2. Simon
Simon
Istand in the corner of Bram’s diner, a quaint little place on the edge of town that serves the best coffee in the entire city.
Hell, maybe the whole state. But that’s not why I’m here.
I’m here because I’m June’s personal bodyguard.
Because it’s my job to make sure she remains safe at all times when she’s not under the protection of her three boyfriends.
They hate me.
And I hate them.
But that doesn’t change the fact that we have one common goal—keep June alive.
I almost failed her once, and I won’t make that mistake again.
It was my fault she put herself in danger.
I was the reason she got shot. Because one of my men got trigger-happy when they saw her press a dagger to my chest. I should have acted sooner, noticed the threat.
But I was too damn captivated by the radiant beauty aiming a blade at my heart.
If she would have succeeded, that death would have been far less painful than the one I’m experiencing now.
To be this damn close to her…but unable to call her mine.
To watch her, day in and day out, be with the three men I hate the most.
To know with certainty that she’ll never feel the way she does about them, for me.
A large part of me wishes she would have succeeded that day. That she would have driven that blade into my heart, ending my life right then and there. It could have been me bleeding out in her arms instead, and I wouldn't be here, slowly tortured by the impossible distance between us.
But then I remember, I’m Simon fucking Beckett, and when have I ever given up so easily?
Dying that day would have been the easy way out.
When I went to visit her in the hospital, to confirm with my own eyes that she really was okay, I told her I would wait forever.
And that is what I’ll do.
I'll play the long game. I'll suffer through the unbearable sight of her loving three other men just for the possibility that I might eventually convince her of the truth. That I'm better for her. That my arms are where she belongs.
Until then, I’ll play the role she needs—a devoted bodyguard.
I nearly lost it this morning. I was perched just outside her bedroom door as the scent of sex lingered in the air. I wanted to breach that threshold and toss her onto the bed, claiming her for myself. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
One: because that’s not what she wants…yet.
And two: because if the guys kill me first, she’ll never be mine.
I recall our interaction in the kitchen, her pushing my buttons and me pushing hers right back.
I knew she hadn't eaten. She's terrible about skipping breakfast. I've noticed the weight she's lost since the accident.
Her clothes hang a bit looser with each passing day.
She's stressed, no doubt a result of the choice of men she keeps around.
But there's something else going on. She doesn't talk about things much—keeping them bottled inside and letting them fester.
There's no telling the level of post-traumatic stress that was caused by the accident.
Adapting to this lifestyle alone is enough to derail a person's mental health, but she was thrown in headfirst and then hit with wave after wave.
I was born into this world; it's all I've ever known.
I couldn't back down when she called my bluff about eating, but dear God, I was not expecting her to eat a phallic-shaped food mere inches from my face, with her very best set of bedroom eyes staring up into mine.
It was everything I could do to keep my dick in my pants and not take her right there on the kitchen counter.
But I maintained control, locking the image away in my mind to keep forever.
It was my fault; I could have easily grabbed something fucking else for her to eat, but it was the first thing readily available. And I had no idea she’d so easily gain the upper hand when I thought I was the one calling the shots.
Another reason I'm absolutely bat-shit-crazy for her. She's unpredictable. She's bold. She's so fucking strong-willed.
Which brings us here—to Bram’s diner.
A job that she doesn’t need, yet chooses to keep because she can. Because she wants to.
Any single one of her men could easily provide whatever she wanted, but throw all three of them together and the possibilities are endless.
Money is of no concern. They have the power to make pretty much anything she could want happen.
And here she is, working a barely over-minimum-wage job three days a week.
None of this is about money for her. It's about holding onto any shred of independence she can.
She glides from one table to the next, taking orders and gathering empty plates in the process.
She drops them off at the kitchen window and places two ticket orders on the little carousel for the cook.
June grabs two stacks of pancakes and delivers them to the corner booth.
