Page 17 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
BAILEY
The house is too quiet.Not peaceful—justwrong.
No footsteps racing down the hallway. No Eli’s soft giggle from under a blanket fort. No Maeve arguing with the smart speaker over her playlist choices. Neither of them racing through the house.
Just stillness. Heavy and hollow. I hate every other weekend.
Jessica tried to cheer me up on her way out, saying this weekend could be “a blessing in disguise” and “good for self-care.” She always says that. It’s part of who she is—positivity and practicality. But nothing about handing over my kids to a man who once treated my body like his personal battleground feels like a blessing.
It feels like failure.
My lawyer said we were lucky the custody arrangement wasn’t worse. That David’s influence still only goes so far. That it could’ve beeneveryweekend. But I don’t feel lucky. I feel like someone carved out the center of my chest and left the edges raw.
The minute the SUV turned off my driveway, Maeve waving with a forced smile, Eli barely holding back tears, I wanted to scream. I didn’t. I just smiled and waved back. Because that’s what mothers do when there’s no other choice.
Now I’m sitting on the edge of my bed in a silk robe, staring at my phone, knowing damn well I’m not going to call anyone. Not my therapist. Not my agent. Not Jessica. There’s only one thing that works when I feel like this. Like something is crawling beneath my skin, and it has no way out other than the way I use only when it gets bad.
Control. Pain. Release.
I stand and head to my closet. Behind the rows of tailored suits, custom gowns, and borrowed PR-approved red carpet looks is a locked armoire I bought for myself the week I moved out. Inside, everything gleams under the soft interior lights—leather, lace, vinyl, buckles, collars, cuffs.
Therapy in textile form.
Tonight’s pick is black vinyl. High neck, deep plunge cutout, crotchless with a zip-back seam and garters that snap to thigh-high boots I can barely walk in. It’s ridiculous. I love it.
I slide into the outfit slowly, like I’m remembering my body with each layer. The bite of the material against my thighs. The stretch across my chest. The cool clasp of the collar around my neck.
Better than pills. Better than screaming into a pillow. Better than pretending I’m fine when I’m not.
The trench coat goes over it—black, belted, collar up. Just enough to hide the fact that underneath, I’m dressed for sin.A mask is tucked in my bag. Keeps people from knowing who they’re playing with, and thus, vital to my career.
My keys are already in my palm. Club Praxis is thirty minutes away. I’ve been a member since the divorce. David used to take me to a different club, and from what I’ve heard, he’s still a member at Jewel. He doesn’t know I go to Club Praxis, and that’s how I keep it, hence the mask. I can get in, find a safe scene partner, blow off some steam, and be home by one.
That’s the plan.
Until I open the door to the main hallway and come face-to-face with three walls of muscle and suspicion.
Sean. Wesley. Huck.
“Going somewhere?” Sean’s voice is quiet. Dangerous.
I freeze like I’ve been caught stealing cookies, except the cookies are latex and orgasms and an hour of structured degradation I was planning to purchase with a safeword. Words escape me.
Wesley leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dancing with amusement. Huck is dead still at the end of the hallway, just watching me—his gaze steady, like he’s waiting for me to explain myself.
My throat tightens. “Target run.”
Sean lifts an eyebrow. “In black vinyl stiletto boots and full makeup at ten on a Friday night?”
“It’s averyupscale Target.”
“Try again.”
I press my lips together and try to breeze past them. “You know what? I don’t owe you an explanation. You’re my protection detail, not my parole officers.”
Sean steps in front of me, one hand braced on the wall. “Actually, you agreed to our rules. First one being—you don’t leave this property alone. Not without clearing it. Not with a threat like David still in play.”
“I’ll be fine. He has the kids, and he’s not going to hire someone to hurt me. He’s too hands-on.”
