Chapter 9 Hell-Fiery
HELL-FIERY
BANKS
“Are you kidding me?”
With fire in her blue eyes, she rips away from me at the corner of Main Street. I don’t grab Ripley since that’d defeat the purpose of my help. The last thing we need is a scene. The last thing I need is to get in trouble for putting hands on a client.
Even an angry one.
I’d been warned on my call with the logistics producer moments ago that the twin sister probably wouldn’t want security.
But a lot of regular people don’t. Calming someone down is part of the job.
“I’m your new bodyguard. I’m only here to make sure you’re safe, Ripley,” I say, trying to appeal like it’s a basic human need.
Safety is important to emphasize. It’s something we all want. Food, shelter, safety, love—things many people don’t get in life.
She rolls those pretty blue eyes next. “Right. Sure. That’s your goal.” She reaches for the bouquets of lavender I’m holding. Probably a half dozen.
Ah, my trump card while I manage a client who doesn’t want to be a client—a good game of keep-away. I wrap an arm tighter around the flowers, keeping a grip on the bag of baked goods, too, in case that’s what she’s angling for the most.
“Oh, c’mon. Give me my things,” she says. “I want to make my delivery and get my bike.”
“In a minute, of course. Let’s chat first,” I say, trying to let her know I’m on her side.
She huffs, staring me down fiercely. “What is your deal?”
Fiery doesn’t really cut it with this one. More like hell-fiery.
“I’m part of the team working on the film.
I’ve been assigned to you,” I say. Just a few minutes ago, in fact.
I glance around, checking behind us, down the street, across from it.
Sure, there are townspeople and tourists milling about.
A block away, a woman pushing a jogging stroller turns into a white-and-pink bakery.
Down the road, a man stops outside a tattoo shop, checking out the designs in the window.
Most importantly, though, we’re out of sight of the photogs who stalk Chris Carlisle incessantly.
Still, I really don’t want to have this conversation on the street.
Near the end of the block, a pack of women in varying shades of pastel yoga attire streams into a yoga studio. Next to that is a coffee shop, and on the sidewalk outside sits a chalkboard sign with a peach-colored coffee-cup drawing. Steam curls from the top of the cup, beckoning.
“Let’s duck into Pick Me Up.”
“Yes, Banks. That sounds great. I really want to get coffee with you,” she says dryly.
This is going to be so fun. Both sisters probably hate me.
But at least Ripley knows my name. That has to be a good sign.
When my firm first landed the gig with the film last month, the plan was to provide security for the shoot itself.
Now, with Chris Carlisle on the movie, coupled with the rumors about Haven and him, the key players are getting close protection officers.
Tabitha asked me to personally handle security for Ripley when she called a few minutes ago.
That call was brief, but Tabitha said she’d given my name to Haven, so Haven must have passed it on to her sister.
At least Haven hasn’t canned me yet, but it seems she’s definitely given Ripley the low-down on our almost rendezvous.
“We should get away from crowds,” I say, keeping my tone so goddamn calm and relaxed, like I’ve been trained to do.
“No.” She’s emphatic as she wiggles her fingers at the bouquets in my hand. “Gimme my flowers and we can go. Like I told my sister, I don’t need a babysitter.”
Ah, hell.
They both definitely hate me. Of course they hate me. Fuck my life.
“I’m sure you don’t, but let’s chat in the shop, and I’ll give you your things,” I say, trying to wrest control of a difficult client.
She folds her arms over her chest, sneering at me. “You’re actually holding my Grosso bouquets hostage?”
“Gross? That seems a little harsh. I think they’re okay.” I take a deep inhale of the pretty flowers.
“Grosso, and they’re more than okay. They’re some of my customers’ favorites.” Ripley sighs. “And you’re sniffing all over them. Real nice.”
“I’m not the enemy here,” I say, frustrated, pointing toward the door.
She stares at the flowers even harder. “But you have my flowers.”
