Page 51 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
Makes me laugh. I wonder how much of us he saw a minute ago. I pop him in the eye, just hard enough to feel that telltale crack of his cheekbone. He lets out another groan, wordless this time. Just sound coming out of an unconscious man.
“You got lucky, Davy. Sean’s a softy. Well, except when he’s railing Bailey.” I pull my phone from my pocket and fire off a quick message to the team’s secure thread:Elevator prank incoming. Cameras already spoofed. Don’t worry, I’m being gentle.
Wesley responds instantly:If he ends up pantsless, I’m buying you a steak.
Sean:Pants or not, he’d better still be breathing.Sean’s one of my best friends, but he’s a broken record when it comes to his rules.
I tuck the phone away and grab David by the lapels. He’s heavier than he looks, but I’ve carried worse. I drag him across therooftop, prop him up in the corner of the elevator, and fish a menu I snagged from the party out of my jacket pocket.
I scrawl the note quickly. One sentence. Big letters.“Should’ve picked on someone your own size.”
No, wait. I flip it over and write,“Shouldn’t have messed with the wrong woman.”
Makes it look like Bailey did it herself—makes him look weak in front of all the Hollywood elite, because that’s what they’ll think it is. Weakness to be taken down by a woman.
They don’t know the women I know. Chief could take anyone here. Hell, she almost took me down once, and we were just sparring.
I pin the note to his lapel using his tiny gold tie bar, then I hit the button for the lobby and let the doors close with him slumped in the corner like a discarded piece of trash.
Fitting.
The last thing I see is his head lolling to the side, mouth open, suit stained with sweat and blood, and that beautiful little note fluttering in the breeze of the elevator fan.
I walk away smiling, take the service stairs down twenty flights. The SUV is parked in the valet loop out front, blacked out, engine humming, windows tinted like a presidential motorcade. Wesley’s in the passenger seat, tapping away on his phone. Sean’s in the back, one arm draped around Bailey, who’s curled up across the third-row bench like a spent storm.
She’s out cold. Hair mussed. Lips parted. Cheek pressed to the seat belt. She looks relaxed. Finally.
I slide into the second row behind the driver and close the door quietly.
Sean doesn’t even look at me. “He breathing?”
I nod once. “You and your rules…”
Wesley lets out a low whistle and turns his phone toward me. “Guess who made the news already?”
I lean in. There it is. That was quick.
A grainy photo taken by someone in the hotel lobby—David Oswalt slumped against the elevator wall, suit disheveled, one eye nearly swollen shut, with the note still pinned to his chest.
SHOULDN’T HAVE MESSED WITH THE WRONG WOMAN.
The tweet’s already viral.
“Five thousand retweets in fifteen minutes,” Wesley says, grinning. “My favorite so far? ‘Who did she hire and are they taking clients?’”
Sean sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Wesley teases, “Come on, man. It’s good press.”
“It’sreckless,” Sean mutters. “When he wakes up, he’s going to make her life hell.”
“He already was,” I say.
Sean looks at me.
I hold his stare.
“You said he threatened to throw her off the building,” I remind him. “He took her up there to scare her or worse. She doesn’twant to press charges. That ties our hands. So this?” I gesture vaguely to the phone. “This is all we’ve got.”
