Page 34 of Daddy Defender
I nod, tears stinging, clutching the sketchpad.
“Okay,” I whisper, my Little side clinging to his promise, even as fear lingers.
Vince’s out there, and I’ve got secrets left to spill, but with Henry’s rules, his gift, and that steady look in his eyes, I feel safer than I have in forever.
Maybe, just maybe, I can trust him—a little,for now…
Chapter 12
Henry
The shack’s quiet, save for the ocean’s low rumble and the creak of the floorboards under my boots. Maybe it’s just me, but I actually prefer this kind of back to basics vibe than some of the more luxurious safehouses that I know that Night Ops Guard keeps in the big cities.
I’m a simple man. I like a roof over my head, food, and company—provided it’s good company of course.
And speaking of company…
Bodie’s curled up on the sagging couch, sketching in that new pad I gave him, Poot propped beside him like a furry sentinel, ready to spring into action should he be required.
I have to admit, that walrus is pretty damn cute. Or maybe it’s just the fact that Bodie so clearly adores him? Whatever it is, I’m glad that the boy quite clearly gets comfort and love from his stuffy.
Sure, Bodie can sass with the best of them, but he’s got a sweet Little side too. Maybe it’s the best of both worlds…
Fuck. Don’t think like that.
Bodie isn’t your boy.
He’s an innocent civilian caught up in a whole heap of trouble…
I watch as Bodie’s pencil scratches soft and free on the paper, his messy hair flopping as he hums some tune I don’t recognize.
The boy’s calmer now after the shower spanking… but I can still feel the heat of his defiance, the way he pushed until I had to set him straight.
Bodie’s a firestorm, but that bravery he showed—wanting to surf, to live free despite Vince’s shadow—it’s got me hooked.
And his confession about Vince’s money-laundering? That’s a crack in his walls, a sign he’s starting to trust me. I need to keep that door open, but I’ve got work to do first…
I step onto the porch, the salt air sharp, and pull my burner phone from my pocket.
Cole needs to know what Bodie spilled—it’s not much, but it’s a start. I tap out a message, keeping it tight, Guard-style:
H: Bodie talked. Vince used his surfing career to launder money—fake comps, sponsorships. He didn’t know at first, tried to leave when he figured it out. Says there’s more he’s holding back. Dig deeper on Vince Gray, focus on financials, cartel ties. We’re at the beach safehouse, and safe—for now. Keep me posted.
I hit send, knowing Cole’s already on it, probably pulling strings with his intel network. Cole might be a gruff Daddy like me,but he can be charming when he needs to, and I’ve seen him in action when it comes to establishing contacts and recruiting street spies. The man knows what he’s doing, and I’d trust him with my life. But this somehow feels different—it’s not my life I’m trusting him with, it’s Bodie’s.
If Vince’s cartel is anything like that news report Bodie hid, we’re dealing with big players—guys who don’t miss twice. And if they fail with the low level thugs, they’ll soon send the soldiers, and then the assassins.
These are the kind of merciless killers that I’ve come into contact with too many times as a Guard—men who will kill entire families without thinking twice, who live to serve their bosses and don’t have a moral bone in their damned bodies.
My jaw tightens, thinking of those shooters at the bar, the man who trailed his van. I need Cole’s dirt to nail this bastard before he gets closer. And as tough and surfer-cool as Bodie might think he is, I don’t want to expose him to anything worse than what he’s already been through. For all I know, his resilient spirit might only be a thread away from totally unravelling.
For now, the shack’s secure and Bodie’s safe, but I’m not letting my guard down.
Leaning against the railing, I let my mind drift, the ocean’s rhythm pulling me back to an old mission, one that taught me how trust can turn the tide...
Five years ago… Damascus… a Guard op to snatch a rebel novelist from a crazed dictator’s grip.
We had a street spy, a kid named Sami, barely twenty, all sharp eyes and quick feet. Sami was a local, knew every alley,every whisper in the market. He’d slip through checkpoints, feed us intel on guards, routes, even the dictator’s mood swings.
