Wyatt’s movements grow more erratic with each drink. He talks louder, laughs harder, gestures wider. The drink in his hand sloshes dangerously close to a man walking past, and I tense, ready to intervene if he causes a scene. The last time Wyatt spilled a drink on someone, the guy had to be escorted out by security after threatening to “fuck him up.” I’d steppedbetween them, and Wyatt had been too drunk to realize how close he’d come to a broken nose.
My phone vibrates against my thigh. I slide it out just enough to see the screen: Daniela. I step two paces to the left, still keeping Wyatt in my peripheral vision as I answer.
“Holt.”
“Gray.” Daniela’s voice is warm but direct, as always. “Why isn’t our boy answering his father’s calls? Mr. Kingsley has tried three times in the last hour.”
I glance at Wyatt, who’s now attempting to balance a spoon on his nose while Zeke cheers him on. “He’s preoccupied with his friends at the moment.”
A pause. I can practically hear Daniela’s eye roll through the phone. “That bad?”
“Standard Friday.” What I don’t say: I’m surrounded by people who’ve never faced a real consequence in their lives, and it makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
“Well, keep an extra eye on him. The last thing we need is another social media incident.”
The “last incident” involved Wyatt climbing onto a bar, dropping his pants, and proclaiming himself the “king of Manhattan” while someone helpfully recorded it on their phone. It took significant money and influence to take it down.
“Understood.”
“And Gray? Try not to kill anyone. I know that look you get.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But I do, and we both know it.
“Six more hours, then you’re off duty.” She ends the call before I can respond.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and resume my position. Wyatt has given up on the spoon trick and is now leaning heavily against Alyssa, whispering something in her ear that makes her giggle and push him away playfully. He reaches for the bottle again, pouring more cognac with unsteady hands.
Zeke raises his glass and says something I don’t catch over the music.
The three of them cheer, downing their drinks. I watch Wyatt throw his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, then slam the empty glass down with a whoop that turns heads three tables over.
What did I do to deserve this job?
I force the question back down, reminding myself of how much time it took to land this position after leaving private military contracting. Months of rejections, dwindling savings, and the slow realization that my skill set doesn’t translate well to civilian life unless you’re willing to work for people like Carson Kingsley.
My teeth grind together as Wyatt stumbles to his feet again, nearly collapsing before catching himself on Zeke’s shoulder. Keep it together, Holt. The money’s good, the hours are reasonable, and Daniela vouched for you.
I straighten my shoulders and resume scanning the crowd, looking for threats while the biggest danger to Wyatt Kingsley remains himself and the golden spoon lodged firmly in his ass since birth. For now, this is my post. I’ll stand it like I’ve stood every other shitty assignment in my life: with discipline,focus, and just enough restraint not to strangle the person I’m protecting.
Just another night in paradise.
2
Wyatt
I swallow another mouthful of whatever Zeke brought over as my gaze drifts across the VIP section, catching again on Mr. Tall, Dark, and Disapproving. Gray’s standing there like a statue carved from pure judgment. Fucking buzzkill sent by my parents to make sure I don’t have too much fun.
“Is he still watching you?” Alyssa’s voice cuts through my thoughts as she shifts in my lap. Her weight feels too much right now. Too hot. Too close. Too everything.
“Always watching.” I wave my glass in Gray’s direction, sloshing amber liquid over my fingers. “Look at him. Just…standing there. Judging everyone.”
Zeke follows my gesture, squinting through the haze of smoke and colored lights. “Dude looks like he eats nails for breakfast. And not in a hot way.”
I snort, pushing myself up straighter. The movement makes the room tilt. “He’s ex-military or some shit. Dad hired him because I’m apparently such a fuckup that I need a babysitter.”
“Poor baby.” Alyssa pouts, running a finger down my cheek. “Daddy doesn’t trust his little boy?”
I take another drink instead of answering, holding Gray’s gaze while I drain the glass. His jaw tightens. Good. At least I can piss him off.
