Operation 4 Head of Security （HOS）
Cassidy
Cassidy stood with his arms crossed as the large SUV disappeared into the congested Los Angeles traffic.
He turned around and the four men standing behind him straightened under the weight of his stare.
“Any questions about your duties?” he asked flatly.
With their mouths sealed tight they shook their heads.
He resisted the urge to drag his hand down his face.
The new hires put him in the mind of knockoff Men in Black agents. Their dark suits stretched too tight over gym-built chests. White shirts that were starched to death, and sunglasses covering their eyes.
Cassidy clenched his jaw. “Take off those fuckin’ shades.”
They each hesitated, and that alone pissed him off even more.
“If your vision’s diminished by extra layers of darkness,” he gritted, “how the hell are you supposed to spot somebody lurking in it?”
One slowly removed his glasses and tucked them into his jacket pocket before the others followed suit like good little boys.
Cassidy barely held in his growl. He already disliked them.
They were too polished, too concerned with looking the part instead of being on guard.
Private security wasn’t about swagger or walking around as though they were a member of the celebrity’s entourage.
The best protection detail was the kind nobody noticed. It was about blending in, and adapting, seeing everything while appearing to watch nothing.
It required finesse and subtlety, not fancy suits and content for their social media pages.
Three of the idiots the studio hired had already posted online about their new assignment. Smirking gym selfies boasting click-bait bullshit about “big opportunities” and “a major client.”
One of them had even tagged Xander.
Goddamn amateurs.
He’d made every one of them delete their accounts in front of him.
Cassidy had trusted his instincts for a long time, and right now every one of them was screaming that these men weren’t going to cut it.
Xander Vale needed…deserved better.
Cassidy noticed the fear the moment the actor had stepped back onto Stage 8.
Not nerves, or stress…but genuine fear.
He knew all too well what that looked like, and how that kind of fright hollowed a person from the inside out.
He’d watched Xander struggle through rehearsal, his hands shaking around a prop bottle while trying to remember lines he probably knew better than the writer.
At least his manager had enough sense to give Xander the out he’d so desperately needed but was too professional and considerate to ask for.
Cassidy still didn’t know what made him move in when Xander had frozen at the bay doors.
One moment he’d been hanging back while everyone crowded around Xander, and the next he was pushing through them, and settling his hand at the small of his back.
“Come on. I’ll walk you.”
The visible relief that’d softened Xander’s face when Cassidy had touched him, affected him in a way he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge.
Or the way those wide, baby blue eyes flicked toward him every few seconds during the thirty-two-minute publicity setup outside the gates, as if he’d needed visual confirmation he was still there.
But the part he couldn’t stop replaying was the way Xander clutched his card to his chest after the SUV window rolled up.
Cassidy exhaled slowly.
He’d never given a client his personal cell number.
His job wasn’t personal, it was business.
His business.
And West Protective Solutions had been built on that exact principle from the start.
Professional. Skilled. Controlled.
Three years after being honorably discharged from the Marine Corps Embassy Security Group—with a bullet scar on his left thigh and scar tissue from the one that’d gone through his right kidney—he’d built his security company from the ground up with that mindset branded into his bones.
Protect and secure. Make no attachments nor blur the lines.
Getting personal led to sloppiness.
Devyn Frost’s bodyguard-slash-boyfriend could attest to that. If he’d been watching his client’s back instead of gazing into his eyes, he would’ve seen the threat coming before it was too late.
So why the hell did it matter so much that Xander felt safe instead of simply making sure he was?
Why had he liked that the actor had searched for him instead of the overdressed, protein-shake-guzzling boy band surrounding the SUV?
No one ever sees me. They especially don’t look for me.
The memory of those blue eyes stayed with him longer than it should’ve. Soft, tired, pleading without saying a word.
For one irrational second, Cassidy had nearly gotten into his Mustang and followed the SUV just to make sure the detail handled things correctly.
It was an impossible thought because he had an overflowing desk of paperwork waiting to be signed off on. Reassignments, shift rotations, gate patrol adjustments, perimeter reports, studio escort schedules, and a shit-ton more.
Cassidy looked hard at the men again.
