Page 47 of Quiet Protector
“Melody’s going?” Think back to those pimple-faced boys who uncomfortably grabbed their crotches at random times of the day as they can’t control their cocks. That’s who my voice represents when I squeak out my question. “Is that why she was at her ranch this afternoon?”
While pursing his lips, Grayson waves the ticket back and forth, temptingly teasing me. “Only one person can answer your questions, punk. You’ve just got to decide if you’re brave enough to ask them—” His words lodge into the back of his throat when I snatch one of the tickets out of his hand.
I already have a ticket with my name on it at home, but this one has VIP splashed across the front, meaning I’ll have more chance of being in the same room as Melody and her gazillionaire fiancé.
I’m not planning to cause trouble for them. I just want to know why bundles of cash with serial numbers corresponding to the massive withdrawal Julian undertook last week was found in a safe in Castro’s office.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I peer at my reflection in the foggy mirror of the Jack and Jill bathroom attached to my childhood room. I haven’t showered in this room in almost eight years, yet everything is still in its place. My aftershave sits in the middle of the bottom shelf, my razor is just to its left, even my toothbrush and toothpaste are in the same spot. The only thing missing is my can of shaving cream, which is odd considering I barely needed it when I was a teen. My skin was as soft as a baby’s bottom, so I didn’t need to worry about unexpected nicks from the rough slide of my razor.
After dumping my rusted, hair-clogged razor into the bin under the vanity sink, I pull my electric razor out of my travel bag before quickly running it over my face, sprucing myself up. Once all the stray hairs are taken care of, I commence brushing my teeth. I’m usually one of those annoying brushers who leave the tap on while scrubbing. I can’t do that tonight. Something is clogging the drain, slowing the water’s escape.
I won’t lie. My heart batters my ribcage when I pierce one of my mother’s knitting needles through the backlog of water. I grew up with three older brothers. I found many gross things when unblocking a clogged sink.
Today’s discovery isn’t any better.
“That’s fucking gross,” I groan in disgust while transferring a condom from my sink to the bin, heaving. I can look at a dead body and not feel sick, but a used condom has my stomach somersaulting.
After dumping the offending product and the knitting needle into the bin, I scrub my hands like they’re coated in cooties before entering my room to get dressed. I don’t have time to dwell on how disgusting some men are. The gala has already started, meaning we’re late.
Once I’m dressed in a tuxedo, brushed my wet hair, and thrown on a good dose of aftershave, I head to the room Isabelle has been getting ready in for the past several hours. Mom never had a daughter, so she used it as an excuse to keep Isabelle and Hugo occupied while I attended the raid. It’s odd when you think about it—dangerous raid during the day, ritzy gala at night. At least I can’t say my life is boring.
* * *
Would you think I am weird if I said I’m more nervous now than I was when I rolled a Ford Expedition over rose-colored deserts almost two years ago? Back then, I knew what I was heading to and knew both my target and my objective.
Here, I’m flying solo.
I once knew the girl I’m about to confront. I knew the way her eyelashes touched her cheeks when she blinked and how she signed super-fast when she was about to come. I knew her voice without her speaking a word and how she smiled any time she was nervous. I knew her better than I knew myself. But I don’t know her anymore.
I don’t want the fantasy in my head to end any more than I don’t want our meeting to steal the only good memories I have of my childhood. I don’t want to forget the person Melody once was.
I also don’t want to see her with another man.
To know she loves him as she once did me may very well kill me. Our relationship will always be different. You never forget your first true love, but you can replace it. Replicate it. Strive for better. I haven’t put the steps in place to do that, but it’s clear Melody has. Although she was occasionally caught a little sad, she appeared happy in the surveillance images I’ve seen of her. Her sadness could have more to do with being an orphan than anything else. A part of her died when her parents did.
That’s another thing that is bothering me. How do I tell Melody all the things I’ve unearthed about her father without possibly ruining her memories of him? Like every teen growing up, she thought her dad was a hard-assed tyrant who needed a personality transplant, but even when fighting him, I could see in her eyes how much she adored him.
Nothing I’ve discovered the past eight months paints Liam in a bad light, I just don’t know how Melody will respond when she finds out she shares blood with one of the country’s most notorious gangsters. She’s an assistant district attorney. That would have to be a conflict of interest. I don’t want her forced to give up a part of who she is because of the legacy she was born into. Her birthright wasn’t her choice, and neither was mine.
I breathe out my nerves when Hugo pulls my car into the front of the hotel the gala is being held at. I’m shocked when Isabelle peels out of the car before popping her head back in as she did the morning she was released on bail. “Are you coming?”
What did I miss during my reminiscing?
As I slide across the seat to exit via the open back passenger door, Hugo grumbles for me to keep myself in check. He must be mistaking the fretful look on my face as envy as I’ve barely glanced Isabelle’s way tonight. My mind is elsewhere.
Once Hugo pulls away from the curb, Isabelle curls her arm around my elbow. Her eyes are bright and filled with stars. I rarely attended these events as a kid, and they don’t interest me much now, but I can understand how opulent it seems to Isabelle. She was raised by a big balding Russian who hid her from the world. I doubt she had many events to get dressed up for.
Halfway into the room full of socialites, rock stars, silver-screen darlings, and a group of pompous pricks who endorse my father’s bid for Congress, the already frantic patter of my heart gains an extra beat. A long time ago, I would have immediately known the reason behind my spike in pulse. Now I have to be more cautious. I’d hate to make a fool of myself.
The mask I’m holding is crushed beyond repair when my eyes lock in on a silhouette of red across the room. The blonde beauty’s hair is pinned off her face, and the tiny freckles that adorn her nose are covered with makeup, but I’d never forget the face of a woman who stands out in a crowded room. She’s too beautiful to forget, and really,reallypretty.
I’m reminded it isn’t just Melody and me in the room when Isabelle leans into my side to whisper in my ear, “Is that Melody?”
I try to force some type of confirmation out of my mouth, but with my throat bone-dry from taking in the way Melody’s ballgown hugs the curves of her body, I nod instead. I’ve never been good with words when it comes to Melody. I’m glad to see seven years didn’t cure that neurosis.
The world fades out when Melody’s head suddenly swings my way. Her eyes lock on mine in an instant, her lips curving. Her smile—fuck. Don’t ask me to explain it. I couldn’t possibly put into words how perfect it is. There’s no slight wonkiness to her grin or apprehension weakening it. It’s a blistering smile unlike any of the ones I’ve seen of her in print the past year.
