6. Chapter 6
SEAN
THE WOMAN IN THE HOODIE is looking for me?
It's certainly possible someone else could have the same last name, but come on, not very likely.
Walker-Choi is a unique blending of my dad's surname and my mom's.
The Korean side of my family hated that my mom married an American soldier, so they fought to keep me a Choi.
My parents came up with an easy solution: both their names combined.
The Chois were grumbly but ultimately accepted the compromise.
Hoodie Woman is waiting anxiously for the booth attendant to reply.
The booth attendant, a woman with an aggressively perfect blonde ponytail, looks confused. "Um, I'll see if I can check." She picks up a tablet, swipes through some screens, then makes a quick call.
I linger nearby, pretending to look at video doorbells. Why would Hoodie Woman be looking for me specifically? That's so strange.
Ponytail ends her call and shakes her head. "I'm sorry, we don't have any security personnel with that name. Is there something specific you're looking for? I'd be happy to—"
Hoodie Woman is already moving on to the next booth.
There's no way I can't follow now, so I tag behind several feet.
She turns suddenly, like some sixth sense alerted her to my presence.
Before I can scramble for cover, her gaze locks onto me through those oversized glasses, and her entire body goes rigid like a tree.
Recognition? Fear? Hard to tell with most of her face hidden, but I can see her hands wringing the straps of her tote bag like she might use it as a weapon.
She's staring at me like I'm a ghost from her past. I never forget a face, so I wish I could see hers better to determine if we've met.
I get that sinking feeling in my gut that I hate. What if she knew Wunmi? Knew I was supposed to protect her.
Hoodie Woman backpedals, clutching her bag tighter, then spins and hurries toward the exit. The crowd parts around her urgent movements like water around stone.
I follow. Whoever she is, whatever's going on, I need to find out what she needs, even if it's about Wunmi.
"Wait," I call out, moving after her at a brisk walk. I'm not running—running makes security nervous, and the last thing I need is to get tackled by those lunch-planning amateurs at the door. "Hey, hold up a second."
She disappears around a corner, her black hoodie bobbing through the crowd. By the time I round the same corner, the hallway is empty except for a few stragglers checking their phones.
Where did she—
I turn another corner and nearly walk face-first into a canister of pepper spray.
"Woah, woah," I say. My hands shoot up reflexively and I take a quick step back.
Hoodie Woman is pressed against the wall, arm extended, mace pointed directly at my face. Her breathing is rapid, shoulders rising and falling in short bursts. Even through those glasses, I can see the terror in her rounded brown eyes.
"Get back," she hisses.
I take another step, keeping my hands visible. "Okay. I'm back."
She sizes me up like I'm something that crawled out from the sewer. Something dangerous that came straight from her nightmares. The way her eyes track every small twitch of my body reminds me of cornered prey; she's calculating escape routes while preparing to fight if necessary.
"You're seriously trying to attack me at a security convention?" Her voice wavers but there's steel underneath it. "I'll scream and the security guards will come running. But I'll spray you first. I'm very good at using this."
I nod slowly, keeping my hands up and body still. "I believe it." I glance at her grip on the mace. "Though if you really want to connect with my eyes, you should adjust your thumb placement. Right now you're set up for more of a wide spray pattern."
She glances down at the canister, momentarily confused, then adjusts her grip exactly how I suggested. Better leverage, better aim.
I can't help the small smile that tugs at my mouth. "There you go. Now you'll definitely incapacitate me if you have to. I should warn you: my screams are pretty high pitched and embarrassing."
Her eyebrows twitch above her glasses, a flicker of surprise breaking through the fear. The hard line of her shoulders softens just a fraction and her erratic breathing has slowed. The high-alert warning in her system seems to be cooling down.
"Sorry for scaring you," I say, keeping my distance and hoping to put her more at ease. "I don't normally have that effect on women, so this is all new to me."
I catch the tick at the corner of her mouth, like she was about to smile.
I press on. "You were looking for me. That's the only reason I approached you."
Her eyes narrow as suspicion radiates off her. But her elbows bend, bringing the mace just an inch closer to her chest.
Good. I've almost got her calmer. "I'm Sean. Sean Walker-Choi."
