Page 4 of Her Guardian
I glare at the boss lady’s best friend over Massimo’s shoulder. I haven’t forgotten Sarah. She’s a pretty little thing. Blonde bob, blue eyes, and a gorgeous body with curves that are impossible not to notice.
She immediately darts around the corner when she realizes I’m glaring at her.
“What the fuck am I going to tell her, exactly?” I ask, turning my attention back to Massimo. “We don’t talk about shit like that, especially with reporters.”
“She’s not a reporter.” Massimo waves a hand. “She’s just a true crime podcaster. Hardly anybody listens to it. You can share a few things with her. Leave out the names. You know what we can and can’t talk about. Take her around Las Vegas and share a few stories about the old days. The kind of stuff she’d overhear at Rafferty’s.”
“Legends and tall tales?” I mutter. “What a waste of a personal favor. If I had one of those… fuck!”
“Just keep her out of my hair, Boyd,” Massimo says. “I’m busy as fuck since my father’s abrupt retirement, and I’ve got a baby on the way. She’ll only be here a few days. She already won some money counting cards, so I doubt she’ll stay much longer. Look after her until she’s gone. Keep her out of trouble.”
“Alright, you’re the boss.” I shake my head. “But I’d rather be sent back to The Gutter than babysit some fucking brat.”
“Do this for me, and I’ll make sure your next assignment is much better than The Gutter,” Massimo says. “I mean that. I know you’ve been killing time and waiting for something since Erica’s coup. I’ll get you back on the streets where you belong.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I scoff, unsure if I believe him. “I’ll handle it.”
Massimo walks back into the hallway, and I grab my stuff. My cigarettes go in the front pocket of my shirt. My Glock goes in the back of my belt, and I conceal it with my suit jacket. I say goodbye to the other guys in the room, then see Sarah waiting for me at the door.
“Let’s get this over with,” I sigh.
Sarah looks up at me with a beautiful smile when I approach, but I notice bags under her eyes. She’s had a few restless nights recently. She’s not the only one.
I can think of a lot of things I’d rather do than show her around Las Vegas and tell a bunch of stories. I could make that smile a lot wider and make damn sure she can’t raise her head off the pillow for a while. I might even get a good night’s sleep for a change, too.
“H-hi, Boyd,” she says, tilting her head in the most adorable way imaginable. “We met at the wedding…”
“I remember you, Sarah,” I interrupt. It’s hard to forget a pretty little thing like her. “The boss said you need a tour guide for a few days.”
“As long as you’re a good narrator,” she replies. “I need stories a lot more than a tour.”
“Sure,” I grunt. “Follow me.”
A good narrator? I’m the most unreliable narrator ever. Especially when it comes to telling stories about the Morandi family. But I follow orders. Even to my detriment. That’s how I got on Salvatore Morandi’s shit list and why I’ve been sitting on the sidelines since Erica’s coup attempt.
Now I’m a fucking babysitter. As if things couldn’t get any worse.
I lead Sarah to the side door of the casino, and motion for her to follow me. I see her pull a disposable vape out of her purse and take a couple of hits. The scent of strawberries and cream permeates the air for a moment before dissipating. I feel thegnaw for a cigarette, but wait until we’re in the SUV before I tuck one between my lips.
“Mind cracking a window?” she asks, scooting toward hers.
“Can’t handle the real thing, huh?” I chuckle, cranking the SUV and lowering my window.
“I used to smoke, actually,” she answers, looking slightly offended and pulling the vape out of her purse again. “These days, I stick to things with a little more flavor.”
“Because you can’t handle the real thing,” I say again, reaching for my lighter.
Sarah’s brow furrows, then she reaches over and snatches the cigarette out of my lips. My reflexes are fast enough to stop her, but I let her take it. I watch her flip the unfiltered cigarette in her hand a couple of times, then I spark my lighter and offer her the flame.
“Since you can handle it,” I say, some sarcasm in my voice.
“Mine had filters,” she says, flipping the cigarette again before pressing it between her lips.
“Training cigarettes,” I joke, watching her ease the tip into the fire, which plumes for a moment.
Sarah takes a drag and immediately coughs. She shakes her head and gags.
“Those things would kill me in a month!” she spits out, cracking her window and preparing to toss the cigarette into the parking lot.
