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Chapter Three
Adrian
Rooting out stalkersand the everyday crazies is something I haven’t done since my twenties, when I moonlighted in the private sector. Now, owning a billion-dollar global protection agency doesn’t really afford me the time to take jobs like this.
One of my guys would usually find a security team, and I’d let them handle it. But for Cheyanne, that’s not good enough, and me getting paid to protect her feels wrong. Because I’d do it without hesitation in a heartbeat. Hell. She didn’t even have to ask. Once I’d gotten wind of the situation, I would’ve been all over it. In fact, this shit would’ve been over before it started. That in mind, I’m pissed I didn’t know about this stalker nonsense sooner. I reckon I’ll have a blast kicking the shit out of thisturd once I find him.
Nevertheless, I’m even more pissed that she didn’t feel comfortable coming to me on her own. That she had to go through David. It crossed my mind to give up the pay for this job, but I decided to take it and donate it to charity. It might seem weird to David if I offer to protect Cheyanne for free and I don’t want to raise any red flags with him.
In Cheyanne’s condo, I wait in the living room for her to pack her things while making myself at home. I wander around, studying a line display of framed photographs. At the end, I find a small 3 x 5 photo of her and some guy I don’t know. They embrace happily, smiling at the camera as the guy, dark-haired and dark-skinned, buries his face into the nape of Cheyenne’s neck. And fucking hell, I’m jealous and cringing at the idea of him touching her. Kissing her. Being inside of her. My jaw ticks. Angrily, I move on.
I live my life jumping from one blurred line to another. So, I can’t say I’m surprised my interest in Cheyanne fits this scenario.
On the one hand, she’s a beautiful woman who’s been through so much and has asked for my help in dealing with some of the shit she’s going through. On the other, she’s a beautiful woman who’s too young for me and has enough baggage of her own without me bringing my trauma sled along for the ride.
I hear Cheyanne rummaging around upstairs. Clearing my throat, I take whatever time I have left in her place to check for security breaches. Ways an intruder can gain access to the inside her condo, windows that allow too much exposure. Her home isn’t heavily guarded, but for a free spirited creative like Cheyanne, I wouldn’t expect it to be. She’s more concerned about writing a demo for her solo album than whether her security system is actually armed.
My lips pull into a tight frown when I realize my instincts were right. She’s a sitting duck here for anyone who would try to hurt her. At least, her moving into a gated community is a good call on David’s part.
When Cheyanne finally joins me in the living room, a rolling suitcase and carryon bag in hand, I move quickly, taking her bags from her. She smiles as I realize I maybe movedtooquickly.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yep,” she says running her hands across the backs of her jeans. “So, where we going again?” She asks. “Your secret bat cave...”
I laugh. She grins at me. “No ma’am,” I tease. “Bats and caves are for obsessive schizophrenics. We’re going to an unbelievably safe and secure location. One I can’t yet disclose.”
“Sounds mysterious and oddly sexy,” she says.
“Oh, trust me. It’s all those things.”
We share a charged moment, me unable—or unwilling to look away from her radiant dark brown eyes. Her lips part, as if she wants to say something but can’t find the words. Her chest rises and falls, and she threads her arm through mine. The sting of her touch sends a buzzing through me. My chest tightens.
I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to her. The idea of what it would do to her father and sister. What it would do to me. Relief washes over me as she clings to me, and I walk us to the door. “So, what’s this place called? Is it close?”
“Not really. But then, that’s the point.”
***
THE CAR WINDS ITS WAYthrough the treacherous mountain roads, ascending higher into the wilderness. As we arrive at my secluded sanctuary, nature’s serenity embraces us, a stark contrast to the chaos we have left behind. She gazes out, silently taking in the view. “This is beautiful,” she says. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“Welcome to Indigo Falls,” I whisper.
***
IGUIDE CHEYANNE INTOthe expansive living room of my mountain compound. It's the epitome of rugged elegance. The warm glow of the wooden accents and the breathtaking views through the large windows create a serene atmosphere. Cheyanne’s eyes sweep across the room, absorbing the tranquility that surrounds her.
My home doubles as the headquarters for my company, and the guys who work with me are staples here. On the property sits a shooting range, full gym, basketball and tennis court, three garages— one catering to my love of motorcycles, a fascination the guys and I both share. There’s a weapons facility, boxing ring and a small two-bedroom home a few of the guys have called home for a period of time if they needed time away from life and wanted to go off the grid. Everything here operates under government level security, and I do my best to keep my company and my guys above board. There are jobs we’ve done that we don’t discuss out loud. Criminal acts involving securing and seizing tons of cash and occasionally retrieving a kidnappee. Assassination gigs aren’t my thing anymore. But if the target is a big enough piece of shit, one of my guys will get after it.
Those are the things we don’t talk about. We don’t leave paper trails, and we don’t leave witnesses.
We enter my living room. Cheyanne’s pace slows when she sees Jagger, my second and Saint, one of Jaggers recruits.
“So you don’t regret any of it?” Saint ask as he and Jagger huddle around my pool table.
Jagger shrugs. “No. I don’t. Some of the other guys might. Hell, you might.” He points a finger at his young friend, pool stick gripped tightly in his fist. “I don’t.”
“This last job we did,” Saint says, “was insane, man.” He walks over to the pool table eyeing the eight ball with elite concentration. “I had fucking kids with AK-47s shooting at me.” He leans down, taking his shot. “Corner pocket.” He tips the eight-ball, eyeing it as it rolls clean into the corner pocket.
