Chapter 5 Lexi
Lexi
Pulling up in front of Justin’s West Hollywood home is only a fraction less irritating than the first time.
I still cursed Marcus a hundred times on the way over here for bringing me this assignment in the first place.
But ultimately, I’m the one to blame for being soft and folding after seeing that unnerving video.
Thank God today’s a logistic meeting only. I’m going to pop in, confirm his house staff’s credentials, check the property and line out protocols. If all goes well, I’ll be done in an hour.
I throw my shoulders back, walk up the stone steps and ring the doorbell.
A few moments later a smiling Justin opens the door. Oof. He has a great smile. Plush lips, dimples … he’s probably a cover model overseas for some fancy cologne.
‘Hey, Doc. Come on in.’
He actually answers his own door like the rest of us?
Interesting … Okay, enough. My parents raised me to be a lot of things – tough, hardworking, stable.
Judgmental was not one of them, and yet, that’s the area I most succeed in.
If I’m assigned to protect his life, I really, really need to let this go.
My deep-rooted views on income disparity are not Justin’s personal fault.
I wipe off my boots on the mat and follow him through the home.
‘I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot yesterday.’ Justin glances at me through his peripherals. ‘Anthony and I chatted after you left. I didn’t realize they’ve been keeping some things from me, and you took the brunt of my irritation.’
His deep voice with a hint of a Nashville drawl is a tad disarming.
Almost as much as that scent rolling from him.
‘It’s fine. People often do that to protect the client.
We want you aware but not terrified.’ When he motions to a seat at the kitchen island, I set down my bag and sit. ‘What did he tell you?’
He rolls up the sleeves of his perfectly tailored button-down shirt, clearly cut to accentuate everything.
Damn. He has great forearms, too … firm, strong, the type of ridges and lines where he must spend a solid chunk of time swapping between wrist and hammer curls.
Come on. Give me something that’s physically wrong with this guy. I’d even take four toes at this point.
‘Can I get you something to drink?’ he asks. ‘Tea? Coffee? Soda?’
‘Is it too early for vodka?’ I joke. Just because I won’t back down from conflict doesn’t mean I like it, and nothing felt good about the way things ended yesterday.
‘I maintain a dry house, so I couldn’t offer it even if I wanted to,’ he says.
Holy shit. He’s serious. Everything I read on him indicated a typical party boy – paparazzi photos from Cancun, late night New Year’s Eve bash in NYC, nightclub photos from this past spring.
‘I’m just kidding,’ I say. ‘You don’t drink?’
He shrugs. ‘Not usually. And I rarely allow it into my home.’
A hint of pride laces his voice, and I’m officially intrigued. ‘Coffee would be great.’ I reach into the bag for my notebook and pen.
‘Notebook, huh?’ He taps the ground coffee beans into the portafilter like he’s on shift at a Starbuck’s. ‘Are you one of those that thinks we’re being bugged by our electronics?’
If he only knew the type of personal data companies have access to.
Protecting some powerful people both domestically and abroad, I’m privy to more information than I want.
‘We are being bugged.’ I lighten my tone.
No need to freak him out until he’s in real danger.
‘Haven’t you ever said a product and your social media pops up that product ad a few hours later? ’
‘Ha. True.’ He grabs two glass mugs from the cabinet above his head. ‘Cream? Sugar?’
‘Cream, please.’
The espresso machine squeals and an earthy aroma fills the room. He sets a mug in front of me, then swings back to the fridge to grab the cream.
Making coffee for me? Maybe he’s not a complete jerk. I wrap my palms around the cup and sip. Oh … oh shit. This is delicious. The velvet drink tastes like the beans were flown in from Columbia this morning. Perhaps I can get used to this.
He pulls up a seat at the bar across from me. ‘Are you anti-technology in your line of work?’
‘Not at all.’ I click my pen. ‘Sometimes putting pen to paper helps me see things in a different light. There’s a bit more mind–body connection.’
‘Makes sense.’ He blows into his mug. ‘I do that when I’m running lines. I’ll add a note in the margin of my paper copy, rather than typing it into the electronic version.’
Ah. So, he gets it. I add a touch more cream to my coffee and peek at him. He has really nice eyes. Hazel, yes, but sitting this close, I can see more. Variations of green, some moss, a little jade, a small ridge of amber circling the iris. They’re beautiful. Maybe even … kind? I shift my gaze.
‘What did Anthony tell you about the threats?’
