Page 47 of Shockproof

Still not a clue to what he’s decided we’re having.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” I playfully pout. “But what’s your plan if this mysterious food source flakes? What’s the backup if the bride to be doesn’t like the fact that we scrapped her menu behind her back so that you could surprise her with…something?” Another lighthearted guess is thrown out. “Don’t say it’s pizza, Cowboy. Hilda wouldneverforgive me if we served pizza and cupcakes like it was her fucking eighth birthday instead of this huge life changing event.”

A long beat – much too long – precedes his quiet retort, “It’s not pizza.”

His stalled response and bulky block lettering pulls my attention to where he’s watching something in his side mirror. Bile brews in the pit of stomach begging to boil up the back of my throat. “Everything okay?”

To my surprise, he takes a right rather than a left heading away from Monte’s house instead of towards it. “Unconfirmed.” The instinct to whip my frame around to look is immediately cut off by his dark, thick, unmovable words. “Do. Not. Look.Directly behind us.” He motions to the space between him and the console as if discussing his phone. “Slide my weapon slowly and carefully onto my lap.”

Executing the instruction isn’t hard.

Ignoring the Travis Barker tribute my heart is doing on my ribcage however is another story.

Slater makes a second arbitrary turn in silence continuing to string along whoever is possibly tailing us. I glance out my own side mirror but due to the angle getting a view of anything that isn’t the blue paintjob isn’t really possible.

We make three more unnecessary journey choices before it’s evident we’re heading back to my brother’s home. At that point, Slater calmly commands yet makes an over-the-top aggressive hand movement. “Pretend you can’t find your phone and reach for the weapon that’s tucked under your seat. Once you have it, hide it under your bag to fire only if necessary.”

I toss my hands up in the air to add to the production and lean forward to cleverly relocate the pistol from its holster location to where I can use it. Pushing my hair away from my face is accompanied by a shaky statement. “I thought you said it was safe to leave the penthouse.”

“Safe is a fluid concept – all things currently considered.” His creeping vehicle stops at the curb right outside of my childhood home. “Blacklisted by those with skills doesn’t mean those with something to prove won’t try.” Slater kills the ignition, maintains his watchful glare, and sighs, “If anything happens to me, get inside. Call Blu. Have your brother barricade you in a secure space with no windows. Understood?”

“Slater-”

“Let me do my job, Arlette.”

The familiar unhappy coloring and choice of name have me instantly surrendering. “Understood.”

“Someone is gettin’ out of the vehicle.” Slater unlocks the door and turns off the safety of his gun. “Papers are blockin’ their face. Keep an eye on your side for a secondary attacker.”

My eyes immediately check my surroundings. While I want to be relieved that all I see is suspiciously green grass and a recently swept stone pathway waiting for the white carpet rug to be rolled out along it, I’m not. Relief now feels like a concept more foreign to me than hosting a fucking party. “Clear.”

“The UA is approachin’.” The man sworn to protect me for more reasons than money angles his weapon while preparing to use the door as part of his attack strategy. “Prepare for necessary engagement.”

Light tapping occurs on the window, yet it takes a moment for the individual holding up the papers to uncover his face. Fear flies onto the man’s sandy beige complexion at the same time the thin objects are launched into the air courtesy of the weapon being aimed at his face from our side of the glass.

A slew of shaky, pale peach lettering in an unfamiliar formation spews from the frightened person’s mouth prompting my boyfriend to not only lower his gun but the window too. “Tamurawhythe hell have you been followin’ me for the past four and a half minutes?”

Additional unusual arrangements occur.

Except these are louder.

And much brighter in color.

Wow.

I honestly don’t remember the last time I heard someone speak actual Japanese.

Slater’s skull hits the headrest in pure exasperation. “Why didn’t you jus’ follow the directions on your phone?”

“Seemed easier to follow you when I realized it wasyou. I thought for sure you’d know how to get to where we were going.” The dark eyed male swings his stare to me. “Does he always point guns at people?”

“Often,” I innocently answer on a giggle.

“Horrible. Manners.” Tamura states to me and then repeats it in what I am assuming is his native language to my boyfriend. “Hidoi mana.”

“This,” Slater airily laughs as he shifts the safety back into place, “is my plan for food. Arley meet Monroe Tamura. He’s ashokunin.” My boyfriend’s gaze gravitates to me. “A sushi chef. When Oka – the chef I asked Seventeen to introduce me to – couldn’t make time in his busy schedule for such an appearance – regardless of the price – I reached out to an old friend of Kolby’s from high school.”

“Oh, I was your second choice?” Tamura overdramatically gasps.

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