11. Wesley
11
WESLEY
I’m no stranger to long, uneventful hours. Many of my targets led rather boring lives, lives I studied for days—sometimes weeks—before taking.
But witnessing Nina’s joy throughout the day was invigorating. She found joy in spotting her name on personalized bracelets. She bought one, then a different one two blocks away because she liked the print better. Whenever there was a dog or cat, she and her sister did their best to pet it. She lets her guard down whenever she asks a stranger to pet their dog, trying to appear as unalarming as possible. It creates a window for someone to strike.
Fear pierces my gut. Nina is my client— not my target . I shouldn’t fixate on her the same way. I just met her, but the thought of hurting her sets my stomach on fire. That’s not who I want to be.
When I work, my guard is up and my muscles are on edge. Everything was too calm today. I can shy my way through civilian life, but putting my work mode in a civilian setting is an obstacle I wasn’t prepared for. Too many people stared today. Too many questioning eyes glued to me because I couldn’t blend in. I tried to be normal at one of the museums; I engaged in a brief, friendly conversation with a woman, but Nina didn’t like that. I deciphered her plan to get rid of me before she stormed off. She wears her emotions like a skimpy bikini—impossible not to look at.
I can’t be annoyed she did that; countless men either attempted or considered approaching her today, and a glare from me stopped them. I can tell myself it’s because they looked dangerous or I didn’t like their shoes, but I know I would’ve listed possible ways to kill them if they spoke a single word to her. I’ve worked mostly with men over the past decade, which makes walking behind a woman with an ass I’d love to fill my hands with that much harder.
When I pull in front of the hotel, Nina says, “I want to get some french fries.”
“Oh, okay,” Maia says. “Do you want to look for a place to walk to?”
I park the car and wait for them to decide. Nina clears her throat. “Um, no. I wanted to… go alone. I just don’t want to be around Dad right now. I’ll be back before we go to dinner, though.”
Her sister and Mason leave the car after a few hesitant seconds.
“Where to?” I ask.
Nina clicks off her seatbelt and pops up to my right, leaning against the center console. “Hmm. Do you know a place where I could get some good french fries and watch the sunset?”
I pause to consider. “Yes, both, but the sun won’t set for another few hours.”
“I don’t care. Take me there, please.” She suddenly climbs over the console to the front passenger seat.
“What are you—?” I narrowly miss getting knocked out by her hips swinging by my head. I swallow the agitation and smother a huff. Her flowery scent infects my nose. She plops in the seat and buckles in.
“Is there a reason for this?” I ask, keeping my voice monotone in hopes she won’t start a conversation.
“I figured if you’re gonna be my paid stalker, I might as well get to know you,” she says, kicking her feet onto the dashboard.
“Security detail,” I correct, shifting the gear and nodding toward her legs. “And feet off the dash.”
She clucks her tongue and puts her feet down as I drive off. My hand tightens around the steering wheel. How am I supposed to act around her? Curt enough that she doesn’t want to be my friend, or open enough so she trusts my judgment in case of an emergency?
“Where are we going?” Nina asks—and her light, sweet voice spikes my nerves.
“A restaurant in Monitta.”
“What’s Monitta?”
“A small mountain town. Ten minutes outside of the city.” It has less than five thousand inhabitants, but plenty of restaurants and bars that tourists frequent because of the unobstructed views of the city and sea. Moritzi is a low-key restaurant on the side of the road and the one place I know of that has a good old-fashioned hamburger and fries. There are few things I miss about the U.S., and an American burger is one of them.
A few moments of silence pass before she asks, “So why’d you leave the military? A man named Jack called me last night and asked if I wanted any adjustments to my security. When I said you were fine so far, he told me you used to be a soldier, but you don’t look old enough to retire.”
Hm. Perceptive. I clear my throat but don’t answer. The car rolls to a stop at the traffic light.
“Why do they call you Beck?” she continues. “I mean, why not Wesley? Wesley is better than Beck.”
I lift a brow and look at her slowly.
“That was rude,” she says with a nervous hike in her voice. As she speaks, my gaze drifts down to her bare legs. “I don’t know why I said it. Ignore me. As you already are.”
Her thighs flatten against the seat, and I bite my tongue at the thought of gripping and digging my fingers into them. Instead, I shift the gear with more force than necessary as the light turns green. I clear my throat again, this time to reply—if only to avoid indulging more possibilities.
“I didn’t leave. I was forced out.”
“Oh,” Nina says, and thankfully that’s all she says. The drive continues in blissful silence between us. She even turns on the radio at low volume. Commercials in Maldanian crackle through the speakers. I sense Nina’s stillness and find her staring at the radio with a faraway look. I figure it’s to decipher the Maldanian in the commercial, considering she’s a linguist, but I’ll be damned if her expression isn’t cute and her determination isn’t sexy at the same time.
“Are you from Maldana?” she asks.
I smother a sigh. “Yes.”
“What part?”
“Kosita and Palfu.”
“Then why do you sound American?”
So much for a quiet drive. The city fades as I drive through winding roads up the mountain.
“Mother from U.S., Father from here. School in America, summers and Christmases here.”
