CHAPTER SEVEN #2
Unfortunately for Jules, everyone’s too drunk to care.
Outside it’s cold and drizzling.
Lachlan hates being in the city.
‘Get off me!’ Jules bites out, slapping Lachlan’s ear hard enough that it actually gets him, knocks his inner ear, discombobulates him briefly and he staggers before setting Jules down but by no means releasing him. ‘Motherfucker, who do you think you are, touching me!?’
‘Be quiet!’
‘No I fucking won’t be quiet, you pig! Fuck you and fuck your bullshit!’ Jules is upright now, but angry-drunk. ‘I’m going back in and you can’t stop me!’
‘Of course I can stop you.’
‘Why are you even bothering? It’s not like I won’t come back!’
‘You know you’re not allowed to leave the Estate, Jules.’
‘It’s my birthday!’
‘Your safety comes before anything else.’
Jules’ jaw drops and he laughs, breathless and jagged, but Lachlan can tell he’s hurting, he radiates it. ‘Safety?! Says the man who locks us up, who put trackers in all our clothes? My safety, good God, fuck you, Bodyguard!’
Lachlan makes a mental note to ask how he figured that out later but for now, he just needs to get Jules back as soon as possible. ‘Let’s just get you home, and then we can—’
‘I’d rather die,’ Jules declares flatly. The alcohol is making him brave. ‘Go ahead and kill me, go on. I don’t fucking care.’
‘And what would Mimi do without you?’
‘She has you now, Bodyguard. She’ll be fine.’
‘Get your ass into the car, Jules.’
‘Fucking make me!’
‘I don’t want to do that, but I will!’
The kid screams, ‘SO DO IT THEN! DO IT!’ and tears fall down his cheek.
Lachlan counts to three in his head, tree rings from the outside in, an old trick to calm himself down taught by a specialist when he was given endurance training. Then he looks away, forces himself to relax.
‘One hour,’ he says, voice mechanical. ‘One hour and then we leave.’
Jules blinks, confused. ‘What?’
Lachlan purses his lips, analysing the club. It’s hardly ideal but he can keep on top of the kid, supervise. It’s his birthday, after all and maybe it’ll even buy a little goodwill, although he doubts it.
‘One hour, but I’ll be watching you the whole time so don’t get cute.’
Lachlan straightens himself out, nods towards the club.
‘You’re letting me go back?’
‘In or out? Let’s go.’
Jules is critically confused but he warily follows and is granted re-entry with the stamp on his hand, the same one Lachlan is forced to pay for also and then they’re inside where it’s loud and dangerous but Lachlan’s a professional.
He picks a spot at the bar which affords a good lighthouse view and then shoots Jules a look as if to say, have at it then.
Wary at first, Jules dips into the dancefloor but soon enough the pull of bass and major keys draws him back and even though he’s alone, he seems to be having so much fun.
Lachlan never takes his eyes off the kid except to scan anyone who comes near him.
Lachlan doesn’t dance, hasn’t since he was a small child and even then, it definitely wasn’t like this.
Jules is a natural.
He moves like water, fluid and intuitive.
After two songs, he comes over to Lachlan at the bar, asks for a drink. Lachlan gets him a club soda with lime. Jules rolls his eyes but drains the glass, thirsty from all the dancing, and bites the lime, giggling at the sourness.
‘Wanna dance with me?’ he asks, loud enough to be heard over the music.
‘No.’
‘Come on, you can protect me better if we’re together, right?’
‘Wrong.’ Lachlan gives the kid a bland look and sets a firm boundary. ‘Go dance. You have forty-six minutes left.’
Jules makes a face, but he does go and dance.
Twice, Lachlan steps in and warns off potential creeps who approach.
Twice, Jules looks at Lachlan with naked curiosity.
Twice, Jules smiles at Lachlan in a new way that stirs dread inside the older man, who can only think of Alistair’s instruction about management of curiosity.
Jules comes back for another drink. ‘Can I get a tequila?’
‘Club soda and lime, no ice,’ he tells the bartender, who gets a hefty tip for bringing it fast. ‘Here.’
‘I was drinking alcohol before you got here.’
‘Then it’s good to hydrate now, isn’t it?’
‘Just dance with me once? For my birthday?’
Lachlan looks away while he speaks. ‘That’s not gonna happen.’
‘I don’t care if you’re a bad dancer.’
‘You have nine minutes left.’
‘I want to dance.’
‘So go dance.’
‘With you.’
‘I’ll just step on your toes.’
‘Carry me, then.’
‘Eight minutes.’
‘Can I dance with someone else?’
‘No.’
‘You suck.’
‘You’re wasting your own time.’
‘Ugh, fine.’
Lachlan gives him five extra minutes he’ll never know about as a gift.
The car journey home is quiet.
Several times, Lachlan thinks the kid has fallen asleep, but when he looks back, he’s wide awake, watching the world go by without him in shades of night. They’re halfway to the Estate when he says, ‘So tell me about you.’
