Page 11 of Protector

“It was slipped behind your graduation picture.”

I sigh, not having the energy to make up something. “That was in my college dorm?”

“Oh.” He walks over to me, still holding the picture. “Did you, uh, graduate?”

I tilt my head to the side as if the answer were obvious.

“What happened? You don’t have to tell me…”

“No, it’s fine. Remember I told you I was interested in fashion design?”

His face lights up. “So you pursued it then.”

“I only went for a semester.” I realize that doesn’t answer his original question, but if he wants to know badly enough, he can get uncomfortable, too, and ask me directly.

“Because you couldn’t do both? Modeling and going to school?” Apparently, Brooks has no problem digging deep.

“Something like that. I wanted that experience, living in the dorms, taking interesting classes, not to mention it would get me out of the house…” I manage a smile, but it doesn’t last when my brain goes to how I will finish this story. “Then, during finals week, I—”

A loud bang sounds from outside the office. Brooks moves to the door on high alert.

“That sounded like the front door.” The office is situated at the front of the house, so it makes sense we’d hear the noise if someone was out there.

I rush around the desk to stand next to Brooks, but his arm comes out, and he nudges me back.

“You expecting anyone?” he whispers to me.

“I don’t think so.”

Brooks narrows his eyes at me. “Stay here.” Then he moves out into the hall.

I slip out but stay far enough back.

Brooks looks up to the windows above the door, and I follow his gaze, seeing something white resting against the door.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Click

“Someone’s keying in the door code. My mom gives it to people sometimes,” I say quietly. It’s a way to let people come into the house without giving them the key.

Whoever it is tries again, which means maybe it’s not someone who was given the code.

Brooks shakes his head and moves toward the door.

Just before he leans in to look through the peephole, the handle clicks and turns, and the door whips open, smashing into his shoulder, his hand swiping behind his back like he’s going for a gun.

Instead, Brooks grabs the door with one hand, pulls it farther open, grabs the guy coming in by the throat and shoves him back against the wall, all so fast my head is spinning.

I gasp and yell, “Wait! It’s okay. It’s just Y’von.”

Brooks doesn’t look at me, still laser-focused on Y’von, whose pleading wide eyes bounce from me to Brooks and then back to me. “Shay, sweetheart, what the hell’s going on here?” His usually pale skin is a shade whiter, and his blond hair falls over his right eye.

Nobody moves, and I wonder if this is some sort of warfare tactic and Brooks needs some release command or something.

“Tell this slab of meat to let me go, Shay!”

“Brooks, let him go,” I say, placing my hand on his very large bicep.

Brooks slowly drops his grip, backs away, then plants his hands on hips. But he doesn’t look the least bit sorry, so I knit my eyebrows at him and say, “Is this how it’s going to be?” Y’von is my mother’s masseur. I didn’t know he was coming.”

---