Page 71 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
She shakes her head once. “No. You told me what went wrong. You told me what you feel. But what are youdoing here?”
Her meaning hits me square in the chest.
I’m standing in her doorway, confessing like a goddamn rookie, when I already know what needs to be done. “You’re right.”
Chief doesn’t smile. She doesn’t nod. She just stares until I take a step back.
And then I turn, stride to my truck, and fire it up again. There’s only one place left to go.
David Oswalt doesn’t live in the city anymore. Not really. He owns a glass-walled penthouse downtown, but that’s just for show, somewhere to take starlets and investors and remind them he’s still important. The real nest is tucked into the Hollywood Hills, a mansion half-hidden behind hedges andsecurity gates. I know the place well enough—I’ve watched his car roll out from behind those gates too many times already.
The truck growls as I climb the last stretch of road, headlights catching the metal sheen of a wrought iron fence. Cameras blink red along the corners, their lenses tracking. A guard in a suit—ill-fitting, cheap, not even buttoned properly—steps out from the guardhouse as I pull up. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him. Large, generic white guy, like a goon from central casting.
He holds up a hand. “Private property.”
I put the truck in park and lean an elbow out the window. “Then you should get better guards.”
He stiffens, squaring his shoulders like he might make something of it. But he’s young, early twenties, fresh out of some temp agency that barely trained him. His stance is wide but lazy, his jacket bunching where the holster is supposed to be. He’s not a threat.
“Tell David that Sean Roark is here.”
The name does what I expect. His eyes flicker, nervous. He knows who I am. Good. He hesitates, then pulls out a walkie and mutters something low. The gate whirs open.
The mansion rises ahead, all glass and stone, lights spilling across a manicured lawn. Two more guards wait by the door, both trying to look tougher than they are. Neither one knows how to stand still without fidgeting.
I step out, boots crunching on the gravel. The air smells of jasmine and chlorine from the pool somewhere out back. I keep my hands loose at my sides, but every nerve in me is alive, waiting for one of these idiots to test me.
David appears in the doorway before they can.
He’s dressed like he’s headed to a business dinner—dark slacks, open-collar shirt, a drink already in hand. The smirk on his face is practiced, polished for paparazzi, but up close it’s slick with grease.
“Well, well,” he drawls, sipping his whiskey. “Bailey’s watchdog.”
I take a step closer, the gravel crunching, and stop at the foot of his steps. “Don’t leave the city.”
His smirk falters for half a second before it twists into a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” My voice is steady, a low growl. “You so much as think about taking those kids across a border, I’ll find you. And when I do, there won’t be enough bodyguards in the world to save you.”
Behind him, the guards shift. I don’t even look their way. They’re background noise.
David chuckles again, but it’s tight now, brittle. “That sounds an awful lot like a threat.”
“It is a threat,” I say plainly. “You want to fight me in court, you go right ahead. But if either of those kids comes home with so much as a bruise, you won’t see another sunrise.”
The words hang in the air, heavy as lead.
One of the guards shifts forward, and I snap a look his way. Just a flicker of my eyes, enough to freeze him mid-step. He knows I see every weakness in his stance, every sloppy tell. He knows I could break him before he even drew his weapon.
David lifts his chin, trying to play offense. “You think you scare me, Roark? I’ve dealt with men tougher than you.”
“You have no idea what I’m capable of, Davy. Never forget that.”
For a heartbeat, silence. Just the faint hum of crickets, the buzz of the security lights.
David swirls his drink, the amber liquid catching the glow. He tries to look unbothered, but the way his knuckles whiten on the glass gives him away.
“You lay one finger on Bailey or the kids, and it won’t be the law you’ll answer to. It’ll be me.” I hold his gaze long enough to make him twitch, and then I straighten, step back down the stairs, and turn.
