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Now it’s everyone else’s turn to laugh. Poor Philip gets teased a lot because the daughter of one of our co-workers has a big crush on him. The truth is, he has an equally big crush on her. But she’s only seventeen and still in high school, while Phil is twenty-four. That makes her off-limits. And since Phil doesn’t want to make an enemy of Mack Donovan, her father, he’s biding his time until Haley turns eighteen.
“Come on, guys. Don’t tease him.” I pat Philip’s back. “I think it’s cute.”
“At least one of us has romantic prospects,” Miguel says.
Robyn, our server, drops my beer off at the table and takes the other guys’ orders.
“Three more beers, coming up,” she says before heading back to the bar.
These three guys have become my closest friends since I started working at McIntyre Security after leaving my job as a paramedic. Before that, I was an Army combat medic for a tour in Afghanistan. Between my time in the Army and my job as a Chicago paramedic, the PTSD got to be too much, and I decided to go into private security instead. The pay is better, and it’s less stressful. Win-win. Unfortunately, I still have the PTSD, along with a bad case of insomnia.
The four of us are in our twenties. Miguel Rodriguez and I are both twenty-eight, and we’re bodyguards for McIntyre Security. Liam McIntyre’s twenty-four. He’s the head martial arts instructor for the company. Liam specializes in some serious ass-kicking mojo. Philip Underwood, also twenty-four, works on Jake McIntyre’s surveillance team. The four of us all started working at McIntyre Security around the same time, and we all live in the same apartment building. It kinda made sense that we all became friends.
“I’m starving,” Philip says as he reaches for a well-worn laminated menu.
Liam laughs. “Dude, when are you not hungry?”
Philip’s a big guy—like seriously big. He’s always hungry because it takes a lot of calories to fuel that big body of his. He’s six-four and built like a tank. His arms and legs are massive. The rest of us are about the same size—six feet tall, lean muscles—but next to Philip we’re pipsqueaks.
“I’m serious,” Philip says as he skims the menu. “I did a twelve-hour surveillance shift today, with no breaks for food. I ran out of coffee and snacks by noon. It was brutal.”
Robyn returns to pass out the rest of the beers. “Can I get you guys something to eat?”
“Hell yes,” Philip says. “I’ll take a dozen hot wings, a double cheeseburger, and loaded fries. And how about some nachos? I’m starving.”
Miguel shakes his head. “Dude, you can really pack away the food.”
Philip leans back and slaps his solid abdomen. He’s big, but it’s all muscle, and not an ounce of fat. “What can I say? I have a big metabolism.”
I practically choke on my beer laughing at that understatement. “You think so?”
It’s a regular thing with us—my buddies and I meet on Saturday evenings to unwind after the work week. Usually everyone makes it, unless they’re on assignment. As for me, I just finished up a full-time assignment not long ago, and I’ve been floating ever since, filling in as a temporary bodyguard where needed.
The rest of us put in our food orders, and we munch on the free peanuts while we wait for our meals to be delivered. It’s not long before our food arrives, and everyone digs in.
When my phone chimes with an incoming text message, I check the screen. It’s from my boss, Shane McIntyre.
Shane: I have a full-time protection assignment that requires medical expertise. I’ll e-mail you the details. Let me know this evening if you want the assignment.
Jason: Will do.
“What was that about?” Liam asks as he sticks a fry in his mouth.
“A new assignment. Shane’s e-mailing me the details.”
“Who’s the client?” Miguel asks.
I shrug. “He didn’t say. He only said medical expertise is required.” As the only bodyguard with any serious medical training, it’s sort of my area.
I enjoy the rest of the evening with the guys, eating good food, drinking lots of excellent beer, and watching the game. I might as well get the most out of my free time before my new assignment begins. I’ll have very little of it for the foreseeable future.
After I leave the bar, I sit in my car and read Shane’s e-mail.
Layla Alexander, 21 years old.
I’ve never met her, but I’ve heard a lot. That poor girl. She’s been through hell and back. The papers were full of stories about how she was rescued recently from a local sex trafficking ring.
I text Shane back, telling him I’ll take the job.
