Page 32 of Escorting the Bodyguard
I won’t meet his eyes, just stare at my hands. They’re still shaking. “My job is too dangerous. What kind of life is that for them? Me coming home with bullet holes, or maybe not coming home at all? What if I take a bullet meant for some billionaire and leave Gemma to raise our kid alone?”
“So change the job,” JJ says, but I’m already shaking my head.
“It’s not that simple.” My voice gets rougher, more desperate. “I make the wrong calls, JJ. People die when they count on me. Just like Mason.”
Something shifts in his expression—recognition, like he’s finally seeing the shape of the problem he’s been watching me wrestle with for years.
“There it is,” JJ says. “That’s what this is really about.” He starts pacing, energy building. “You’ve been nursing that guilt like it’s your job, Ford. Feeding it, tending to it, letting it control every decision you make for two years. And now it’s cost you everything—Gemma, your child, your future. But you’ve got options, man. You could step back from fieldwork, run the business side. Hell, you could buy me out and become a fucking accountant if you wanted. But you’rechoosingto see this as impossible.”
I try to protest, opening my mouth to argue, but JJ cuts me off with a sharp gesture.
“That story about Mason, it controls everything in your life. Who you get close to, what jobs you take, how you see yourself.”He starts to raise his voice. “And the only reason that story has this much power is because you keep it locked up inside, never talking to anyone, never getting help.”
He stops pacing, turns to face me directly. “You’re beating yourself up for not being psychic. You couldn’t have predicted that IED any more than you could predict a meteor hitting the building.”
The words slice through me, each one deeper than the last. I want to argue, to explain that he doesn’t understand, that the weight of that decision will always be mine to carry. But something in his voice—the frustration, the genuine care—makes me listen instead.
“I’m terrified I’ll fail them the way I failed Mason,” I say, and suddenly I’m back there—dust and heat and the sound of Mason choking on his own blood because I made the wrong call. “He trusted me. They all did. And I got him killed.”
My hands are shaking now. “Mason had a daughter. I can’t... I can’t do that to another family.”
The words feel like they’re being ripped out of my chest. I’ve never said it out loud before, never let anyone see how completely that moment in Kandahar destroyed my faith in my own judgment.
“Fuck,” JJ says quietly. “You’ve been carrying that for two years.” He’s quiet for a moment, processing. “But Mason’s death wasn’t your fault, Ford. And this—walking away from Gemma—that’s a choice you’re making right now.”
“I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to be what they need.”
“Do you love her?”
The question catches me off guard. I see Gemma curled against me in that safehouse bed, makeup gone, defenses down, trusting me with the real her.
I see her hands moving as she talks about her designs, alive in a way that made me feel like I was witnessing something sacred.
The way she never flinched when she saw my scars, just looked at them like they were part of something worth loving.
“God, yes.” The words come out broken. “I’m so fucking in love with her it’s destroying me.”
JJ’s voice gentles for the first time since he walked in. “Then get help. Real help. Not more dangerous jobs to distract yourself.”
Part of me wants to fight him on it. The bigger part is just... exhausted.
The truth is, I’m tired of running from myself.
“You’re right.” My voice is low, but the truth is loud. “I can’t keep doing this. Whatever this is.” I gesture at the empty bottle, the mess I’ve made of my office and my life. “I don’t know how to fix this, but I need to try. For them. For me.”
JJ nods, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “That therapy group I mentioned? The one for veterans? It meets Thursday nights.”
I look at the Azerbaijan papers for a long moment—all those pages representing months of escape, of running from the truth I can’t face. I pick up the contract and tear it in half. The sound is surprisingly satisfying.
Somewhere out there, Gemma’s building a life without me. Our kid will be born before the end of the year. I can’t fix what I broke overnight, but I can make sure she has what she needs while I become the kind of man they both deserve.
“You free Thursday? I could use the backup.”
The surprise on JJ’s face shifts into relief. “Yeah, man. I’m free.”
It’s not a fix. But it’s a beginning.
And for the first time in weeks, that feels like something I can hold on to.
