Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
Staying on track, I tell Quinn, “Nessa is also a fan.”
“A fan of me, not of the families,” Quinn says, like that makes a difference.
He shouldn’t be dating or screwing fans of SFO. It’s messy—so very messy—and a current rule that’s spelled out in the Kitsuwon Securities rulebook. That I’m positive Quinn has ignored. I know he’s fucked fans before. I live with him, and I let it slide.
My life is messier.
Yeah.
Obviously.
Oscar continues to munch on his Doritos.
I snap my fingers to my palm. “So you want the verdict?”
Quinn tries to sit up a little. “Yeah…let’s hear it…”
Oscar crumples the snack bag, seriousness sobering his features. “Are you letting him go?”
Here’s my dilemma:
Thatcher protects Jane.
Farrow protects Maximoff.
Banks protects Sulli.
Donnelly protects Xander.
Oscar protects Charlie.
Quinn protects Luna.
Gabe is the floater.
And no one protects Baby Ripley.
If Quinn is on crutches, he can’t be transferred to Ripley’s detail. My master plan for the baby to have a bodyguard has imploded.
Gone to smithereens.
I suddenly hate snowboarding.
And beyond that, he can’t protect Luna. He can’t protect anyone. So I tell him, “You can’t be a bodyguard with a broken leg.”
Oscar stiffens.
Quinn nods slowly. “So you’re firing me.”
“No, not exactly.” I massage my knuckles. “If I have to sit behind that desk at Studio 9 for one more day, I might honestly lose my mind.” I nod to him. “I need a manager for my gym. You want the job? It’s yours.”
Quinn mulls this over. “Will I be let back on the team?”
“When you pass physical exams, a spot will be waiting for you.”
His lips lift, ever so slightly. “And you’re giving me another job in the meantime?”
“It’s a pay cut.”
“I’ll take it,” he says instantly this time.
The Oliveira family saved Studio 9 from going under once. Maybe Quinn can help me save it again.
“You can still keep your room at the apartment,” I tell him. “I’m not kicking you out.” I feel responsible for his injury, and I can’t toss Quinn out with no place to go, except maybe back to live with his parents.
He can stay.
Oscar motions to me. “Gabe’s already complaining about his contract. This won’t win you any friends with new hires.”
Yeah, in the new Kitsuwon Securities contracts, I put in a one-year probationary period before housing is offered for new full-time bodyguards. Gabe signed anyway, but I see how this will ruffle a few feathers. Quinn won’t be on SFO anymore, so he really shouldn’t be getting a free room.
Still, he’s one of my men.
“What about Luna and Baby Ripley?” Quinn asks. “Is Gabe going on her detail and you’re protecting the baby?”
I’d make that transfer in a heartbeat if I thought Farrow would let me on Baby Ripley’s detail. But I don’t think he wants his boss hovering around him, which I get. And I don’t necessarily want to be around Farrow 24/7.
Oscar’s already shaking his head like he knows his brother is wrong.
“Gabe is staying as the floater. Ripley has no bodyguard yet.” I take a breath. “And I’ll be on Luna Hale’s detail. Permanently.”
Back to protecting a client.
This one just so happens to live with my exes.
50
BANKS MORETTI
Taking a weekend trip with Sulli to Atlantic City—I’ve been saving up my paychecks for this short getaway, and I thought of cancelling the date after the breakup. I didn’t imagine sweeping my girlfriend off her feet while a fuckin’ crater just slammed through us.
Hell, I didn’t see a fallout with Akara coming at all. I thought he’d be here with us.
But Sulli still wanted to go. “No time like the fucking present,” she said.
We agreed we’re not here to forget about him. That’s what Akara wants, and we’re not giving him everything he wants.
Mini-Akara is in Sulli’s macrame backpack. After printing out a picture of the Thai-American “boss” wearing a muscle shirt, a backwards baseball cap, and smartassy smile, we hot-glued the photo to a popsicle stick. Sulli had to eat a dreamsicle to get the fucking stick, so a lot went into this Kindergarten creation.
She sent him a photo of Mini-Akara.
No direct reply.
He’s really plunging that sword deeper and deeper into his body, and we’re not making this easier on him.
He’s also not making this easier on us.
While we ride a Ferris wheel on the pier, overlooking the murky ocean in January, Sulli and I share a bucket seat, my arm wrapped around her broad shoulders as she grips pink & blue cotton candy—and our phones go off.
“That’s the third text from Kits in ten minutes,” Sulli sighs out. It’s not the sort of texts we want to read from him. He’s still threatening to fire me if we don’t confirm our relationship to the world.
“He won’t do it,” I assure Sulli. “He needs me.” There’s no way in any hell he’d put a temp on Sulli’s 24/7 detail right now.