Page 33 of Tangled Like Us
“Thanks, sir.” He exhales. “My shift is usually inactive.”
I nod. Understanding.
Temp guards are on a rotation right now. Around the time Maximoff and Farrow’s relationship went public, we had to hire 24-hour stationary guards outside the townhouses. Usually one man is enough at dawn.
That’s drastically changed this week. And I got called out of bed to help.
Of all the properties the famous ones own, this is the most unsecure location. No gates. Too easy access for the public. Fans constantly take selfies on the stoop, and we had to disable the doorbell.
Other than the 24-hour guards, there’s nothing the team can do to make it any safer. I’d build a stone fortress around the whole structure if I could, but city codes, violations, and all of that shit.
It’s red fucking tape.
I glance at the temp guard. “Stay alert, watch your sector.” And then I aim for the vocal suitor.
“Jane!” he wails, nearing the curb. “Jane Eleanor Cobalt!”
I approach with authority and intent.
He’s older. Most of the suitors are between early-thirties and late sixties. It’s disturbing, and I don’t want Jane to see their faces. I don’t want them to occupy space in her brain.
Clear them out.
Quick visual assessment: mid-forties, plain face, thin silver-framed glasses, jeans and scuffed white sneakers. He has a laser focus on the front door and a bouquet of red roses in hand.
“Sir.” I block his path.
He skids to a stop.
“You need to back up.” I point to the car I saw him get out of. “Go home.” Through the fog, I notice the Florida license plate.
He stands uneasily in the middle of the street, his eyes growing behind his glasses. Staring up at me like I’m a character fromGame of Thrones.Ready to smite him down with an axe.
Intimidation is one of the first defenses in this job. We have to scare them off, not provoke them or beat them to a bloody fucking pulp. No matter how much they antagonize and ridicule these families, people we genuinely care about.
“I just want to see Jane,” the man squeaks out.
“You wanna see her?” I glower. “You can’t.” I hear my Philly lilt break through. Banks jokes that my accent is stronger the more pissed I get.
I don’t think that’s true.
He wavers, like he’s considering outrunning me.
I stake him with a harsher glare. “You touch her property, and I’ll escort you to your car. I’m not going to be nice about it.” A threat hardens my voice.
He scuttles back, tripping over his untied shoelace. He drops the roses. “Sorr-so-sorry,” he stammers, abandoning the flowers in the street and jogging to his car.
One down.Many more to go.
Comms ring in my ear. “Akara to Thatcher, what’s the level of the threats?”
I stare down a white guy whose jeans are unzipped, his cagey eyes darting left and right, an envelope and box of chocolates in hand, and I click my mic. “Same as yesterday—” I almost sayoverat the tail end, and I cut myself off before I do. Military comms are much different than security’s radio protocols. It was a hard transition at first.
But so was civilian life, and I jumped straight into security after my four-year tour ended.
I pick up more SFO comms chatter, and I listen while I motion to other middle-aged suitors to get the fuck out.
What I hear:
