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Chapter 2
Thank God it’s Friday.
Billy Marshall had never been a TGIF kinda guy, probably because he’d never been in professions that were nine to five, Monday through Friday. But, today TGIF was his new motto. All he planned on doing this weekend was eating and sleeping.
After pulling into his reserved parking space at Elite Protection Security Group, Billy closed his heavy lids. Lifting his arms, which felt like they’d been dipped in cement, he scrubbed his hands over his face as he leaned back against the headrest. If a sound hadn’t interrupted his peaceful moment he might’ve stayed like that for hours. When he heard the audible intrusion, he inhaled deeply through his nose and lifted his neck. With a sigh, he squinted in an attempt to focus on the LED light shining from his dashboard, but the numbers appeared blurry. It took several moments for his eyesight to clear. When it did, he saw that it was just before noon.
Shit.
No wonder he was exhausted. Rolling his head to the left and then to the right he heard and felt several cracks, which relieved some of the tension he’d been carrying there. His last assignment had only lasted seventy-two hours, but they had been very long hours. On Monday at the risk factor debriefing, everything had appeared routine. Senator Robbins was a controversial politician attending multiple rallies, fundraisers, and events to garner support for re-election. With the current political climate, his people had reached out to Elite Protection for a security detail. Billy had been put on the detail.
The first rally had been fairly uneventful. There were the usual protesters, but nothing too bat-shit crazy. The luncheon that followed had produced a little more excitement when a “supporter” showed up with, not one, but two concealed weapons.
Thankfully, Billy had noticed the guy’s squirrely behavior as he fidgeted while waiting in the receiving line. He’d approached the man and the instant he’d seen the look in his eyes he’d known that his instincts were right. Internal alarms were flashing, telling Billy that something was definitely off.
Not wanting to put anyone in danger or cause a scene, he’d lied and told the man that he’d won a VIP one-on-one. After hearing that information, the suspect practically started salivating at the thought of being alone with the Senator. Once Billy had relocated the “supporter” to a side room, it took only a matter of seconds to disarm and detain him, then radio for the authorities. The rest of the event was smooth sailing and the police were able to confirm that he’d acted alone with the intent to shoot the Senator.
At the gala Tuesday evening, things got a little hairier. Two men and one woman posing as waitstaff were able to get close enough to Senator Robbins to spray pepper spray in his direction. The only upside to the attack was that it was over almost before it started. Billy shielded the Senator and got him to a secure location.
After day one had played out like a Bourne movie, Robbins requested that Billy remain on his detail day and night, even escorting him on his flight to Washington D.C. this morning. Which he had. Once the Senator was safely at the Capitol building, Billy had turned around and got right back on a plane. He’d landed back at O’Hare an hour and a half ago and had driven straight to the office after receiving a voicemail from his boss, the owner of Elite Protection, Seth Sloan, telling him to come see him as soon as he got back to Harper’s Crossing.
So here he was.
If he hadn’t respected the man that signed his paychecks as much as he did, Billy probably would’ve told the former Marine that he could take his request and shove it up his ass. He’d passed exhausted twenty-four hours ago and was now running entirely on fumes.
A second startling ding sounded and Billy lifted his phone from the console beside him. A quick glance revealed that he’d received two messages from Elissa; one with a photo of her in lacy lingerie attached.
Hey Stranger! I went shopping, do you like?
I miss you! Call me. XO
He could add these to his growing list of what he’d named P.B.C. (Preemptive Booty Call) texts. What used to only show up on his phone at two a.m. on the weekends, were now coming in the middle of the afternoon on weekdays. The change in pattern had begun about six months ago when Billy had started spending his weekends alone. After a few weekends of unavailability, women started to hit him up earlier in the week trying to schedule hookups in advance. Little did they know, the problem wasn’t overbooking; it was total and complete disinterest. His lack of interest wasn’t only confusing his rotating roster of female companions; it was also bothering the hell out of him.
Casual sex. That’s what he did best. In relationships, it was the only thing he did. And he was up front about his commitment to not being committed. He only dated—and he used that term loosely—women that wanted what he did. Fun. They wanted a good time, and if there was one thing he could provide, it was a good time. The only problem was, lately, one night of fun with a random chick wasn’t that much fun at all. It’d been almost three months since he’d put his bread into anyone’s oven and he was starting to think he’d never bake again.
His phone lit up, and when he saw who the call was from, he wanted to throw the device out of the window. Three letters were on his screen: Mom. He did the same thing he’d done for the past three days; sent her to voicemail. He already knew what she wanted. Money, which wasn’t new. What was new was that she said it was for rehab. Since he’d paid for her almost a dozen attempts, all of which had been court ordered, he wasn’t exactly holding his breath that this time would be different just because it was her idea and not mandated by a judge.
Irritation and frustration crowded his shoulders, but like he did every time any real emotion crept its way into his consciousness, he pushed it down and ignored it. After typing back a quick response to Elissa saying that he wasn’t going to be around this weekend, he opened his door and the sweltering summer temperature surrounded him in smothering heat. The short walk into the air conditioned offices was miserable. He knew he was being particularly cranky thanks to sleep deprivation, but it had to be over a hundred degrees.
Darla, who was nearly eighty, looked up when he walked in. She was on a stool retrieving paper, which she insisted they keep above the top shelf. In a gravelly voice—one that sounded exactly how you would expect someone who’d smoked for the better part of their life to sound—she announced in her straight-to-the-point tone, “Seth’s been waiting for you.”
“I’ll get that, beautiful.” He easily reached above her head and grabbed a ream.
Darla snapped her fingers after she gingerly stepped off the stool. “Oh, I got a few messages for you. One from a Trina, one from a Georgia, and one from a Nora. Let me grab them.”
“You can toss them.” He had no interest in hearing what any of them had to say.
When he handed the paper to her, genuine concern clouded her wrinkled face. “Are you okay, hon? You seem…off.”
“I’m great. Just a little tired.” He winked as he headed back to Seth’s office.
His dried-up sex life wasn’t the only thing that was making him feel off these days. Since the moment he was born, he’d been a flirt. Literally. His mom, in one of her sober moments—which were few and far between—had told him that even as a newborn he’d winked at the nurses. Not one nurse. Every nurse that had taken care of him.
Sure, it had probably just been gas or an involuntary movement. But either way, Billy had lived up to the reputation that he’d come out of the womb with. Women loved him and he loved them back. He never lied. Never told a woman that she was beautiful if he didn’t think she was. But that was the thing, he could find something beautiful in any woman.
Over the past eighteen months, he’d felt like everything around him had lost its beauty. His life had gone from Technicolor to black and white. A year and a half ago he’d walked away from boxing after getting the identical prognosis from not one, not two, but three specialists that one more blow to his head had a ninety percent chance of causing permanent brain damage.
At the time, he’d thought he was ready to lay down the gloves. It wasn’t like boxing had ever really been his passion. As a teen it had been the thing that had kept a roof over his and his mom’s head. It had kept him off the streets and most likely out of jail. As an adult it had been what paid the bills and the only thing he’d ever known. But it wasn’t like he’d grown up dreaming of being the next Marciano, Ali, or Tyson. He hadn’t.
