Page 92 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
The jeep hums, steady. The map ticks. The sun drags its gold down the sky until the world edges toward amber.
The farther I get from the house, the quieter it feels inside the jeep. The radio’s dead silent, no chatter, just the low hum of tires on the road and the occasional rattle in the glove box that tells me Chief doesn’t waste time fixing cosmetic noise. The AC stutters but it blows cold enough, and that’s good—keeps me awake, sharp, thinking.
I glance down at my phone clipped to the dash. Bailey’s green dot moves steady, heading west first, then north. She’s drivingsmooth, not weaving or checking her mirrors like she thinks someone’s behind her. She believes she’s alone.
That guilt chews at me again. She asked for space, demanded it, and I told her she could have it. Now here I am, lying to her with every mile.
I drum my fingers on the wheel, jaw tight. I don’t like betraying her. But letting her slip off into the world alone, not knowing who’s waiting on the other side of her meeting—that’s worse. That’s unforgivable.
She was too secretive about this meeting. I don’t like it.
A mile marker flashes past. The sun hangs lower now, gilding everything in amber, throwing long shadows across the Pacific Coast Highway. It’s beautiful, but it feels dangerous too, like the light is a trick. I stay back three cars, two lanes over, never closer than that.
I keep reminding myself that this isn’t about control. This isn’t about taking her choices away. This is about keeping her alive. I’m not David. I’m not trying to run her life for her.
I doubt she’ll see it that way.
Every time I blink, I see her at the ice cream shop. That panic in her eyes. The way she crumpled against me, her body shaking, her skin too pale. I see Huck on the marble, bleeding from his arm, explosives planted under her front stairs like it was nothing. I see the way people stare at her in public—recognition first, then calculation.
Bailey doesn’t always see it. She’s used to being looked at. But I see the shift when admiration turns to opportunity. To threat.
She’s too high-profile. Too trusting. Too much of a target.
That’s why I planted the tracker. That’s why I keep following. Because no matter how badly she wants to believe the best of people, I know better.
Up ahead the ocean stretches wide, dark blue with gold sparks where the late sun hits the surface. White caps break against jagged rocks, the crash muted by distance but heavy enough that I imagine the sound through the windshield. The road curves and twists, hugging the cliffs.
She doesn’t slow. Doesn’t pull over. Doesn’t even seem to hesitate.
“Where the hell are you going, Bailey?”
David doesn’t own property out here. I know that for a fact. I’ve checked the records, both public and those buried deep where most people never get. I know his holdings, his shell companies, his rented spaces. None of them are here.
So what’s the play?
I check my mirrors again, making sure I’m not the one being followed. You learn to layer paranoia over paranoia until it feels like armor. No tails. Just traffic. A minivan stuffed with kids in soccer jerseys, a convertible with two tourists snapping pictures of the cliffs, a battered pickup hauling boards that rattle against the bed. Normal. Nothing’s normal anymore, but this passes for it.
Her dot moves faster, then slows. She’s approaching something. My grip tightens on the wheel.
When the curve straightens out, the green dot turns down a private road. I pull over on the highway to watch where it goes,pulling up Google Maps to see if I can get the lay of the land. No luck. I check the address against Zillow. Nothing.
I’m an idiot. A property like this would not be listed publicly. I could have Wesley look into it, but the green dot slows to a stop, and I’m distracted. A moment later, it goes again. She must have driven through a gate. It then stops and doesn’t move again. She parked.
I can’t get through a gate. Not legitimately. So, I park the jeep off the road in some trees where no one will notice for a little while. Then, I hike.
Even the private road is grand. Huge trees on either side, all flowering and perfuming the air. I stay between them, scouting for cameras or guards and finding none.
Ahead is a wall with a gate. I skip the gate—too obvious a point of entry—and pop into the trees for a view. Beyond the wall, a flash of terra-cotta roofline, pale stucco glowing in the last of the day’s light. The place sprawls across the bluff, acres of manicured land stretching toward the ocean, gardens terraced down the slope, fountains throwing silver spray into the air. Spanish-style arches rise against the sky, red tile blazing. It’s a palatial estate, the kind of place that looks less like a home and more like a hotel.
I peer through the binoculars, exhaling slowly. I have my suspicions about the owner, and they’re confirmed when a short balding white man comes out to greet her, all grins and a pat on her back.
Friedburg. Thank fuck.
He’s not a predator. He’s a sweetheart by this industry’s standards, which isn’t saying much, but it’s enough. He wantsher name attached to his projects, her face at his galas, so he won’t hurt her. Not that he would in the first place.
He’s got a reputation for being kind, an aberration in Hollywood. His sets are places where people fall in love, where kids are welcome to roam to be with their acting parents, where animal actors are treated with the utmost respect. Hell, he’s even helped some couples reconcile. A lifetime in the business and the worst thing Google can say about him is that he cheated on his taxes in the eighties.
That should calm me. It doesn’t.
