Page 38 of Protector

“No!” I say a little too loud. I look down, cross an ankle over my bouncing knee. “I don’t know… It’s not like my other assignments. This direct threat throws a whole new shadow on how I protect her.”

“Yeah, that’s why I wanted you. You’re the only one I know who can handle this. Was I wrong?”

My mouth pursed, I shake my head as we stare at each other. That look he’s giving me feels like he’s reading my damn mind. “Catherine say something to you?”

“Like what?” His eyes dart away and then come back to me, and I have my answer.

“You’re an ass.”

“I’m married. Married couples talk and share. Some day you might get your head out of your ass, settle down, and experience it for yourself. In the meantime, make sure this girl keeps her starry-eyes focused on her own shit.”

I don’t know what Catherine told him, but I’m guessing Shay shared her feelings with her. I’m already cringing at this conversation, so I won’t ask for specifics. “I am.” I sit up straighter, then decide to stand and get some space from him. Maybe it’s time I made my exit.

“Wait.”

I stop at his door and turn without a word.

“I want to see your face when you tell me you have this under control.”

Determined to make Shay’s safety my priority, I don’t blink when I respond. “You can trust me. I got this.”

But as I head to the car, that gut feeling I’ve had since leaving Shay tells me I don’t really know what that looks like. Yes, I’ll protect her with every fiber of my being, but I may have to do it while holding her in my arms.

* * *

It didn’t take Gabe long to track down all the information I needed and send it to me. With Shay busy filming promos for the show—and since she practically kicked me out of her place—I’m taking the day to drive to National City to deliver some long-overdue justice, as well as possibly ending Stalker Sam’s terror run.

Sitting in the parking lot of a small commercial office building, I decide to check on Shay before I go in. On my phone, I pull up her main social media account, where she posts daily and often does live videos. I know she’ll be documenting what’s happening today to hype up the show.

Already there are a couple of stills—no lives—but there’s one video promo that was posted just minutes ago. I click on it, and her face comes into frame, sending my heart racing just at the sight of her. My mind flashes back to the moment I had her soft skin pressed against me, her mouth under my control. I still can’t believe I summoned the strength to end that. I’m either a fucking saint or the biggest dumb-ass to walk the earth.

After Shay tells her viewers about the show and when they can tune in, she says something about looking at editorial tear sheets, and then I hear her say “…with friend and fellow model Rio.”Son of a bitch. The camera pans back, and the two of them are sitting on the couch, looking at what I assume are some of their modeling ads or whatever they’re called in the industry. Those damn producers have to keep shoving Rio in her face.

I shake my head and tap the video away. I can’t stand looking at her with him. Staring out the window, I take a moment to get my breathing to slow, wait for my pulse to arrive at an acceptable level. I don’t even want to think about the fact that maybe it wasn’t the producers who forced this; that it was Shay’s choice to have Rio there.

When I finally get out of the car, I slam the door, knowing what I’m about to do is risky. Especially now that I’m fully pissed off. Someone is about to see the results of my mood, and I need to make sure I’m aware of that and don’t just use this guy as a punching bag to burn off this energy.

I make my way into the building, giving my gun a quick feel check, then close my jacket back over it. I take the stairs to the third and top floor of the small building. Finding the correct door, I turn the knob and walk in. The space has a small reception area, a desk with no one at it, and an open doorway that leads to an office. I can see from my stance half a desk and part of the body sitting behind it.

Before I jump to any conclusions, I need to make sure I have the right guy. I swipe my phone open and glance at the recent photo of him Gabe sent me. Then I hear, “Is someone there?”

I step into the doorway, and two narrowed eyes look up at me. The guy has an average Joe look with brown eyes and short dark hair. He’s wearing a business shirt and blue tie but no jacket, which I see is draped behind his chair.

“Can I help you?”

“Brendan Chambers?”

“Yeah.” This time his voice has an edge to it, and his eyes look me up and down.

Moving farther into the office, I keep eye contact, adding a little menacing glare just for the hell of it.

“Look, you can take one of my cards and make an appointment. I don’t take walk-ins.”

I also learned from Gabe’s research that Chambers is some sort of financial planner, likely not a very successful one based on this office. “This shouldn’t take long,” I say, coming to a stop behind his desk, right next to the chair he’s sitting in.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He wheels his chair back a few inches and narrows his gaze up at me. His words might have a stern tone to them, but the fear in his eyes greatly pleases me.

“Well, son, we’re going to have a little chat about Shay Cane.”

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