Chapter 6
Connor
I stride alongside Luke, the West Quay sun beating down on us, turning the boulevard into a shimmering oven. The silence between us is thicker than the humid air, and it’s grating on me…
His shoulder swings with each step, that damn backpack bouncing, probably stuffed with Little toys and whatever secrets he’s not sharing. He’s got that stubborn set to his jaw, like he’s daring the world to take a swing at him. Or maybe just me.
Either way, it’s pissing me off…
Play it cool.
Don’t let him know he’s getting to you.
This is just a job…
The problem is this boy’s got no respect for my process. I’m a Night Ops Guard, trained to keep people alive in situations that’d make most folks wet themselves, and here he is, acting like I’m some overpaid babysitter cramping his style.
I told him to stay close after that mess at the cocktail bar, but does he listen? Hell no. He’s already planning another “off the record” interview, probably with some other shady source who’ll bolt the second they spot me.
I can’t wait for this 48-hour gig to be over so I can wash my hands of Luke Modine and his reckless streak.
I know we kissed, dated a little, whatever.
I can handle all that. But the truth of the matter is that if he can’t bring himself to respect my work then we never had a chance as a couple anyway.
Luke ghosted me once, but there’s not a chance in hell we’re going to get close enough for him to do that again—certainly not if I have anything to do with it.
Except, it’s not that easy.
My boots hit the pavement in rhythm with his steps, but my mind’s elsewhere, churning through the irritation.
The boy is pushing every button I’ve got, and not just the professional ones.
That Little side of his—pouting, calling me “bossypants,” wearing that backpack like it’s his lifeline—it’s waking up my Daddy instincts in a way I don’t need right now.
Even now, I can’t stop picturing him over my lap, that sassy mouth silenced by a few sharp swats, teaching him some damn manners.
We never got far enough those years ago, but I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to pull his shorts down, have his supple, rounded cheeks as putty in my hands—gripped, pinned in place, open to the sharp thwack of my hand on their fleshiest curves.
Damn.
The thought sends a jolt through me, and I clench my jaw, shoving it down. This is a job, not a reunion. It’s supervision not sex. He ghosted me three years ago, and I’m not here to play house.
“Keep up,” I mutter, glancing at him. He’s got his phone out, probably texting his next source, ignoring me like I’m not even here. Typical.
“I’m not a dog, Connor,” Luke snaps, not looking up. “I know how to walk.”
“Then stop acting like you’re on a solo mission,” I shoot back, keeping my voice low. “You’re drawing heat, Luke, and you’re not half as sneaky as you think. And I’m pretty damn sure that you’re not stupid either. You’ve seen how much heat there is in this city already.”
Luke simply rolls his eyes, that pout creeping onto his lips, and I swear it takes everything in me not to grab his arm and pull him close, just to make him listen.
But I keep my distance, scanning the crowd instead…
Tourists, locals, a street performer juggling flaming torches—nothing out of place, but my gut’s twitching. It’s been twitching since we left that bar, and years as a Guard have taught me that feeling’s never wrong.
We’re a block from the hotel now, the glitzy facade looming ahead, all glass and chrome. Luke’s muttering to himself, probably cursing me or Google Maps or both.
I don’t care what Luke thinks.
My job is to get him to the hotel, let him make his arrangements, and keep him alive long enough to finish this story he’s so obsessed with.
After that, I’m done.
No more Little Scoop, no more green-blue eyes that hit me like a punch every time they meet mine. And definitely no more of that sass and backtalk.
My earpiece crackles, and Mr. G’s voice cuts through. “Connor, sitrep.”
“Approaching the hotel,” I murmur, keeping my eyes on the street. “Client is uncooperative, as before. But no immediate threats.”
“Stay sharp,” Mr. G says. “Chatter’s picking up. Haynes’s people are rattled. You’ve got eyes on you.”
“Copy that,” I say, my voice low and my eyes scanning ahead.
I glance at Luke, who’s still glued to his phone, oblivious. I want to shake him, tell him to wake up and see the danger he’s in, but he’d just call me Rambo again and storm off. Fine. Let him sulk. I’m not here to win his approval.
We reach the hotel, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft whoosh. The lobby’s cool, all marble and chandeliers, but something feels off…
Eyes sharp.
Assess.
Cover the corners…
The air’s too still, the concierge’s smile too tight. My senses go on high alert, every muscle coiled. I continue to scan the room—business types tapping on laptops, a couple arguing by the elevators, a guy in a dark suit near the window seat, his hand slipping inside his jacket.
Shit.
“Move!” I bark, lunging for Luke.
A shot rings out, shattering the glass behind us, and I tackle him to the floor, my body shielding him as screams erupt.
Another shot cracks, grazing the marble column beside us, and I roll us behind a plush couch, my Glock already in my hand.
Luke’s gasping, his eyes wide, but he’s clutching that damn backpack like it’s his only anchor.
“Stay down!” I growl, peering over the couch. The guy in the suit is moving, his pistol raised, and he’s not alone. Another shooter, this one in a gray hoodie, is by the entrance, firing wildly to clear the lobby.
“Connor, please!” Luke cries, desperation in his eyes. “Do something!”
My heart’s pounding, but my focus is razor-sharp. I fire back, clipping the suit guy’s arm, and he stumbles, cursing. Hoodie’s smarter, ducking behind a pillar, but I’ve got their angles.
