Page 6 of Bad For A Weekend

“Sorry. Sorry,” he says placatingly. “Just making sure you’re all there mentally. I’ve been working with Corey for years and promised him you’d keep his daughter safe. This guy is well-connected with the celebrity crowd, and I have a reputation to uphold.”

Hudson is younger than me by two years, but you’d never know it. He’s always been more mature, more business-minded, and more money-driven too. While I was happy living a simple life like the one my parents have, Hudson wanted more. It’s fitting that he’s now my boss.

I lean over and prop my head up with a hand, tugging on my hair. “I’m seeing the same therapist as I was in Sherman Oaks, but we’re having sessions over video chat now. I even bought a kit so we can continue with that brainwashing therapy.”

“It’s called EMDR. It’s not brainwashing.”

“Feels like it,” I mutter.

After receiving a PTSD diagnosis, I was put on medication after medication, but none of them worked. My depression and anxiety grew worse by the day until I didn’t want to be alive anymore. That’s when my shrink recommended Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. It’s hard to believe a light bar—pulsators that deliver tactile stimulation and bilateral sounds—could be the answer to all my problems, but so far, it’s the only thing that’s worked.

“Well, as fun and uplifting as this conversation has been, I have a date tonight.”

“With what’s her name? Azalea? Arugula? Argentina?”

“Ariana and no. This is someone different.”

I can practically see his cheesy grin. The fucker gets around more than a NASCAR driver. “What happened to Ariana?”

“Nothing. It’s just not Wednesday, and I only see her on Wednesdays.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“That’s what they say. Gotta run. I’ll check in tomorrow.”

The line cuts out before I can respond. Tossing my phone on the sofa, I fall back into the chair. What do I do now? My job doesn’t technically start until tomorrow, so there’s no work to be done. It’s too late to go into the main house and work out, and I’m not sure Corey would appreciate me taking a swim at this hour. I could watch TV, but my mind is too chaotic right now to pay attention to anything.

And it’s quiet. Too quiet. It’s hard to believe I’m in L.A. Well, Hollywood Hills, but still.

When the silence has my skin itching, I stand and walk to the glass French doors that look out to the pool. It’s dark, but the water glows crystal blue, and solar lights illuminate the path to the house, with a few shining onto the landscaping.

My eyes fall on the main house, where none of the first-floor windows have any kind of coverings. That’ll be the first thing I change. No one will make it onto the grounds without me knowing after I get done with the place, but if some MacGyver asshole ever does, they won’t get a leg up by knowing where people are in the home.

The second-floor windows are better because they have curtains. But I’ll change those too. They need cellular shades that I can put on a timer. And the whole house needs better cameras and a better alarm system.

I scan the upper level, stopping when I see Baylor standing on her balcony. Her bedroom lights are out, shrouding her in darkness, but the pool lights are just enough to make out her pink hair.

What is she doing?

Her arms are wrapped around herself, and she’s staring over the top of the pool house out to the city below. I wonder what she’s thinking about when she reaches up and wipes at her cheek.

Is she crying?

I can’t imagine how scary that situation must’ve been for someone so young. From what her dad told me, she doesn’t remember shit. In a way, I think that must be scarier. Scarier than being awake and present through your living nightmare like I was.

Or maybe it’s better. Fuck if I know.

I watch her for a long time, the damaged part of me recognizing the same in her, and I wonder if she feels as lost and confused as I do. It’s peculiar feeling a connection with a complete stranger. Especially when that stranger has no idea you understand what she’s going through on a very personal level.

And she never will. I won’t emotionally invest in my job ever again. It clouds your response, reactions, and common sense. That’s when people get hurt, and I refuse to ever let that happen again on my watch.

Baylor and I will never know each other, only of each other. Acquaintances at best, but I’d prefer strangers who often share a space. It’s the only way to keep us both safe.

Eventually, she steps inside and draws her shades. With nothing left to do, I head to bed.

“So, this is awkward,” Baylor says as I help her into the backseat of the SUV.

“Not for me, Ms. Giles,” I respond, taking her crutches and closing the door behind her. After placing them in the back, I climb behind the steering wheel and start the engine. I memorized the best route to her private high school yesterday but still pull it up on my GPS.

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