Page 7 of Perfect Order
@BeckettMiller… you’re unbelievably awesome. And gorgeous. Ditch the blonde and marry me. I’d look good on the red carpet too! #beckettmiller #biggestfan #premiere
—@LMozzo, Celebrity Fan
My hand reaches out and slaps on the sensor before I punch in a series of numbers. The elevator in front of me slides open. I step in, shifting my impeccably tailored suit jacket imperceptibly so the butt of the weapon won’t catch on the material when I move.
Day after day, the constant routine has healed my wounded soul to merely a scar. While I know the memories of what happened overseas in the mountains of Azerbaijan will haunt me and possibly make me unfit for some of the more complex assignments I know I have the skills to contribute to at Hudson Investigations, I’ve made it to the other side of the hellhole I was living in when I first came back stateside. But I know there will be some things I can never put it on the line for ever again.
So, instead of being sent in on high-value kidnap-and-rescue missions with regularity, thereby utilizing my background as part of a Force RECON company and interrogator, two years ago I demonstrated just enough of my skills to snag Beckett Miller’s attention. Instead of putting everything on the line, feeling the adrenaline spike with every mission I take, I spend a good deal of time repeatedly lecturing one of the world’s most famous rock stars about safety protocols.
It wouldn’t be so bad if Beckett wasn’t so hell-bent on ignoring the basic rules of protection that were established for his own good. When a man has as many potential targets on his back as Beckett does—between crazed fans, potential kidnappers, and jealous whack jobs who would simply prefer he doesn’t exist—it infuriates me he doesn’t take his protection more seriously. Especially when I know my sins come back to haunt me in the depths of night when I wake up sweating because my hands feel like they’re mired in the warmth of blood of the people I loved—people I swore I’d protect, even as it gushed past my fingers too fast for me to stop it.
In the world I live in, death doesn’t always give closure. More often than not, it leaves the survivors with unanswered questions—the most important beingwhy?
Distracted, I step off the elevator that leads directly to Beckett’s penthouse and almost crash into a luminous blonde. Famed singer Erzulie jumps back a foot, stammering, “Excuse me. I wasn’t expecting anyone to come out of Becks’s elevator.”
I give the woman in front of me a head-to-toe perusal. She’s dressed in shredded jeans with a sheer blouse and a pair of cowboy boots with a coat thrown over her arms. She’s attractive, but there’s no spark. Nothing electrifying about her. I’d swear she’s an entirely different person than the woman I crashed into a few years ago outside of Rockefeller Center. Maybe inside she is. After all, I’ve changed from the man I was back then. Somehow, I’ve regained parts of my soul I never expected to.
Now, something about her sends up a warning flare inside me every time we come into close contact—which really isn’t that often. Maybe it’s the way her eyes are guarded instead of the way I felt that day, as if I could drown in the dark, fathomless blue. But instead of being left with a feeling of yearning as I was that afternoon, I find myself wary as she gives me a similar visual inspection before skirting past me to step onto the elevator I’ve just exited. “We had an early morning meeting with Kris,” she explains needlessly as she mentions the head of their record label—Kristoffer Wilde.
“That’s not my concern, Ms. Miles,” I return softly.
An annoyed expression flashes across her face before her trademark smile replaces it, and she declares loftily, “Well, I was grilled by your goons about why I needed to come up and wake Becks from his beauty sleep.”
I can’t prevent my lips from twitching because if nothing else, Kylie Miles is amusing. “That’s because of the fact he’ll take that out on the rest of the team all day.”
She fakes a stagger, clasping her hands against her chest in shock. “No! Not our Becks.”
My eyes flit to the closed doors of the penthouse. “If you’re feeling generous, you could share if it went well.”
“That depends on whether you enjoy wearing a tuxedo?”
I visibly shudder. Kylie drawls, “That was about Becks’s reaction when Kris explained his latest brainchild. You two can commiserate together the rest of the day.” She pushes the button to take her down in the elevator.
Just as the doors close, I call out, “When is all of this happening?”
“Tomorrow!” is shouted back at me just as the doors close in my face.
When I’m certain I’m alone again, I let loose the groan I was suppressing in her presence. I’ve suffered more than my fair share of military dress uniforms to last a lifetime. The idea of donning one for any reason is tantamount to having bamboo shoots shoved under my fingernails. “And I still remember what that felt like,” I mutter, clenching my fingers tightly.
As much as it would be so easy to discredit every word out of Erzulie’s mouth, everything she said is too easy to substantiate, so there’s no reason for her to make up some ridiculous story about my needing to find a tux just to be annoying. First, her mere presence is proof enough. After all, her words ring true about Beckett’s security being too tight. I should know—I designed it that way. So, while the suspicious side of me wonders if she’s pushing some sort of agenda, there’s not a chance she’s lying.
Unfortunately, that means we’re all going to suffer some formal shit tomorrow night I should have known the schematics for weeks ago to have planned a team of twenty to guard Beckett against. Not plan something half-assed with less than a day’s notice.
Moving to the penthouse doors, I put my hand on the knob just as it flings open. “Hey, Ky? You left your phone. And it says…” Beckett Miller is standing there in his trademark shirt unbuttoned to almost his waist and jeans. In his hand is a cell phone that’s ringing. I note there’s not a name, but instead, it saysL2 — Emergency Contact. “Hey, Kane. Ky was just here.”
Lifting my cell, I press a button and speak calmly into it. “Please have Ms. Miles detained. She forgot her cell phone.” I hold out my hand, and Beckett sheepishly places it into it. “Don’t—”
“Go anywhere without calling someone. I get it. Not like I don’t hear it on repeat every day.”
Briskly, I whirl around and head back down the elevator to meet Erzulie downstairs. But the suspicious side of me can’t help wonder who L2 is and if I need to be concerned they’re going to have any impact on Beckett.
In the back of the car with Beckett and Erzulie the next night, my jaw is locked. It has nothing to do with the two people bickering across from me about everything from who should get out of the car first to whether or not Erzulie should ditch her stylist’s choice of sequined boots for more traditional heels. Or whether Beckett should undo just one more button on his already open shirt to “Allow your tattoos more visibility. I mean, that ink is shit hot, my friend,” Erzulie eggs him on.
“Do you think? I mean, I can barely tuck in the shirt as it is. My tailor didn’t send over a long,” Beckett moans.
“Ugh. Yeah. No, that won’t work. I mean, there’s decadent, and then there’s sloppy.” Erzulie shudders.
I’m giving serious consideration to shooting them both instead of defending them against a threat. The possibilities of putting myself out of my misery are endless. But I’m certain my bosses wouldn’t appreciate me shooting one of their largest clients outside of the US government. And besides, my awful mood has nothing to do with their antics and everything to do with the complete lack of cooperation I received from the theater for this premiere. The blasé “We don’t expect any trouble” set my temper aflame.
