Page 10 of Without Fail

He glanced down when Jennifer wrapped both hands around his forearm and smiled up at him. Of all Ryker’s friends, Jennifer was the most tolerable, followed by Cohen and Paige,who had their heads together discussing something on the other side of the table that fit six.

“Hey,” he said, and Jennifer patted his arm before sliding back into her seat.

Marshal pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes to stave off the headache threatening. If Ryker’s father got wind of this, Ryker was going to pay.

Robert Langston was a hard taskmaster among other things and Marshal needed Ryker to keep a low profile.

Marshal glanced at Brandon; he could imagine what Ryker’s bodyguards had been through watching after the man all these years.

“Go home, get some rest. I’ll take the rest of the night,” Marshal told Brandon, who gave a grateful nod.

“He’smybodyguard,” Ryker snapped. “I’ll tell him whether or not he can go.”

Marshal held those glaring blue eyes.

“Okay, then he can stay. I’m out.” Marshal snapped right back.

“Wait! Fine, just don’t be a buzz-kill,” Ryker hissed at him and then gave Brandon a wave. “Go home.”

The man booked it out of there as if his ass was on fire and Marshal planted his feet apart and crossed his arms, staring flatly at Ryker.

The lights flashed in the room, signaling the last call for alcohol, and the DJ came over the loudspeaker announcing that after two more songs, they’d be wrapping things up.

When Ryker tipped his chin up and ordered more booze, Marshal wanted to hoist the young man up over his shoulder and give him a good smack on the ass.

Of course, he wouldn’t do that.

Because as much as it killed him, he didn’t have that kind of relationship with Ryker.

The bed dipped beneath his knee when he placed Ryker down on the mattress.

Rather than strip the sexy outfit off of the young billionaire, he removed the man’s shoes and pulled the comforter over his sprawled body.

This was a first.

Ryker didn’t normally drink. Hell, the man never had but an occasional sip, so having him pass out was new. But the not drinking had been before Marshal had quit the Langstons. Now, Ryker was out of control. It shouldn’t have surprised him that Ryker was acting out—after what he’d been through, it was understandable.

“Marshal,” Ryker’s mom spoke cooly from the doorway.

She gave him a glacial look when he glanced her way.

“Ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat.

Lydia Langston looked sleekly put together even in sleepwear. The fifty-five-year-old socialite wore her auburn hair in a messy bun and was in silky pajamas that probably cost more than he made in a year.

Her glare was not surprising. To her, he was a deserter. She didn’t understand why he had left, but it didn’t matter. She would stand up for her husband and son until death.

Marshal strode toward the door and she smoothly stepped aside, skirting around him to make her way to the bed.

“Robert would like a word with you,” she quietly stated with her back to him.

Marshal glanced at his watch, not surprised that Langston was working in the wee hours of the morning. He nodded and stepped out into the hall. The Langston’s butler, John Brown, gestured and Marshal followed the elderly man down the long, luxurious hallway lined with photographs and paintings of past and present family members.

The butler left him at the doorway to the office and Marshal stepped inside and closed the door.

At the end of the large room, Robert Langston sat behind a massive oak desk situated near a wide picture window. Beyond the window, grounds sprawled out across the Langston estate. The property and buildings had been left to Lydia upon her father’s death several years ago.

“Marshal.” Robert Langston gave him a stern look and Marshal almost smirked, but he wanted to see what the man had up his sleeve. No doubt this would be a ploy to get him to stick around.

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