10. Chapter 10 #2
"I've got a few job prospects lined up for when this ends," Mike says, now organizing protein bars in a cupboard.
"Security supervisor at a mall in Tampa, couple of security gigs for visiting executives.
We should be okay." Something clatters on the floor in the kitchen but I don't turn to look at what it is.
Mike's voice strains slightly as he bends to pick it up.
"But the money from this job is half my normal yearly salary.
Mona and I are thinking about taking a vacation before the baby comes.
Just us and a beach somewhere. We'll need it for our sanity because babies are pure chaos, man. "
He pauses, and I glance over to catch the flicker of guilt crossing his face.
"I feel bad about flying out here and leaving her alone with the boys, but we talked it through.
The money was just too good to pass up." He nods to himself like answering an internal question.
"Her sister's staying at the house to help with the kids, at least."
I feel fuzzy inside from listening to him. It's not just the contentment in his tone; it's the way his entire being seems constructed around his family, like every cell in his body is programmed to orbit them. There's something beautiful about that kind of wholehearted devotion.
Sounds nice.
And I trust him. Unlike Jeremy in Hawaii, the traitor who sold out Sienna for a payday and nearly got her killed, Mike is solid. I've known him since our Marine days. He's got my back, and I've got his. One less thing to worry about.
Now I need to make sure I don't fuck up and get Londyn hurt.
I make a mental note to start the background checks tomorrow.
Didn't want to overwhelm her today, but I'll need names.
Her boss, coworkers, the staff at that coffee shop she mentioned, even her Australian friend.
Anyone with regular contact needs to be vetted, so I'll run them through the databases, check for criminal records, financial troubles, any red flags that might indicate some motive to stalk her.
Mike and I will probably need to do some light surveillance too.
Scope out the coffee shop employees during regular hours, maybe tail a few coworkers.
See if anyone's showing unusual interest in her routine.
It's tedious work, but that's how you catch stalkers; they're creatures of habit, just like their targets.
I settle back in my chair, eyes returning to the screen where Londyn's ending her call with her friend.
Her entire demeanor changes as she flops onto the couch.
She draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them in a protective cocoon, and glances up at the camera with uncertain eyes.
For a moment, it's like we're watching each other, though I know she can't see me.
Strangely enough, she waves.
Like she's sensing I'm here. Like she knows.
I find myself waving back before I can think about it, this absurd gesture at a monitor creating some thread between us. It's an odd feeling. I'm so used to being alone in hotel rooms, rental cars, airport terminals. Everywhere. Always moving, never anchoring.
She opens the book she picked for our book club, and I feel a peace in my bones. I've got a reading buddy. It's such a simple thing, but I've never been in a book club. Always wanted one, though.
And without her hoodie on today, I got a better look.
Wavy brown hair that reminds me of the brilliant earth tones Sienna captures in her paintings.
When we were in closer proximity in the bathroom, I caught the scent of something floral—not perfume, just shampoo.
I couldn't stop wanting to breathe it in.
Her lips, when they finally curved into a smile at one of my jokes, were pink and…
My brain flashes a warning: Human error in progress. This shit isn't good. I can't deny I'm attracted to her. It's been a long time since anyone caught my attention this way. My life doesn't exactly accommodate relationships. Not with my history or work or with the burden I carry.
It's surprising, and I need to fucking ignore it.
"Sean."
Mike's voice cuts through my thoughts, hard and serious. I hadn't even sensed him approach. That's a bad sign for someone in my profession. Thoughts of Londyn were distracting me. That realization opens a pit from hell in my stomach, all my demons wanting to unleash themselves.
Mike is standing beside me, arms crossed, eyes drilling into mine with an intensity that feels like an interrogation.
"What?" I ask, straightening up.
He sits on the chair next to mine with a heavy sigh, his gaze not softening one inch. "Sean," he says again, like the repetition of my name is supposed to convey everything.
I laugh, trying to lighten whatever tension he's building. "What? You're freaking me out, man."
He taps a finger on the monitor that shows Londyn curled up with her book. "Don't go there."
I swivel away, busying myself with adjusting a wire that doesn't need it. "I don't know what you're talking about." I groan to myself; I feel like a teenager caught staring at a girl in class.
"She's a client."
"I know. What are you getting at?"
"She's a client ," he emphasizes, as if I've somehow forgotten in the last three seconds.
"Yeah, I heard you the first time."
Mike leans forward, elbows on the table. "You've been smiling at her weird ever since we got here."
"She's clearly anxious," I reply, defensive heat crawling up my neck. "I'm trying to be friendly."
"No. I was being friendly. The way you're smiling at her is different.
" His expression finally relaxes, softening into something almost sympathetic.
"Hey, I understand. It happened to me once before I met Mona.
I had a gig at a club that was only a couple of months.
But I can tell you, I got distracted by one of the bartenders.
I let her distract me." He taps the monitor again.
"You have me here but don't get sidetracked.
You'll find the right woman someday, but it can't be this one. Heard?"
I'm caught and exposed and irritated at myself for being so transparent, but also annoyed at Mike for lecturing me like I'm a rookie who doesn't understand professional boundaries.
I stand up from the monitoring station, needing space from his scrutiny. "You're talking out of your ass."