“Get to Mr. Vale's property,” he ordered. “Relieve the current detail and start your shifts.”
“Yes, sir.”
They moved out quickly, but he still wasn’t satisfied.
Not even close.
Instead of going back to his office, he made a beeline straight for Wes and Law’s lab.
The converted warehouse sat tucked behind one of the older sound stages near the practical effect’s storerooms. The heavy, reinforced door was shut, and Cassidy banged on it hard enough to sound like the DEA serving a warrant before he barged inside.
“It’s HOS! I’m coming in, and I better not see anything I don’t wanna see.”
The warning wasn’t an unnecessary precaution where Wes and Law were concerned.
Luckily, they were both fully clothed for once.
The pair looked up from a cluttered worktable covered in wires, half-disassembled mechanisms, and scattered papers.
Law grinned first. “What’s up HOS? I was just—”
Both their smiles vanished at the same time when they saw his face.
He stalked toward them without slowing. “Where the hell are the super soldiers you promised me?”
Law lifted both hands in mock surrender while Wes grabbed his phone.
“Their plane landed an hour ago,” Wes muttered while quickly swiping across his screen. “They’ll be here first thing in the morning.”
Law leaned against the table. “Relax, HOS. These guys will be worth the wait and the money.”
Cassidy narrowed his eyes.
They better fuckin’ be.
By the time Cassidy got home, it was after two in the morning.
At least tomorrow would be lighter.
Xander would be home, heavily guarded, and the studio lot would mostly be crew personnel instead of swarming fans, media, and publicity leeches.
All he had to focus on was meeting Wes and Law’s East Coast cowboys.
His house sat tucked high in the Hollywood Hills behind gates and heavy trees, modern but understated compared to the grotesque mansions most executives and actors wasted money on.
He preferred modesty and privacy over spectacle.
The interior was quiet and still with the lights already dimmed, just the way he liked it.
He shrugged off his jacket as he headed into the kitchen, where a covered plate waited inside the refrigerator with a sticky note attached in neat handwriting.
You know what Hercules did between battles? He ate. – Love, Ms. Ramona
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He’d been blessed with Ms. Ramona almost eight years now. He paid her well enough that she worked exclusively for him, mostly during the hours he wasn’t home.
She cleaned, kept his home office as organized as possible, ran his errands, took care of his ridiculously spoiled cat, and made sure he ate like an adult.
Tonight’s meal was seafood paella, one of his favorites. The loaded rice dish was a little heavy for two in the morning, but his body stopped caring about normal meal times years ago.
Cassidy heated it up, fed a few shrimp to the fat calico weaving aggressively around his legs, before he carried the plate outside to the second-floor balcony.
“Scout, get down,” he muttered as the cat tried climbing his pants leg despite being the size of a throw pillow stuffed with lead.
The city stretched below him in rivers of white and red lights while the television mounted outside replayed the evening news.
It wasn’t long before Xander’s face appeared on screen.
“Beloved actor Xander Vale made his first public appearance tonight since the shocking attack earlier this week—”
He muted the show, eliminating the newscaster’s grating voice, and homed in on Xander’s face, blinking at the turmoil simmering beneath his barely composed facade.
To the outsider, he probably appeared happy, excited to be back at work and amongst fans, but Cassidy had seen the truth.
When the story ended, he pulled Scout onto his lap and picked up his phone to text the shift lead stationed outside Xander’s property.
Status?
The response came less than ten seconds later.
All clear. Followed by a stupid thumbs up emoji.
Goddamn millennials.
Cassidy thought of asking them what Xander was doing—was he resting, pacing…
He stared at the screen for too long, before deciding against it, pocketing his phone and retreating to his bedroom.
He let the shower run long enough to steam the entire second floor before he stepped inside.
The scalding water beat against the back of his tense neck and shoulders while he braced one hand against the tile and closed his eyes.
He tried not to picture pretty blue eyes staring up at him through long lashes. Or trembling hands clutching his card for dear life. Or the sweetly whispered “thank-you” from between peach-colored, delicate-looking lips.
Those were the kind of thoughts that led Cassidy to places he had no business going.