For a few seconds, I’m not sure who’s going to cave because this woman is staring at me like she’s the zombie slayer and I’m the undead she’s been waiting to obliterate.
But after a tense face-off, she relents, marching ahead to the shop.
Fast. Like she’s going to race-walk in the Olympics fast. Like she thinks she’ll lose me with her pace.
That’s cute.
But my long legs eat up the sidewalk and in seconds I’m ahead of her, reaching for the door, holding it open.
“Aww, you are a gentleman after all,” she says.
I wince but try not to let it show at the particular use of that word.
“Hey, Ripley,” a woman with a fair complexion and big black glasses calls out as she works the espresso machine.
“Hey, Callie,” Ripley says, all friendly, the polar opposite of the tone she’s taken with me.
“The usual?”
“Later. I have to deal with”—she tosses a careless glance my way—“a hiccup in my schedule.”
The woman smiles. “Hiccups are the worst.”
“Don’t I know it.”
She storms to the back of the shop, then stops by an empty table in the corner next to a worn leather couch with cracks in it. Across from the couch is a scratched wooden table, covered with stacks of vintage board games and coffee-table art books.
Ripley parks her hands on her hips. “I’d like my things. I need to take them to the store. I’m late for my delivery. That’s where I was going, you know.”
“Yes, when the paparazzo showed up. That guy with the ballcap? That’s Silas.
He gives no fucks. He works a lot for Page Six.
He’s been on Carlisle since Bangable took off.
I’m sure that photo of you is going to be on the internet any minute,” I tell her, then shrug. “Until they realize you’re the twin.”
She slow claps. “Bravo. You can observe. So impressive. But observe this, buddy.” She strides away from the corner, pointing wildly to the front of the store.
“No one followed us down the street. Or in here. So someone took a pic of the twin. Big deal. Whatever.” Then she holds her arms out wide, like she’s saying no harm, no foul. “I’m fine. Just fine. Let me be.”
At least I haven’t been fired yet. At least I haven’t screwed over Dean yet.
I try to take solace in those facts. “And it’s my job to make sure you continue to be just fine.
There are going to be a ton of new people in town.
Camera crews and the press. Tourists. Not to mention more paps.
But that’s only the start of it. Regular people have become the paps.
Everyone is a photographer. They’re going to be looking at you because you look—”
“Just like my sister.” She stares hard at me. “Dude, I know.” She gestures emphatically to her chest, her stomach, her thighs. “I’ve lived in this body for thirty years. I am well aware I look just like her. You don’t need to mansplain it to me.”
“It wasn’t mansplaining,” I say, defensively, except…
shit. I was. I nod, taking that one on the chin.
“You’re right. That was patronizing, and I’m sorry.
I understand you don’t want a close protection officer, but the film company approved one for Haven, and they want one for you too.
I promise I’ll do my best to be unobtrusive and stay out of the way. ”
She snorts. “Your best? I mean, it shouldn’t be that hard. You’re pretty good at staying out of the way, Banks.” She spits out my name like it tastes bad, and…hold on.
Her voice. The sass in it. The fire.
Also, the sheer specificity.
My brow pinches.
Like the high-speed rewind when the movie guy realizes he’s been played all along, that night at the hotel flashes before my eyes in sharp, clear detail.
I add in the biggest clue—the one standing in front of me.
It’s not the tattoos covering her right arm, which I expected from the pics of her on the farm.
It’s not the ease with which she sails through town, chatting with shop owners, which I’d expect from a local.
It’s not the nails, unpolished, which I expected too.
It’s the attitude of Ripley.
All take no prisoners.
Like the woman I met that night at the bar.
Like the way she said gentleman.
The way she said my name.
The way she doesn’t suffer fools.
Shock isn’t useful in my line of work. But my jaw comes unhinged. “You’re…Ripley?” My voice sounds like it’s coming from another man, on another night.
Then Ripley-Ripley, not Haven-posing-as-Ripley—because Haven was never posing as Ripley—flashes me a fuck you smile. “Just like I said.”