'll take me back.

The station is just closing for the day when I get here. I request to see Richard, and he comes out to see me within five minutes of my arrival.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. Immediately, he sees I'm the one who asked for him.

“Hey man, it's good to see you,” I say a little too excitedly. The enthusiasm is fake, and he sees right through me.

“Cut the bullshit, Ian. You're not supposed to be here,” he says sternly.

Sighing, I drop the act. “Yeah, I know.”

“So why are you here?” he asks.

I shrug. It's pretty obvious.

“Talk,” he demands, his demeanor already closed off even before I start.

“I was hoping we could talk.”

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