‘He didn’t give too many details. Basically said someone sent letters and weird packages.’
I blow into the top of the mug and take another sip. ‘And, ah, how are you … feeling … about that?’ I’ve never once claimed to be a therapist. But it’s still good for me to gauge my client’s mental well-being while under threat.
He shrugs. ‘Fine. Honestly, my female co-stars deal with a lot worse. Having some lunatic send me letters is part of the business. Right?’
I catch the slight crease of his brows, the curved grin, the eye contact avoidance, and it hits me – he’s nervous. At least a little bit. He’s looking for reassurance that the threats are as harmless as he thinks, and I cannot in good faith give it to him.
I don’t respond. But I don’t break his team’s mandate and tell him the whole truth, either.
‘Besides, Anthony says the studio’s just being cautious,’ he quickly adds, then pulls the mug back to his mouth. ‘Oh, last night, Zane got a package, though.’
What? Why the hell wouldn’t he lead with this? ‘Your assistant? Are they okay?’
A playful grin crosses his face. ‘Yeah, they’re fine. It was a glitter bomb.’
‘A glitter bomb?’
‘You know that box when you open it up and glitter goes everywhere?’
‘I know what a glitter bomb is.’ I’m not that out of touch. But a glitter bomb doesn’t follow the MO of the videos. This might be a prank or something to throw us off. I scribble in my notepad. ‘I’m wondering why they chose that. It’s an odd threat.’
‘I thought the same. But Zane was pissed,’ Justin says with a chuckle. ‘Never seen them like that before.’
‘I’d be pissed too.’ Glitter is like lice: hard to get rid of and spreads everywhere. ‘Anything else Anthony told you?’
He shakes his head, and I exhale a low breath. This is not a surprise. I sincerely doubt he’d be this calm if he’d seen the videos.
A phone buzzes and Justin pulls it out of his pocket. His face lights up. Who’s on the other end? I want to know, strictly out of professional curiosity, of course. ‘Will you excuse me for a sec?’ When I nod, he taps the screen. ‘Hey, what’s up …’ he says as he walks out of the room.
A glitter bomb? As Justin chats outside the room, my ears perk at the playful tone.
He doesn’t need to tell me everything in gory detail, but if he’s dating someone, we need to know.
I jot down a few notes: check the glitter for harmful remnants, double check Zane’s background, review security footage of Zane’s place.
I check my phone for any messages and scroll through emails when footsteps approach.
‘Sorry ’bout that,’ Justin says when he strolls back into the kitchen. ‘That was my sister Mia. I told her someone was here and I’d call her back. Here’s a little insight into Mia. I told her that right when I stepped out of the room. It took ten minutes for her to say goodbye.’
My heart pinches. I seriously need to call my brothers. I scribble a note in the margins to call them this weekend.
‘Hey, can I ask a question?’ Justin says as he slides back into his chair. ‘How does one get into this profession?’
Answering personal questions is not on my list of approved activities.
A cordial relationship with a client is fine.
But anything teetering on personal can compromise my professional integrity and potentially cause me to lose focus.
If I lose focus, I jeopardize my client’s safety.
No matter who I protect, this is what keeps me up at night.
After The Incident, I vowed I’d never lose focus again.
‘It’s a long story,’ I finally say. ‘Let’s just say the plans I had when I was young didn’t pan out.’ Does he really need to hear that the university revoked my basketball scholarship because I was hospitalized during my senior year season? Probably not.
‘Did you attend undergrad around here?’ he asks.
I stiffen. ‘No.’
He sets the mug on the island. ‘Where did you graduate from?’
Jesus. He clearly does not have the training I do on reading body cues. Are the one-word answers and pursed lips not giving him a hint? I don’t want to be rude, but seriously. ‘Nowhere.’
‘You don’t need some sort of criminal justice degree to do this work?’
And here it comes. My gut tightens, preparing for the elitist slap I’m about to get. A man like Justin who was handed everything at birth will never understand someone like me who had to fight for everything. ‘Nope.’
Even though curiosity laces his tone, I can feel his pity stares burning into me.
Justin Greenwood is one of those. And I have no time for those.
This situation reminds me of when I protected an Ivy League-educated CEO of a Silicon Valley tech company for a month last year, who immediately dismissed any of my opinions when he asked me about my educational background.
‘Interesting. I assumed you would’ve had to go to college for this.’ The chair creaks as he leans back. ‘I went to USC.’