She tightens her grip on the mace and widens her stance, but I can tell her tension is about to break and she's close to ending this stand-off. "Prove it."
Fair enough. I reach slowly toward my back pocket, telegraphing every movement. "I'm just getting my wallet." I extract my license and hold it out, careful not to step closer.
She leans forward just enough to read it, eyes darting between my face and the ID.
Her posture finally shifts. Not exactly relaxation, but the panic recedes.
She lowers the mace to her side, though her fingers remain curled around it like she's prepared to raise it again at the slightest provocation.
"Sorry again," I say, returning the license to my wallet. "Can I ask why you're looking for me?"
"I-I need security. You were recommended."
My head tilts to the side as I absorb her response. Her answer is unexpected but I'm glad this isn't somehow about Wunmi. "Recommended by who?"
"Old coworkers. Your last name is memorable, so I never forgot it. I just didn't know your company."
I study her, trying to peer through the gloom cast over her face by the baseball cap and hoodie.
I try to place her in my memories. Still nothing.
I'm also not sure what 'coworkers' could've recommended me.
I've worked almost exclusively for Declan for the past eight years, only taking a few side gigs. Before that I was in the Marines.
Actually, between the Marines and Declan, I was with Wunmi for a year and also worked a few short gigs on Hollywood sets.
That's a period of my life I try to force myself to forget.
"I see." I tread carefully, not wanting to spook her further. "Unfortunately, I no longer work security. But I can recommend some excellent—"
"No. No, it can't be anyone else."
That stops me short and I start excavating my memories again to try and place her. Nothing. "Do we know each other?"
"No."
I can't stop my frown, hoping my intimidation-face isn't coming out. I'm not trying to look scary, I just don't get it. "If we don't know each other, why does it have to be me?"
"I can pay whatever your fee is. I need security as soon as you can provide it."
I suppress a frustrated sigh, instead offering what I hope is a friendly smile. It has the opposite effect. Her frown deepens, and she shifts back a half-step, eyes watching my movements like I'm a predator again.
I step away, hoping the increased space between us will help. As gently as I can, I say, "It sounds like you need someone capable, so I want to help you find the right person. I have plenty of recommendations, people I'd trust with my life. But I don't personally do that kind of work anymore."
She points her chin at me, not giving up. Honestly, I like this fighting spirit of hers.
"Then why are you here?" she fires back. "At a security conference?"
"A favor for a friend." I shrug. "I'm just the pretty face for their booth today."
"Seems like a waste."
"Of my pretty face?"
No laugh. Not even a smile. Tough crowd.
"Of your skills," she clarifies, her voice tight. "If you're as good as I was told."
"And who told you?"
"I can't reveal that, but it's important that I hire you and not someone else."
I finally release a sigh because my frustration is peaking. I'm trying to help and understand the situation, but she's not giving me much. "Why does it have to be me?"
She rolls the mace canister between her palms like it became too heavy for one hand to carry.
A vulnerability slips between the growing cracks in her defenses and her eyes drop to the floor.
"It's just… important. You offered security for a few of my old coworkers.
One of them had a stalker and you found the guy your first night working for her.
None of her other security guards were able to spot him.
But you did and…" As if the memory finally convinced her I'm not a threat, she drops the mace in her tote bag.
"The police searched the stalker. He had a gun and a suicide note in his pocket.
They said he was going to shoot my coworker and then kill himself. You saved her life."
My heart beats harder because her scenario sounds familiar.
I search my memories again and the vague image of an actress appears.
I've worked hard to block out my past celebrity assignments, but I think she was an actress on some sitcom.
She hired me for a one-off gig to guard her while she attended a friend's movie premiere.
Spotting her stalker wasn't hard—it was the way his eyes never blinked and never looked away. He wasn't excited to meet an idol or simply staring at a beautiful woman. That gaze was possessive.
Thankfully, that night my instincts didn't fail and I was able to keep the actress safe.
I'm happy about that, but one successful assignment doesn't erase my massive failure with Wunmi shortly after.
As I study Hoodie Woman and the desperation etched in the hard creases along her forehead, alarm bells are ringing.
"Walk away."
"Walk away so you don't get this poor woman hurt or kidnapped."
Killed.
"Don't get this poor woman killed."