“We’re leaving,” I say, hauling Luke up by his arm.
Luke is shaking, but he doesn’t fight me, thank God. I drag him toward the side exit, keeping low as bullets rip through the air. The lobby’s chaos—guests screaming, furniture splintering—but I block it out, my only thought getting him out.
We burst into the alley, the humid air hitting us like a slap.
I shove Luke toward a low wall at the end, my hand on his back.
“Over it, now,” I order, boosting him up.
“I can’t, I can’t!” Luke whimpers as he struggles to pull himself over.
“You can, boy,” I say, placing my hands around his waist and helping him. “You’ve got this. You’re a big boy, I know you can climb.”
Luke grits his teeth and scrambles, his backpack catching on the edge, but I give him a final push, and he lands on the other side with a soft thud. I vault over after him, landing in a crouch, my Glock still drawn.
The alley’s narrow, lined with dumpsters and graffiti, but it’s clear—for now.
I grab Luke’s hand, pulling him along as we sprint toward the next street. His breath’s coming in short gasps, but he’s keeping up, his stubborn streak pushing him forward even as fear flickers in his eyes.
“Where are we going?” Luke asks, his voice trembling but trying to sound tough.
“Safehouse,” I say, scanning the shadows. “Few blocks from here. No arguments, Luke. You’re done running off.”
Luke yanks his hand free, his jaw tightening.
“I wasn’t running off!” Luke protests. “I was doing my job, Connor. You’re the one who keeps screwing it up!”
I stop dead, turning to face the boy, my patience hanging by a thread.
We’re in another alley now, the safehouse close, but I need him to hear me.
“Your job almost got you killed back there,” I snap, my voice low and dangerous. “Those guys weren’t shooting blanks. You’re in shock, but I will not give an inch on this.”
His eyes flash, that Little defiance flaring up despite the fear.
“I don’t need you to save me,” Luke says, but his voice wavers, and wraps his arms around himself for comfort.
I step closer, towering over him, my Daddy side taking over.
“You’re wrong about that, Little Scoop,” I say, my voice dropping to a growl. “Push me, and you’ll regret it. From now on, you follow my rules. No solo outings. No sneaking off. You go where I say, when I say, or we’re gonna have a problem. Understood?”
I can see Luke’s breath catch, and I see his knees wobble too, his cheeks flushing pink. The boy wants to argue—I can see it in the way his lips purse—but he’s rattled, and he knows I’m right.
“Fine,” Luke mutters, looking away, his fingers tightening on his backpack strap.
“Good boy,” I say, and his flush deepens, that Little side responding despite himself.
I turn, guiding him toward the safehouse, my senses still on high alert.
The alley’s quiet, but I don’t trust it. Haynes’s people are closing in, and that text he got—I know he’s hiding it—means they’re not just watching anymore.
Luke is being hunted…
We reach the safehouse, a nondescript apartment above a laundromat, its windows shuttered and its door reinforced. I check the perimeter, then usher Luke inside, locking the deadbolts behind us.
The place is bare—couch, table, a small bedroom off to the side—but it’s secure, with a stash of gear hidden in a wall panel. I set my gun on the table and turn to face him.
Luke’s standing in the middle of the room, his backpack clutched tight, his eyes darting around like he’s expecting another shooter to pop out.
“This is your safehouse?” Luke says, his voice small but trying to sound snarky—no doubt a defense mechanism. “Looks like a dump.”
“Better than a coffin,” I say, crossing my arms. My Daddy side’s still rumbling, wanting to pull him close, check him for injuries, but I keep it locked down.
“Sit. You’re gonna tell me what you’re holding back.
That flash drive, the text—I just know you’ve got something.
I can sense it. And after that shitshow in the lobby, you don’t get to play coy with me, boy. ”
Luke’s eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of fear there, too.
“I don’t owe you anything,” Luke says, but his voice lacks its usual fire. He’s shaken, and it’s hitting him hard.
I step closer, my voice low and firm.
“You owe me your life right now, Luke,” I say. “Those guys weren’t Haynes’s security detail. They’re tied to the cartel, and they want you dead. You wanna keep chasing this story? Fine. But you do it my way, or I’m locking you in this room until the mission’s over.”
Luke glares up at me, his green-blue eyes sparking, but he doesn’t argue. Not this time. He’s scared, and he should be. I soften, just a fraction, my Daddy side slipping through.
“Get some rest,” I say, nodding toward the bedroom. “We’re laying low until I get more intel. You need anything, you tell me. No arguments.”
“But my investigation…” Luke says.
“Don’t worry, we’ll work it out,” I reply, reassuring but firm. “But right now, you need to rest.”
Luke nods, his shoulders slumping, and heads for the bedroom, his backpack dragging behind him.
I watch him go, that spark we had three years ago still crackling under the surface, despite everything. I know I shouldn’t be thinking like this. But the truth is that there’s something still there between us. I don’t know exactly what that “something” is, but it’s not nothing…
My phone buzzes—Cole, probably with more on Haynes’s ties.
I settle onto the couch, ready to dig in, but my eyes keep drifting to the bedroom door. Luke’s trouble, no doubt, but he’s my trouble for the next 48 hours. And I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to him.