Page 24 of Riggs
“Boyfriend lesson number two,” she says, eyes dancing. “Carry my bag so I can take selfies.”
“I’ll carry your bag,” I say, grabbing her carry-on and slipping it over my shoulder. “But no selfies.”
She laughs, bright enough to make three strangers smile without knowing why. “Worth a shot.”
Outside the jet bridge, Brice and Lina slot in, bright and prepared. The driver texts the code for the side lane. Jaxson pings me a route that dodges three clusters of cameras and two billboards that reflect too well. Rae sends a still of Kellan from the concourse—cropped, grainy, smug. It makes a clean target.
“Rae,” I say, “flag Kellan Stevens to every venue coordinator, hotel security head, and driver on this leg. Turner gets an hour head start before we take our own run at him. And check for any contracts in his name with our sponsors. If Caleb and Kellan share more than a group chat, I want to know yesterday.”
“Already peeling it,” she says. “Also… Vanessa’s reel? The gold lamé reel is at three million likes in two hours.”
Hearing that does something to me. It shouldn’t, but it does. “Use it,” I say.
“Copy,” Rae says. “Turning the algorithm into a net.”
We move. Hands linked. Heads up. The cover buys us six feet of breathing room and a lot of pictures I’ll never see. The mission buys us time. Time buys us corners to own.
I tell myself the picture in my head—the dog, the mug, the stupid creak in a house that’s ours—is a trick the brain plays when it gets close to the end of something dangerous. Maybe. Or maybe it’s a plan.
“Hey, Beard Mountain,” she says as we cut left toward the private lane. “You look like you’re thinking about something.”
I can’t tell her that I’m picturing a simple life with her once this is all over. Nothing about Vanessa Mercado is simple.
And therein lies the problem.
8
Vanessa
I’m in big trouble. Riggs isn’t just a bodyguard anymore, he’s turning into something more. Something I don’t want to part with when this is all over.
Denver hits like a live wire—bright, dry air, big sky, and a terminal that sounds like a thousand rolling suitcases singing the same off-key song. Chaos blooms the second we step off the jet bridge. People, phones, flashes. Someone shrieks my name like it’s a raffle win. Another person shouts, “Where’s the boyfriend?” and a tide of faces tilts toward us as if one mind.
Riggs doesn’t stiffen. Instead, he narrows. It’s subtle—shoulders set, gaze deepens, hand slides into mine and that alone buys us three feet of air. “Eyes up,” he murmurs. “Walk like you belong.” His steps quicken.
His hand engulfs mine. I know we’re in a hurry, but there’s something about this man’s touch that makes me want to live here for another heartbeat.
We cut left at a frozen yogurt stand, down a service corridor that smells like cardboard and citrus cleaner, and into a freight elevator where the doors close on the shouting and the airport breathes out. I do too. He doesn’t let go of my hand until the elevator dings and the doors slide open to a quiet slice of curb, where a matte-black SUV idles like a patient animal.
The driver steps out—tall, lean, weathered grin. “Lucas,” he says, offering a nod that reads ex-military before the patch on his jacket does. “Maddox DENVER Team. Welcome to the high altitude.”
“Riggs,” Riggs says, shaking his hand. “Appreciate the pull-through.”
“Happy to run blocker.” Lucas opens the rear door, scans the sight lines in the same unhurried way Riggs does. “Took the long way around the cameras. Your friend in a cap bought glue at Concourse D.” His mouth crooks. “Turner’s boys were two minutes behind him.”
My stomach drops and rights itself. Riggs’s hand finds the small of my back for exactly two seconds. “Copy,” he says. “Hotel, side lane.”
Lucas rolls us into Denver’s hard light like he owns the lanes. Riggs keeps a quiet watch—mirrors, rooftops, reflections in shop windows. I keep a quiet watch on him. It’s ridiculous how safe that makes me feel, how a charcoal shirt and a steady profile can switch the world fromthreattobackground.
We slide into a canopied side entrance at the hotel and up through a service elevator that smells faintly of soap and rain that hasn’t fallen here. Our floor is hushed carpet and expensive quiet. Riggs does the sweep in our room—wedge, latch, slider,alarm—and I promise my body I’ll be vertical for ten more minutes.
I last three.
I faceplant on the bed with a noise that isn’t cute and dream for a while that the world is just warm and safe. Somewhere in my dreams I spy Riggs, holding me by a fire. A rustic cabin. A happy home.
When I blink awake, the room is dusk-soft and I’m under the duvet, shoes gone, hair tamed into not-feral. The table by the window is…ridiculous. Silver domes, tall water, ginger ale, cut fruit, a florist’s idea of a salad, sliders, fries, some kind of tiny tacos, chocolate cake that looks illegal, and—oh God—soup. He ordered me soup.
Riggs is at the window, speaking low into his mic. “…copy. We’ll adjust ingress. Send me the internal camera placements for tomorrow’s hall and have Jax drop a box at the vendor door.” He taps his earpiece off, turns, and somehow the look he gives me makes something in my chest expand and settle at the same time.