“Why do you talk like that?” Nina asks. “You don’t even use pronouns or articles. Just ‘Mother from U.S.’ instead of ‘my mom’s from the U.S.’ .”
“ The fewer words, the better.”
Her eyes widen, and she fights to hide a smile as she notices my annunciation of the article the . “At least give me facial expressions. I’m a linguist. I need something to read.”
At my silence, she pokes my elbow. I grit my teeth. She pokes me again—a gentle press of her finger into my upper arm. Please don’t let this be a preview of what the summer will look like. I give her a look, the corners of my lips pulled down. I expect a falter in her expression, a hint that I intimidate her somehow. But an amused smile spreads across her face as she reaches out to poke my cheek.
I catch her hand before the target can be reached. “Please don’t touch me.”
She pulls away from my gentle grip and situates herself to face me. “Why are you so grouchy?”
“I’m not grouchy.”
“You are.”
“I’m not—” I stop, shaking my head and closing my eyes briefly while at a red light. A mother pushes a stroller through the crosswalk. Trash litters the side of the roads, and I spot a stray orange cat digging for food.
“You’re my bodyguard against my wishes,” Nina declares. “I don’t need you and I don’t want you. All I want is to know more about the person driving and following me around.”
I resist throwing my head back and rolling my eyes. A dozen responses come to mind, but I have to remember that Nina is more than a civilian. She’s a sheltered suburban American who’s never had so much as a school detention.
“What is it you’d like to know?” I eventually ask. She won this time, but I still refuse to be anything but vague. I pull into the Moritzi parking lot and shut off the car.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Where were you born?”
“Kosita.”
“Was Maldanian your first language?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like being from here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Beautiful city, beautiful country.”
She rolls her eyes at my lack of article usage. “How is it beautiful?”
Instead of speaking, I point to the view in front of us. Golden hour falls upon the cityscape, blanketing the world in bright orange. I slide on my sunglasses.
Nina huffs. “You’re impossible.”
I unlock the door and get out of the car. “I’ll get the food—the owner gives me a good deal. Do not go anywhere.”
I take the keys with me just in case. I don’t need to lose my client for the second time on my first day. As I head inside, a man stumbles—five-seven, dark hair, olive skin—and bumps his shoulder into mine.
“Sorry—!” he exclaims.
Instinctively, I snatch his arm in an iron grip. He winces as fear crosses his freckled face.
Not everyone is an enemy. I need to integrate.
I soften my hold and pat the same spot, offering an apologetic smile before walking away. He mumbles to his friends about how hard I grabbed him.
Is this the way I want to live? Stuck in trauma?
I can’t cite my time as a soldier for being horrible at socializing. I withdrew from my comrades more as I worked underground. How could I sit and joke with them over lunch when I poisoned a man six hours earlier? It became harder to face them until, at some point, I didn’t at all. I spoke when spoken to—sometimes. I was hollow, knowing I didn’t want this, not knowing how to stop myself, and questioning what I deserved. I killed a target because I already killed the last one; it was too late for me.
Was too late.
Stop.
That’s not what I’m doing now. I may not be convinced that I’m a different person, but my current job is to protect the woman who ignored my instructions and got out of the car anyway. She gushes over a wiener dog, who jumps up and sniffs her face. She giggles as it licks her chin.
I bite back a groan and step inside. The Moritzi family is happy to see me, and I feign enthusiasm. It gets harder to slap on a fake smile, but I manage to get the deal and keep up appearances. Once I pay with Nina’s designated credit card, I glance back to check on her, and both she and the wiener dog are nowhere to be found. But with a quick scan of the area, I spot her a few hundred feet down the hill, watching the sky.
“Is this going to be a normal thing? You, not listening?” I ask when getting close enough.
Nina looks over her shoulder, the backlight giving her a halo. The golden hour sun silhouettes her curls and profile, outlining her body with light. All I can think of is the word angel . She looks like an angel. I clench my jaw to crush the thought.
“Probably,” she says without an ounce of sarcasm. When I stop beside her, she blurts, “I’m not a snob, you know.”
I steal a look at her. I don’t care about what she’s saying. The light turns her brown skin into a radiant golden shade. It’s all I want to pay attention to.
“I never said you were.”
She snorts. “Right. I’m offered luxury, riches, a country . Who wouldn’t want that?”
“It comes with a loss of freedom,” I find myself saying. Despite struggling to adjust to and empathize with the issues involved in civilian life, there’s something about Nina’s contemplation that has a small part of me wanting to comfort her.
She folds her arms across her chest, and I’m keenly aware of the cleavage it gives her. She nods down the hill. “Enough people in that city down there would think a loss of freedom is a price worth paying.”
I shrug, continuing to be impressed at her self-awareness. “You’re right.”
“I know,” she replies, and a chuckle at her conceit escapes me before I can hide it. “So what does it say about me if I decline it?”
I don’t want to lose what little faith I already have with her. If a deadly situation occurs, I need her to trust me. But my desire to get out of this conversation intensifies with her rumination of moral conflict. Morality and my lack of cost me my career and the life I knew.
“I, uh… I can’t answer that,” I say quietly, forcing myself to turn and leave her alone.