Page 27 of Quiet Protector
Her mouth falls open. “You told him your father is Vincent McGee?”
I scoff. “What? No! Don’t be ridiculous. I may have mentioned an Agent P. Russell,” I mumble out my last sentence with a yawn. I’m tired, but that isn’t the reason I yawned. I’m hoping it will have Phillipa missing my confession.
She doesn’t—regretfully. “You used my name? Brandon! Shame on you.”
Spit flies out of my mouth when I blow a raspberry. “I didn’t useyourname. I used your father’s name.”
Her eye roll is more sophisticated than mine. “Same thing. I’m named after him.”
“But mercifully, you look nothing like him.”
We both freeze, stunned by my compliment, but Phillipa isn’t as willing to let it slide as I am. “Thank you for finally noticing, can’t-take-a-hint McGee.”
I love her playfulness. Her nickname, not so much. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Why not? It’s your name, isn’t it?”
I shake my head. “It’s not my name. It’s my father’s name, and I hate it.”
The jeering on her face is instantly replaced with sympathy. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Do you have five years?”
She leans in close to the screen before replying, “I could if you need me to.”
Before I can register the shock of her offer, a text message pops up on my screen.
Melody:Hey BJ. Sorry for my late reply. I left my cell phone at the office. I’m okay. How are you?
Her message is as basic as the one I sent her, but the question at the end is practically an open invitation for a conversation.
Reading me with the knowledge not many people have, Phillipa asks, “What is it? Is it the case? Surely, they couldn’t have gotten Carlyle’s autopsy back this soon.”
“It’s not work.” I lock my eyes with hers before adding, “It’s Melody. I texted her last night. She only just replied. Said she left her phone at work.”
“Oh… good.” Phillipa’s tone is more pleasant than her facial expression. She honestly looks like someone just ran over her cat. “I’ll go. You should FaceTime her.”
“You don’t mind?”
She waves her hand through the air like she’s shooing away a fly. “No, not at all. Have fun.” She disconnects our chat before I have the chance to reply, and even quicker than that, I have my Messenger app open.
Me:Are you sure you’re okay? The last time you were up this late was when you shook your way through a s’mores sugar-high.
I bunker down for another late night when the three dashes of an incoming message dart across the screen of my phone. My intuition is proven right when Melody’s reply pops up two seconds later.
Melody:If I recall correctly, that was the night of my fifteenth birthday. Which means it wasn’t a sugar-high keeping me awake…
“It was me,” I whisper at the same time her next message arrives.
Melody:It was you.
* * *
Unsure if the wetness seeping into my pants is because of the incalculable number of times Melody featured in my dreams last night, or the faulty pipes of the one-star motel I’m camped in, I slip my hand into my sweatpants. I’m hard and virile, my cock stretching well past the waistband of my boxers, but there’s no sticky residue as I’m anticipating, so faulty pipes must be to blame.
I realize neither of my suggestions are right when icy-cold water is tossed over my bed. It shrivels my dick in an instant and has me scampering up the bed. After pushing my flopped hair out of my eyes, I stray them in the direction the water was flung from. A growl rumbles in my chest when I spot the condescending sneer of soon-to-be-retired Special Agent Harvey Rose.
“Up and at ‘em, kid, you’re gonna wanna see this.” How he ever got through the academy with a lack of vocabulary shocks me. He could only be more hillbilly if he had a piece of straw stuck between his buck teeth. “And change your clothes. If your moans like the last twenty are anything to go by, I don’t want you sitting in the cab of my truck inthosepants.” He stares at my no-longer extended crotch while snickering out, ‘those pants.’
