Page 17 of Tangled Like Us
Before flush ascends, I spin on my heels.I can’t be late.I walk hurriedly down the sidewalk and try to forget about patting my bodyguard.
“Jane,” Thatcher calls as I take off without him.
I glance back, and Thatcher sprints towards me.
He clicks his mic at his collar and mutters something into the speaker. Instead of stopping at my side like a friend would, he passes me right on by.
Thatcher slows down a few inches out in front and walks ahead. Per the rules of being a bodyguard. He must lead his client (i.e. me) and clear a path. So I’m not too surprised.
I keep up from behind.
His rigorous commanding stride is so familiar by now. I’m terribly used to this view of Thatcher’s peach-perfect ass, and I deeply,deeplywish I could regret how much I’ve stared at his butt.
I check the time on my phone.
Thirty seconds.
One block away, and we’ll reach the destination. We pass more brick row houses.
A young twenty-something guy smokes on the steps of one, a skateboard on his lap. We’re rapidly approaching his location.
I avoid direct eye contact, but I feel his penetrating gaze poke into me and into the trailing cameraman who snaps pictures.
“Hey!” Skateboard Smoker stands. “You’re Jane Cobalt, aren’t you?!”
My pulse spikes, more cautious.
Thatcher nails a warning glare at the pedestrian.
I attempt to mind my own business and keep pace.
Thatcher falls back and walks beside me, all six-feet seven-inches shielding my body completely from the onlooker. I’m a whole foot shorter than my bodyguard, and I find myself leaning closer to him than further away.
My heart rate eases, and I breathe normally.
“HEY!” Skateboard Smoker shouts while we trek past him. “HEY! Why are you walking away!! You fucking bitch! I hope your whole dumb fucking family dies!!”
From zero to one-hundred.
As expected.
I hardly flinch. Too used to these jeers and threats to take any stock in them.
Thatcher cements a narrowed eye on the Skateboard Smoker.
I’d rather not peek back and feed into the guy’s hand, but I’d like to know… “Is he following us?” I whisper to Thatcher.
Thatwill unnerve me, and I start to unzip my purse. Thatcher gifted me a new bottle of pepper spray for my 23rdbirthday when he read the expired date on my last one. I also have a switchblade.
“No,” Thatcher answers. “He hasn’t moved from his position.” He rotates a knob on his radio. “I can stay next to you until we reach the store.” He adds, “If you’d feel safer.”
A smile pulls at my cheeks. “I would.” I nod. “Merci.”
Having Thatcher this close brings a powerful comfort. A snaking tension. Even more temptation, and the greatest, most overwhelming curiosity.
My cross-body purse thunks my thigh as we round a corner, and I risk the umpteenth glance in his direction.
He simultaneously keeps track of our surroundings and looks down at me. As we drift nearer, his hand shifts towards the small of my back.