Lachlan focuses mostly on driving, watching the road behind them to ensure there’s no tail. ‘About me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Anything.’
‘I’m twenty-four.’
‘When’s your birthday?’
‘May ninth.’
‘Taurus sun.’
‘You know about that stuff?’
‘Stuff?’ he echoes with silky scepticism.
‘Star signs and whatever.’
‘A little. I prefer tarot.’
‘The cards?’ It’s an invitation to tell him more.
Jules ignores it, pursues his own questions. ‘So, what about partners?’
Lachlan sighs. ‘No.’
‘In the past?’
‘No.’
‘No? Come on.’
‘This isn’t appropriate.’
‘You never dated anyone?’
‘Jules—’
‘Be honest.’
‘I am.’
‘Are you a virgin?’
Lachlan scoffs irritably but doesn’t want to risk breaking the truce. ‘No. I’m just not a big relationship guy. Not my thing.’
‘Fair enough.’ Jules shrugs. ‘I never had sex.’
‘You’re a kid.’
‘I’m eighteen, but that’s not the point.’
‘What is the point?’ he asks, already knowing he’ll regret it.
‘The point is whoever I sleep with, if it’s my own choice, is gonna get hurt by you or my father. Both, probably. Same thing anyway. You’re his weapon.’
Jules will never know, but that’s the worst insult he could hurl at Lachlan, even softly spoken.
Lachlan lets silence take hold for the rest of the drive into the underground garage, but he knows what Jules is thinking now.
He also knows enough about Jules to know once he gets an idea in his head, it’s not going anywhere.
When they get out, Lachlan waits by the car for a beat and Jules does the same.
There’s video in here but no audio.
‘You should know I’m a trained killer,’ he says flatly, no emotion. ‘I’ve ended lives, killed more men than I can count. I’m here to do my job which is keep you both safe. Beyond that—’
Jules takes quick hold of Lachlan’s wrist, exposes the tattoo.
‘Beyond this?’ he asks, sharp eyes have him pinned. ‘Beyond Mari? Beyond you shredding yourself bloody for me? Beyond you watching me dance and apologising for hitting me? Yeah, go on, Bodyguard. Push me away until I’m up against the wall. I’m waiting.’
Lachlan takes back his wrist. ‘Nothing’s ever going to happen.’
Jules’ smile is slow growing. It burrows deep under Lachlan’s skin, gets right in through the breaks and itches where he’s vulnerable because that smile is nothing but confidence bordering on pity.
‘Oh, Bodyguard.’ Jules lets his gaze trail up and down, disdainfully pitying in every way. ‘You really are so fucking na?ve.’
?
When Mimi is feeling better, she starts following Lachlan around.
It’s rare for the little one to leave the East Wing, but in her efforts to follow him, she begins venturing out into areas of the Estate she’s never seen before. Sometimes Lachlan can accommodate it, sometimes he has to gently tell her no, which is met with a scowl that threatens his composure.
The staff all notice. Whenever a tantrum brews in the four-year-old, if he’s nearby, he’s the one they look to now.
Carrigan is so clearly displeased she doesn’t even waste energy scolding him.
She just gives a quiet shake of her head and carries on with the job.
On the days Lachlan does allow Mimi to follow him, he either carries her or they walk hand in hand in order to keep pace.
She’s a chatty little thing once she’s comfortable, and he learns very quickly to achieve a perfect balance of both listening and drowning out the majority of it.
He often mirrors the tail end of what she says with a question mark on it, an old trick he learnt from a seasoned hostage negotiator.
They can talk for hours in this way without Lachlan losing focus on his job and Mimi feeling heard.
But on the days he can’t allow his little shadow sneak to follow him, he has to tell her, ‘No,’ and she doesn’t like that at all. She’ll throw noisy tantrums, sometimes throwing things, holding her breath until her cheeks turn near purple and even fakes Mari being sick for sympathy.
Lachlan remains firm, sticks to his guns for now, although he’s mentally calculating adjusting his routes to allow her to come along more often.
‘Attachment transfer,’ Blaire observes one day while she and Lachlan eat lunch together, schedules and screens between them. There was a tantrum that morning only resolved by Jules agreeing to play dress up with Mimi.
Lachlan looks up. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means,’ she says quietly, just between them, ‘that children will often reassign attachment roles in the absence of primary caregivers. You’re consistent, you’re here every day. She’s transferred the attachment.’
Lachlan knows it makes sense but can’t help seeking to reject it if only to protect Mimi. ‘It’s just the novelty.’
‘It’s not.’
At twenty-four years old, Lachlan can’t really comprehend the enormity of what she’s saying, doesn’t like the idea of anyone being reliant on him, especially not someone so vulnerable. He also thinks it’s bold of Blaire to say this given that it’s likely to get back to Penhalyx.
‘She’s just a kid. They go through phases, right?’
Blaire shrugs. ‘Everyone sees it.’
‘Everyone?’
She holds his gaze with grassy green eyes. ‘Everyone.’