Page 10 of Pack Me Up
I run both hands over my face, pressing the palms hard against my eyes until I see sparks. “I don’t have one,” I admit. “Not a good one. Maybe not any at all. We are going to need to slowly build our business back up with only the people we trust.”
That’s the closest I’ve ever come to saying “I fucked up” in my entire adult life. Fox hears it for what it is. He sits quietly for a long moment, then reaches for the file on top of the terminated stack. He thumbs through it, reading the summary like he’s checking a grocery list.
“These aren’t mistakes,” he says. “You did what you had to do.”
“I’m losing everything,” I say, and it sounds raw, even to me.
“Not everything,” he says. “Not me. Not the pack.”
I can smell the sincerity on him. It cuts through the stench of failure, clean and sharp.
I nod, just once. “Yeah. I’ll think about it.”
He doesn’t press. Just walks to the door and looks back at me, his silhouette cut out against the lit hallway. “You’re not alone, you know. You never were.”
He leaves the door open, just a crack, and the warmth follows him out.
For a few seconds, I sit in the echo of his words, weighing the truth of them. Then I pick up the pen, uncurl my fingers, and force myself to start over on the roster.
I cross out the red and start a new column for “Loyal.” The list is short, but it’s something.
It’ll have to be.
* * *
The numbers don’t look any better in the morning, but at least the world outside my office has the decency to be dim and overcast. The sunrise in LA is usually a punch of gold and pink, but today it’s all gray. I appreciate the lack of optimism.
I’m halfway through a black coffee and the latest client crisis when Fox shows up again with a bright smile.
He drops into the chair across from my desk, leans back, and puts his feet up on the edge like he owns the place. His eyes find mine instantly.
“I have an idea,” he says.
I don’t answer. I’m used to being the one who speaks first, so I let him stew in the silence. He waits exactly three seconds before going on.
“I know a few guys from my fighting days. They know mixed martial arts and went semi-pro. They’re all clean and all looking for something steady. Some have families, and they all need work. We need muscle that won’t walk at the first sign of trouble, and you won’t do better than these guys. Best part, I know them and I trust them.”
I tilt my head, slow and deliberate. “You want me to hire out-of-work fighters to cover private security?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Most of the regulars are already gone, or they’re not coming back. You need numbers, you need loyalty, and you need people who can take a punch and not ask questions. These are my friends, Saint. I trust them.”
That lands like a weight. I know what loyalty means to Fox. He’s spent half his life fighting for a place in a world that was never built for betas. If he says he trusts someone, it means he’s bled for them or with them.
I look away, pretending to check the spreadsheet on my screen. “You think they’ll fit in?”
“Better than the idiots you hired last year.”
I almost smile at that. Almost. “We’re not running a fight club.”
“No,” Fox says. “They know that. We’re in survival mode now. If you want to play by the old rules, you’re going to lose everything.”
He’s not wrong, but I hate the idea of bringing new people in right now after everything I just went through to clean house.
I open my mouth to shoot him down, but before I can say the words, my phone vibrates on the desk, bouncing once before settling in front of me. The screen flashes a name that usually makes me smile, but this time it tightens my jaw.
Jack Hansley. He’s a rockstar whose band is his pack, needs our security, and is my best client.
I snatch up the phone, glance at Fox, and then answer on speaker. “Hansley.”
