Page 31 of Escorting the Bodyguard
“Jesus, Ford. What the hell is this?”
I don’t look up from the papers. Can’t meet his eyes right now. Not when he’s going to see exactly what I’ve become in the three weeks since I fucked up everything that mattered.
JJ fills the doorway—broad shoulders, dark skin, the kind of steady presence that made him one of the best snipers in our unit. Even in civilian clothes, he moves with the controlled precision of someone who spent years watching for threats. His voice carries that sharp edge I know well—the one that means he’s been worried and is now pissed off about it.
I can feel him taking in the scene: the empty bottle, the papers spread across my desk, my wrinkled shirt and bloodshot eyes. Cold coffee sits in a ring of mugs around my workspace,and my jaw itches with days of stubble. The office reeks of whiskey and desperation. Taking every dangerous job I could find, drinking myself to sleep, trying to outrun the moment I walked away.
JJ moves closer, his gaze landing on the contract. “Azerbaijan?” He picks up the top page, scanning it with a furrowed brow. “Since when do you take overseas contracts? Especially without discussing it with me first?”
“Since now.” I try to sit up straight, pull some authority together, but my body feels like lead. “It’s good money.”
“Bullshit.” JJ tosses the paper back onto my desk. “You’ve turned down every overseas contract we’ve been offered. Said you were done with that life, remember? You wanted to build something here, something stable.” His voice gets harder. “You’re not actually considering this job, are you?”
“Yes.” The word comes out flat, final. “I’m taking it.”
He steps closer, not buying it for a second. “Why? This isn’t like you.” He gestures at the contract, then at me. “This doesn’t seem like just work anymore. This almost seems like...” He pauses, studying my face. “Like you’re running.”
Fuck. That hits too close to home. “I’m not running from anything,” I say, but even I can hear how defensive it sounds.
JJ’s expression shifts, frustration building. “Then what the hell is going on with you?” He starts pacing now, energy building. “Because the evidence says otherwise. Three weeks, Ford. Miami with that diplomat’s family, DC with the Senator, now fucking Azerbaijan? You’ve been taking every high-risk job you can find since—” He stops, eyes narrowing. “Since that Elite Companions contract ended.”
The mention of Elite Companions makes me feel like I’ve been sucker-punched. I look back down at the papers, shuffling them unnecessarily. My hands aren’t quite steady.
“What happened on that job?” JJ’s voice gets quieter, more focused. The way it used to when he was lining up a shot.
My jaw tightens. “Nothing happened. We caught the guy, job’s done. She’s safe.”
The words sound hollow even to me.
He circles around the desk, forcing me to look at him. When I finally do, his expression is a mix of frustration and genuine concern.
“This isn’t just about work, and we both know it.” His voice is steady, patient. “You don’t drink yourself stupid in the office. You don’t throw yourself at every volatile assignment. And you sure as hell don’t plan to disappear to another continent unless something major fucked you up.”
I try to deflect, muttering something about needing the money, expanding the business, but JJ slams his hand on the desk hard enough to make the empty bottle jump.
“Talk to me, Ford. What the hell is really going on?”
My hands shake as I reach for the whiskey bottle again, find it empty again, stare at it like it might magically refill itself. For a long moment the only sound is the hum of the building’s ventilation system and the distant traffic twenty floors below.
The fight goes out of me all at once.
I’m too tired to keep pretending. I slump back in my chair, suddenly feeling every one of my twenty-seven years.
“I got involved with her,” I say, voice so quiet JJ has to lean in to hear. “The client. Gemma. We...”
I stop, run both hands through my hair until it’s probably a mess. The words feel impossible to say, but they’re clawing their way out of my throat anyway.
“And then she told me she’s pregnant. With my baby.”
I can’t look at him when I say it. “And I walked away. Left her standing on a fucking street corner in Brooklyn.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
I can hear my own heartbeat, the whiskey making everything sound too loud and too distant at the same time.
JJ stares at me for a long moment, his face cycling through disbelief, anger, and something that might be pity.
“You throw yourself in front of bullets for strangers. And you walked away from your own kid?” His voice is thick with shock. “Why?”
