Even though we’re all no longer military, Iris follows the order as fast as if he still were. We all do it when it comes to Trav.
He’s a great boss. His instincts are always on point, and we all trust him with our lives.
As soon as the door is closed behind Iris, Trav leans back in his seat.
His biceps bulge, and for a guy in his early forties, he’s in better shape than I am. I may or may not have had a giant crush on the guy when I started working for him.
“You need this money,” he says.
No point in arguing it. “I do. But I need it without having to be away for that long.”
“How much are you in the hole?”
I try not to let my reaction show. My personal life is my own, but it’s obvious to all the guys that I’m broke for a reason. I just don’t know how much Trav knows.
“Over a hundred Gs.” I lower my voice. “Closer to two hundred, really.”
“You need this contract, and it’s six months.”
My knee bounces. “Six months without killing anyone. How will I survive?”
“Well, this fan is out on bail, so you might see some action.”
“Here’s hoping for more stalker problems, then.” I realize my words after I’ve already said them. “I’m really doing this, aren’t I?”
“You can say no.”
“For that much money, I really can’t.” I run my hands over my buzz cut. A lot of the other guys have let their hair grow out since leaving the military, but it’s order and routine for me, even now, years after being discharged. It keeps me connected to my old life that I wasn’t ready to give up.
“Any questions?” Trav asks.
“Yeah. Who is Harley Valentine?”
Right after Trav gets his tears under control from laughing at my supposed ignorance, Iris comes in and I start getting it from him too.
Iris is still laughing.
It hasn’t stopped, even on our separate drives to Valentine’s place. The phone rings, and the car’s Bluetooth immediately picks up.
“This line is supposed to be for emergencies,” I grumble.
Take the company car, Trav said. It’s better than yours, Trav said. Mine doesn’t even have Bluetooth. I could escape this if I were in my own car.
“Your lack of pop culture knowledge is an emergency, bro—”
I hit End on the connection.
He calls back.
There’s no escaping Iris’s onslaught.
It’s not my fault I live under a rock.
Iris is still shaking his head at me when we pull into the pop star’s small drive and approach the secure gate.
“I think it’s more disturbing that grown-ass men know boy band trivia,” I point out. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be laughing at me.”
“He’s not in a boy band anymore. He’s, like, a legit artist. Won two Grammys.”
“You know who else has a Grammy? The guys who sang that dog song. It’s not that impressive.”
Iris starts singing “Who Let the Dogs Out” as he pushes the buzzer to be let into the property.
What have I done?
Now I have that stupid song in my head.
I jump Iris and get him in a headlock, covering his mouth with my hand.
He bites me.
“Fuck.” I shake out the pain.
“It’s okay. I don’t have rabies.”
It’s impossible to be mad even as the bite mark darkens on my palm. Being angry at Iris would be like yelling at a puppy for peeing everywhere. He can’t help it.
At least Iris is potty trained.
The gate clicks open, and I make sure it locks automatically again when we pass through it, which it does.
The brick fence is secure but easy to scale for anyone who’s fit. Any of the guys in Mike Bravo could jump it without a run-up.
A man opens the door. He’s shiny in the way a lot of Hollywood people are. Dark hair, tailored suit, pompous vibe.
He waves a finger between us. “Nolan Reins?”
“That’d be me.” I reach out to shake his hand.
“Gideon.” He moves on to Iris.
“Isaac Griffin. I’m the Sunday man.”
“Come in, and I’ll show you around.”
“Where’s the client?” I ask.
“Harley’s sleeping. Finally. It’s been a rough few days since the break-in. I’ve asked him to see someone about it, but he refuses.”
We’re shown around the expansive property that’s terracotta tiled throughout with Spanish tile accents. There are a lot of official-looking sitting rooms and wood-paneled doors that lead to more spaces that appear untouched. A wrought-iron banister follows the stairs to a second floor, and Gideon points out Harley’s bedroom as well as four other bedrooms that are empty.
The whole place is furnished to match the Spanish Colonial theme, but it looks unlived in. I was expecting maybe a party house with big sound systems and large-screen TVs everywhere.
It feels like I’m in someone’s parents’ house, not the house of a famous pop star.
“I’ll show you to your room.” Gideon leads me to modest servant’s quarters while Iris checks out the security system.
I take in the double bed that takes up most of the room and the chest of drawers underneath a wide window that looks out over the backyard and pool.
Gideon watches me for a reaction. “It’s not much.”
“Anything is a palace after living in barracks.” Hell, this is a step up even from the shitty apartment I live in now. I turn to him. “Okay, level with me. This assignment is kinda …”
“Kinda what?”
What’s the right word without saying complete bullshit? “I guess I don’t understand it. You could get any low-grade security firm to deal with this break-in, keep tabs on the guy, and hire three full-time bodyguards for what you’re paying Trav. Why hire ex-military guys who thrive on action to babysit a pop star?”
Gideon puts his hands in his pockets. “Well, one, Trav is my cousin, and he was originally going to give me some names of companies who could help me, but then he said he might have a guy who’s interested in the money. And two, Harley doesn’t want an entire team surrounding him. He has trouble trusting people. I’m sure it’s a lot more low-key than you’re used to, but think of it this way, it’s easy money.”
“This break-in. How serious was it?”
“The guy is a delusional fan who read into a single look and a simple sentence Harley said to him. He thought he had a ‘connection’ with Harley, so he followed him home, jumped the fence, and … okay, the knife thing is fuzzy. Harley still doesn’t know if it was an intimidation tactic, threatening, or if this guy really was genuinely admiring Harley’s knives. No one was hurt, but Harley has refused full-time security up until now because he had always felt safe here. That asshole took that away from him, so it doesn’t matter that he wasn’t actually hurt.”
“I understand.”
Gideon looks doubtful, as if he doesn’t believe me. “Harley’s trying to appear strong, but he hasn’t left the house since it happened. He hasn’t slept. He’s not the type of guy to accept pity, but he won’t take condescension either.”