Wiping her hands on her apron, she peers around the room to check on her other customers, assessing whether their needs have been met and anticipating any request they may have.
Her gaze trails over mine, and when she notices I’m staring directly at her, she does a double take. I don’t look away. I keep my sights set on her, noting the subtle flush of her cheeks, the soft bob of her Adam's apple when she swallows, the nervous tuck of her obsidian hair behind her ear.
All of it is an act to draw me in even more.
And damn is she good at it.
She glances at the clock and then back at me, tilting her head to motion for me to come over.
Without skipping a beat, I march across the room and follow her to the counter.
I’d follow her to the depths of fucking hell if she asked.
“Your highness,” I greet her.
She rolls those radiant brown eyes of hers. “What do you want to eat? Your usual?”
“Are we not going straight home?” Home. Hers and theirs. A place where I don’t belong.
“No.” She doesn’t elaborate because she knows I already know where we’re going.
“Usual is fine.”
June slides behind the counter, gives Carlos an order, and turns her attention to the coffee station.
She pulls out two to-go cups, filling both of them with coffee, leaving a little room in one.
She tops it off with a bit of cream, and a single packet of sugar.
She plops an ice cube in the other before putting the lids on both.
She kneels down, her entire form almost out of sight.
My legs instinctually move so I can get a better view of her.
A second later, she returns to her upright position and puts the cups in a little two-cup carrier. She places it on the counter near me, pointing at one of them. "This one's yours."
But I already knew that. And not for a moment do I disregard the fact that she’s memorized my usual and how I take my coffee. It should make me feel special, but when I remember that this is what she does for a living, that warm and fuzzy sensation quickly dissipates.
She’s good at her job, that’s why she knows those details.
Just like I’m good at mine. That’s why I catch the little things—like the change of inflection in her voice when she talks to certain customers, the smile on her face when Bram arrives, the tenseness in her shoulders when something is bothering her.
I see more than she thinks I do—more than I probably should.
Each small observation makes my heart that much more hers than the day before.
We’ve been doing this for over six months.
Every single day for the greater part of a year.
In the very beginning, I was posted up at her house while she recovered from the gunshot wound to the chest. But then she went back to college, finishing her degree.
I was there outside her classroom, silently waiting, watching, protecting.
I walked her to and from without so much as a word—a shadow lurking, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.
I wouldn’t allow anything to happen to her, and between my presence and that of her feared men, not a single threat has dared fuck with her.
That doesn’t mean they aren’t out there—they just haven’t been stupid enough to fuck around and find out what happens if they touch our girl.
I’ve accompanied her to doctor’s appointments, physical therapy, girls’ nights out, and on occasion, when she’s feeling a certain kind of way, we go to this little park on the outskirts of town where she sits on this one particular bench.
I know she’d rather be there alone, but her safety doesn’t permit such a thing.
So, I do what I can to give her some space while maintaining my watch over her.
And today, that’s what we do.
When her shift at the diner is over, we walk to her favorite spot in silence.
I assess every person that comes near her, searching for signs of potential threats, and I ready myself to act if needed.
We make it there without issue, just like every other time, and go straight to the bench she always sits on.
She lowers herself onto it and rummages through the bag of food.
I pull my coffee out of the holder and wait for her to give me my food so I can go to the other bench that’s just a stone’s throw away—my meager attempt at giving her some space. It isn’t much, but it’s the least I can do to make her feel like she isn’t constantly under surveillance.
June pulls out my burger but doesn’t give it to me. Instead, she nods at the open seat next to her. “You can sit here.” She pauses and then adds, “If you want to.”
"Are you sure?" I'm well aware that I nearly force-fed her this morning and like to fuck with her every chance I get, but in moments like this, when I can feel that something is going on, I back off. I can’t afford to push her too far over the ledge when our entire relationship has never been on stable ground.
“Yeah, but you better hurry up or I might change my mind.” She smirks and holds out the burger.