Mike scoffs as I leave the area. He mutters something I can't make out as I enter my bedroom and shut the door.
First, I unpack my gear from the locked case I brought.
The Sig Sauer P365 goes into the bedroom safe—always have a backup weapon secured.
My primary Glock 19 stays with me, and I adjust the inside-waistband holster at my right hip, making sure my shirt drapes properly to conceal it.
Even in a 'safe' monitoring position, going unarmed isn't an option. Threats don't announce themselves.
Next, with fire still in my muscles, I yank clothes from my luggage, shoving them onto hangers in the empty closet.
The metal hangers screech against the rod, a satisfying noise for my current mood.
I open a second luggage that only has bulletproof vests in it.
I hang three of those; I need spares since I'll be wearing one constantly under my clothes and I hate cleaning them.
Maybe I was smiling at Londyn too much. Maybe I did let my gaze linger longer than professionally appropriate. I only wanted her to feel at ease with the situation since she's always flinching at any movement and clutching things against her like they contain her vital organs.
And, yeah, I'm liking her sense of humor, the way it peeks out from behind her fear like a rare glimpse of sunlight during a foggy San Francisco summer.
But I know I need to focus on the job. I don't need Mike's self-righteous reminder.
I set up my toiletries in the bathroom connected to my bedroom—a toothbrush, razor, the bare essentials. I slam a bottle of mouthwash on the counter, gripping the neck like trying to strangle it.
Why did I really take this job? Am I doing this as some twisted form of atonement? The thought slides in uninvited, making my upper body so heavy I have to lean forward and press my palms against the bathroom counter for support.
Protecting Londyn. Fronting the money. Playing the hero. Is this just my way of trying to balance the cosmic scales after Wunmi? She was another celebrity with a stalker, and I failed her. If Londyn is an actress, if her stalker is real, it's almost like a re-do.
Yeah, that kind of thinking is a trap. If I'm here to atone, I'm doing it for the wrong reasons. And if I'm doing it for the wrong reasons, I'll get distracted. And if I'm distracted—
I grip the edge of the sink. I can't fuck up. People die when I make mistakes.
I leave the bathroom and glance at Sienna's painting resting in a corner of my bedroom. I pick it up and gaze out the painted window.
Maybe no one is stalking Londyn, like she hopes.
Maybe she's going through some shit, haunted by her own ghosts like I am.
Either way, the attraction I feel is a complication I don't need.
It's already sprouted, taking root somewhere between my lungs, but I need to starve it until it withers. Cut off its oxygen.
My grip tightens around the canvas. No matter what, I can't climb out the window, even if it's Londyn waiting on the other side.
When I'm done cooling down, I leave my bedroom and hang the painting in the living room as a reminder. Mike is watching the feeds and neither of us says anything.
I grab water from the fridge, the bottle cold and slick in my palm. Then I sneeze because this place is dusty and kind of smells like a dog peed on the carpet.
"Hey," Mike says, swiveling in his chair to face me. "I'm sorry, man. I know you're a professional. I shouldn't have been so—"
"It's fine," I cut him off, not wanting to rehash it. "You were right. I need to stay focused."
He nods, clearly relieved I'm not holding a grudge.
I settle into the chair beside him and grab a notepad to make a quick to-do list. Tomorrow, I'll get names and then start the systematic vetting of people around my client—employment verification, criminal backgrounds, financial checks where possible.
Cross-reference anyone who's shown up in multiple areas of her life.
The real work starts with pattern recognition. If someone's following her, they'll show up in the data. A name that appears too often. A face in the background of security footage. Someone who 'coincidentally' shares her schedule.
I tap my pen against the paper. We'll need to vary our own patterns too—different routes when we tail her to work, random times for our reconnaissance. Can't let a potential stalker clock us before we clock them.
Mike, never comfortable with extended silence, eventually speaks up. "Weird she wants a camera in the bathroom, right? She seems very reserved, so I was shocked."
I glance at a monitor and watch Londyn turn a page in her book. "Something just has her spooked. The camera's pointed at the window. Can't see anything in the bathroom itself."
"Sure, but who the hell would scale a building to climb in? There's only a small ledge. Just seems like too much."
I remain impassive. "She's only cautious. Nothing wrong with that."
I know it's more than that, though. The woman is terrified. There's a difference between normal vigilance and the kind of bone-deep fear I see in Londyn. The way her eyes constantly track exits. The unconscious flinch when someone gets too close. The triple locks on her door.
Seeing a woman this frightened stirs something primal. I need to protect her, even if it's just from the shadows in her own mind.
"She look familiar to you?" Mike asks pointing his chin at the monitor. "Feels like I've seen her before."
I'd rather not share my thoughts about her being an actress because that's a Pandora's box from my past I'd rather not open.
Instead, I shrug. "Well, I'll take first shift.
" I settle back in my chair and let my legs widen.
"Go chat with your family. You guys are sickeningly adorable with each other. "
He laughs and squeezes my shoulder. "Don't need to tell me twice. Thanks!"
Once he's gone, I crack open my thriller novel and smile to myself. I'm looking forward to book club. That's platonic enough, right? Not crossing any lines. Just keeping my client comfortable with me and building trust.
Nothing else.
At least, that's what I keep telling myself.