Page 31 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

"What?" I ask, straightening up.

He sits on the chair next to mine with a heavy sigh, his gaze not softening one inch. "Sean," he says again, like the repetition of my name is supposed to convey everything.

I laugh, trying to lighten whatever tension he's building. "What? You're freaking me out, man."

He taps a finger on the monitor that shows Londyn curled up with her book. "Don't go there."

I swivel away, busying myself with adjusting a wire that doesn't need it. "I don't know what you're talking about." I groan to myself; I feel like a teenager caught staring at a girl in class.

"She's a client."

"I know. What are you getting at?"

"She's aclient," he emphasizes, as if I've somehow forgotten in the last three seconds.

"Yeah, I heard you the first time."

Mike leans forward, elbows on the table. "You've been smiling at her weird ever since we got here."

"She's clearly anxious," I reply, defensive heat crawling up my neck. "I'm trying to be friendly."

"No. I was being friendly. The way you're smiling at her is different." His expression finally relaxes, softening into something almost sympathetic. "Hey, I understand. It happened to me once before I met Mona. I had a gig at a club that was only a couple of months. But I can tell you, I got distracted by one of the bartenders. Ilet herdistract me." He taps the monitor again. "You have me here but don't get sidetracked. You'll find the right woman someday, but it can't be this one. Heard?"

I'm caught and exposed and irritated at myself for being so transparent, but also annoyed at Mike for lecturing me like I'm a rookie who doesn't understand professional boundaries.

I stand up from the monitoring station, needing space from his scrutiny. "You're talking out of your ass."

Mike scoffs as I leave the area. He mutters something I can't make out as I enter my bedroom and shut the door. First, I unpack my gear from the locked case I brought. The Sig Sauer P365 goes into the bedroom safe—always have a backup weaponsecured. My primary Glock 19 stays with me, and I adjust the inside-waistband holster at my right hip, making sure my shirt drapes properly to conceal it. Even in a 'safe' monitoring position, going unarmed isn't an option. Threats don't announce themselves.

Next, with fire still in my muscles, I yank clothes from my luggage, shoving them onto hangers in the empty closet. The metal hangers screech against the rod, a satisfying noise for my current mood. I open a second luggage that only has bulletproof vests in it. I hang three of those; I need spares since I'll be wearing one constantly under my clothes and I hate cleaning them.

Maybe I was smiling at Londyn too much. Maybe I did let my gaze linger longer than professionally appropriate. I only wanted her to feel at ease with the situation since she's always flinching at any movement and clutching things against her like they contain her vital organs.

And, yeah, I'm liking her sense of humor, the way it peeks out from behind her fear like a rare glimpse of sunlight during a foggy San Francisco summer.

But I know I need to focus on the job. I don't need Mike's self-righteous reminder.

I set up my toiletries in the bathroom connected to my bedroom—a toothbrush, razor, the bare essentials. I slam a bottle of mouthwash on the counter, gripping the neck like trying to strangle it.

Why did I really take this job? Am I doing this as some twisted form of atonement? The thought slides in uninvited, making my upper body so heavy I have to lean forward and press my palms against the bathroom counter for support.

Protecting Londyn. Fronting the money. Playing the hero. Is this just my way of trying to balance the cosmic scales after Wunmi? She was another celebrity with a stalker, and I failed her. If Londyn is an actress, if her stalker is real, it's almost like a re-do.

Yeah, that kind of thinking is a trap. If I'm here to atone, I'm doing it for the wrong reasons. And if I'm doing it for the wrong reasons, I'll get distracted. And if I'm distracted—

I grip the edge of the sink. I can't fuck up. People die when I make mistakes.

I leave the bathroom and glance at Sienna's painting resting in a corner of my bedroom. I pick it up and gaze out the painted window.

Maybe no one is stalking Londyn, like she hopes. Maybe she's going through some shit, haunted by her own ghosts like I am. Either way, the attraction I feel is a complication I don't need. It's already sprouted, taking root somewhere between my lungs, but I need to starve it until it withers. Cut off its oxygen.

My grip tightens around the canvas. No matter what, I can't climb out the window, even if it's Londyn waiting on the other side.

When I'm done cooling down, I leave my bedroom and hang the painting in the living room as a reminder. Mike is watching the feeds and neither of us says anything.

I grab water from the fridge, the bottle cold and slick in my palm. Then I sneeze because this place is dusty and kind of smells like a dog peed on the carpet.

"Hey," Mike says, swiveling in his chair to face me. "I'm sorry, man. I know you're a professional. I shouldn't have been so—"

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