But I know a part of it was due to the lifestyle I’d led at the time. I know it down in my bones, so I have to tread very carefully with how I treat my body over the next few months. I should keep stress to a minimum as well.
I decide to check on the various hospitality rooms they have set up in the concert venue. There’s one for the star of the show—an incredibly skinny girl of seventeen named Janie March, who wears outrageously miniscule outfits and sings into a headset microphone, which, in my opinion, only Madonna can make cool. There’s also one for the media and another for music industry VIPs. There will be someone from Jameson in each room following the concert. Our team for this detail totals eight, including Bodie, who I’ve hardly seen since we arrived a few hours ago. I have my perch set up, and I won’t ascend until the venue doors open.
I check Miss March’s room first. She’s in there with her own security as well as Hannah Miles. Hannah is a retired Chicago cop who still needs to work to support her husband’s gambling needs since they moved to Vegas. She’s been with Jameson for four years now. She nods at me when I pop my head in, and I return it.
As I head toward the VIP room just down the hall, I’m surprised to hear Bodie and Cage’s voices coming through the open doorway. They’re probably just hanging out in there since they’ll both be in the stage wings during the concert, those two being the ones who would swoop Miss Miles off stage if something were to happen. There’s a well-constructed plan that was developed between our team and hers weeks ago to ensure her utmost safety.
When I turn the corner, I halt when I hear my name—definitely Bodie’s voice. That first zing of adrenaline that I’ve caught him talking about us immediately gives way to relief as I realize he’s talking business.
“Hart could pick any shooter off from anywhere in this colosseum from her perch,” Bodie says, and is that… pride in his voice over my abilities?
“I’d sure as fuck hope so,” Cage says with a snort. “Her Olympic medals are decent credentials in my opinion.”
My hand comes to my mouth, so I don’t snicker out loud while they talk about me. I press against the wall about three feet from the open door, and shamelessly listen.
I don’t talk about my Olympic experience much, although everyone at Jameson knows I competed. It’s not that I’m not proud of my accomplishments—because I totally am—but it was just so long ago. These days, there’s better crops of young athletes coming through that would smoke me all over the place.
I was a winter athlete and competed in the Biathlon, which combines cross-country skiing with rifle shooting. I attended the Games when I was seventeen, and again when I was twenty-one. I competed in the 15-km individual and the 12.5 km mass start events, receiving three silvers and a gold between the two, and then I was just done. I was tired of the grueling training regimen, which seemed almost exotic as I grew up in the sport because it kept me away from home and traveling all over the world. But then it hadn’t been fun anymore and, despite my coaches having a cow, I retired at twenty-one.
Of course, my skills with a rifle translated into this type of work. A biathlete can hit a target less than two inches in diameter from a hundred and sixty feet while exhausted, out of breath, and laying prone on the snow-covered ground. My current rifle is a little better, though. The CheyTac M200 Intervention can hit a target from twenty-five hundred yards, so yeah… better toys with The Jameson Group.
“She’s smokin’ hot, though,” Cage says, and I lean toward the door to listen more closely. “I’d love a crack at her, but she doesn’t give anyone in our group the time of day. But I bet Kynan’s had her at least once. They’ve known each other forever and are as thick as thieves.”
This type of talk should bother me, but it doesn’t. I know it happens. I’ve developed a thick skin. I can never let anyone know I’ve taken offense because, frankly, I’m playing in a world that’s heavily dominated by men. They don’t want to work in a dangerous situation with someone who lets emotions rule them or where they can’t just be their disgusting pig selves at times.
But I do feel apprehension take root deep within me, because I don’t like this conversation happening with Bodie. He knows me carnally and he’s gotten me pregnant, two facts I do not want spread about. The pregnancy is going to come to light eventually, but I’d rather not have to explain the thing with Bodie to anyone.
I’m completely tense while I wait to see how Bodie handles this. Cage Murdock is his best friend, and they are tight. I know they talk about this shit because all guys do.
“Have some respect,” Bodie says in a low but neutral voice that barely carries through the door. “She’s our teammate.”
I’m warmed through to my core by his protectiveness of me.
“Come on,” Cage says teasingly, and I can almost imagine him nudging Bodie in the ribs with a knowing wink. “Don’t tell me you haven’t looked at her and—”
“I said have some fucking respect,” Bodie snarls, and I jump at the anger saturating his words.
“Jesus,” Cage mutters apologetically. “I’m sorry. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
I spin away from the doorway and walk quickly back the way I came. I don’t want to hear anymore, and I’ve heard enough. When I told Bodie I wanted to keep this secret, I trusted his word he wouldn’t tell anyone. What I just heard was affirmation that my trust was well placed. If he were going to tell anyone about us hooking up or about me being pregnant, it would be Cage.
Clearly, he hasn’t.
It also confirms we weren’t seen together that night at The Wicked Horse. I didn’t think we’d been, but if we had, the rumor mill would have been churning hard. Cage also would have said something.
I smile as I realize Bodie truly has my back. He’s always had it when we’re working together, but it’s nice to know he has it on the other side.
He had it when we were at Dr. Anchors’ office day before yesterday. No woman likes to get a pelvic exam. I hated myself when I flinched, because I don’t like showing weakness. But damn if Bodie didn’t see it, and then immediately started telling me all kinds of horse shit about me being beautiful and sexy. I didn’t give any credence to the actual words, but I did give him a hell of a lot of bonus points for trying to distract me.
God, did I need it, too. More than just during that pelvic exam, the entire visit I’d been strung tight. And my talk with Dr. Anchors went no differently than my talk with the doctor who’d treated me when I miscarried thirteen years ago.
After Bodie left, I just bluntly told the doctor, “I’ve been pregnant before, contrary to the history form I filled out. I miscarried at nine weeks, and I need to do things differently this time.”
He’d nodded at me in understanding, not asking why I’d left that information off the intake. I’m sure he figured out I didn’t want Bodie to know. Instead, he replied, “What do you mean ‘do things differently’? What did you do the last time that you think might have attributed to you losing the baby?”
It was obvious what the good doctor was thinking. Perhaps drugs. Maybe alcohol.
Not exactly, but not all that far from the truth.