Page 19 of Nothing Special X: The Last Stand

The Luxford Beverly towered high above Sunset Boulevard in gleaming tiers of glass and white stone, overlooking the city like some lavish fortress for the rich and overpaid.

Valets in pristine uniforms rushed to open their doors before they even touched the handles. The lobby felt less like a hotel and more like luxury had developed a serious ego.

Oversized crystal chandeliers hung three stories overhead, glistening above a polished marble floor so spotless he could see the exhaustion in his own reflection.

Everything smelled expensive—the fresh flowers, grandiose furniture, and whatever absurd scent rich people paid to pump through the air vents.

There were no ringing phones, yelling kids, or stressed front desk clerks barely holding it together. Just soft piano music in the distance and beautiful people moving around as if they’d never worried about a bill in their damn lives.

He and his team drew attention the second they walked through the doors.

They moved through the lobby like a gang whose GPS had confused “luxury hotel” with “place that charged by the hour.”

More than a few people stared openly, as if trying to figure out if they were a retiring rock band, professional athletes, or there to collect a debt.

Steele had already gotten into a verbal altercation with a concierge within two minutes of arrival after being told he couldn’t smoke on the grounds. And because Ruxs could never pass up the opportunity to join in a fight, they’d started double-teaming the poor guy until he looked ready to piss himself.

Green had dragged them both away before God had to intervene.

After checking out their separate suites and dropping bags, they met downstairs in the hotel’s private restaurant, The Ember Room, where the lighting stayed low, the whiskey shelves climbed two stories high behind the bar, and every steak on the menu cost enough to sponsor a child.

Free ordered dessert first.

The dinner had quickly turned operational.

They discussed Studio 8’s security problems, reviewed what Tech and Free had uncovered, and built the framework for how they’d approach the situation over the next few weeks.

God was already impressed with what they’d compiled on West Protective Solutions.

The owner sounded like the real deal.

Cassidy Morrison, retired Gunnery Sergeant, had done eighteen years in the Marine Corps Embassy Security Group. Taken two bullets protecting a senior-level government diplomat during an overseas extraction.

He had multiple commendations for leadership, tactical instruction, and crisis response.

God respected men who bled for the shield.

Tech had slid his tablet across the dinner table. “His recruitment standards are pretty brutal, honestly. Physical evaluations, psychological screenings, surveillance testing, live scenario assessments.”

“Good,” God had muttered while cutting into his Delmonico.

“Yeah, except lately he’s had to lower some of his standards because of staffing shortages,” Free added. “And his customer satisfaction ratings are starting to dip because of it.”

Ruxs snorted into his drink. “‘Customer satisfaction ratings’. Like he’s sellin’ microwaves instead of keeping people from gettin’ killed.”

“It matters in Hollywood,” Tech said. “Public perception is everything here.”

“You all know how I feel about public perception,” Ruxs said. “It can kiss my ass.”

By the time the dinner was over, they had a firm plan.

Ruxs and Green would handle Xander Vale’s personal detail since the actor was deemed the priority.

Tech and Free would oversee technical operations—security systems, surveillance upgrades, and communication vulnerabilities.

God, Day, and Steele would handle West Protective’s training.

As his husband pointed out, they weren’t bodyguards, but that almost made them better for the assignment.