Page 17 of Guarded

My knuckles taplightly on the door. I pull out the paper from the white envelope Axel gave me and look over the address again: 16184 West Scott Street. I double-check the numbers on the side of the beat-up house.

I say house, but it seems more like a run-down shed. After knocking more and waiting another 20 minutes, I shove the envelope back into my pocket. I pull out my phone to message Axel, but instead, I receive a notification about Ariella’s new location. To my surprise, I see she’s barely a block away. What’s a princess doing on this side of Houston?

Nero

Where are you?

Ariella

I’m still at my grandpa’s. Probably going to be here a few more hours. I left you some tuna sandwiches in the fridge.

I squeeze the phone in my hand with every intention of crushing it the way I want to crush her right now. I look at the men on the corner and watch their discreet movements. Behind them are several prostitutes starting their shift. What the fuck would Ari be doing down here?

Does she have a boyfriend over here? The thought makes me queasy. My fist tightens, and my rage pushes me forward, following her location on the map. Walking past several other houses, drug dealers, a pimp, and the three prostitutes.

“Hey, Daddy.” One of them calls out.

I keep walking until I reach the destination. The front door is open, so I peek through the screen. All composure flees from me when I get a glimpse of the leopard heels at the front of the door.

I break in and move through the house, where I can hear laughter.

“Yes! So Sexy! Do it again!” I hear a man say and rush through the bedroom door.

The scene in front of me is not the same one from my head that made me murderous. It’s still questionable. Ari is sitting at the end of a mattress with her feet in a box filled with sand. A man with a camera is angling it above her feet. Both look at me when I fling the door open.

“What the fuck?” The man shouts.

“Nero!” Ari gasps, her face going completely pale.

“Who the fuck is this man?” He asks in a thick Filipino accent.

“Get your shit, NOW!” I roar.

Is this her fucking boyfriend? I have too many fucking questions, but I got to get her out of her first. The room is fucking disgusting, filled with empty dishes and clothes all over the place. This really can’t be her type.

Grabbing Ariella’s bag and shoes, the man continues to ask who I am and threatens to call the cops. I don’t give a fuck.

“Stop. Nero. Please. What are you doing here?” Ariella pleads as I continue to push her forward.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I reply.

“Hey, man, I have a few more pictures to take, and then you can take her,” the man calls behind us, stopping me in my tracks.

“Putag ina mo,” I say in Tagalog.

His eyes widen when he sees my fist flying toward him. Ari screams and reaches for the fucker laid out on the ground. I grab her and force my agitation down enough to get her out of the house.

“What fucking pictures is he talking about?” my skin boils when I turn to face Ari. Anger ripples through me, and I repeat the question.

“What fucking pictures?” I growl. When she doesn’t answer, I pull her forward. Guapo following close behind us.

“Nero. Stop. I need to put my shoes on.” I stop and place her heels next to her feet.

She scowls but places a hand on my shoulder for balance as she slides her bright pink-painted toes into the leopard print heels.

“Calm down. They were just pictures of my feet.” She snaps at me.

Like, I’m the fucking bad guy. Like letting someone take pictures of her feet is fucking normal. I wait for her to get both heels on before I grab her hand and walk back toward my bike.

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