5
Riona
Dean is waiting by the host stand for me. He showered and changed after work, so he’s wearing a pale blue button-up shirt that brings out the blond in his hair. I think he shaved for a second time, because his face is perfectly smooth as he gives me a quick kiss hello. I can smell his aftershave and the industrial-strength antiseptic lingering on his hands and fingernails.
Dean could cosplay as a Ken doll without much trouble. He’s tall, fit, and handsome, with a cleft in his chin. He has a softness to his features that makes him look boyish, even though he’s almost forty.
He seems excited to see me, until he realizes that the man who followed me through the door is also following us to our table.
“Raylan Boone,” Raylan says, not waiting for me to introduce him. He grabs Dean’s hand and shakes it. “Nice to meet you.”
“Raylan is a security expert,” I explain. “My family hired him. He’s going to be shadowing me for the next few days.”
“Or weeks,” Raylan interjects.
“Okay . . . ” Dean says, returning Raylan’s handshake without quite the same level of enthusiasm. “Why, exactly?”
“There was an incident last night,” I say. “Nothing serious. But we thought it would be better to take precautions.”
I see Raylan’s amused gaze flit over to me, interested that I haven’t told Dean what happened, and clearly am not planning to tell him all the details now either.
“What kind of incident?” Dean says, frowning.
“Nothing serious,” I say breezily. “Let’s order our drinks.”
Dean and I sit across from each other at the small, square table. Raylan sits on the side, like our chaperone.
“Serious enough that you need a full-time bodyguard . . . ” Dean says. He looks over at Raylan warily, like he’s not sure how much to include him in the conversation. I’m sure he’s wary for other reasons, too. Despite the fact that Raylan has the haircut of a hillbilly and hasn’t shaved in weeks, he’s still objectively handsome. His blue eyes look especially bright next to his black hair and thick, dark eyebrows. His pointed incisors give him a wolfish look when he grins.
I could assure Dean that Raylan is also cocky, pushy, and completely not my type. But I’m not in the habit of assuring Dean of anything. It’s not my job to soothe his insecurities.
Raylan isn’t helping matters.
“Don’t worry, Doc,” he says. “I’ll keep Riona safe. And anything you two lovebirds wanna talk about . . . just pretend I’m not here. Just like doctor-patient confidentiality, what the bodyguard hears, he keeps to himself.”
He says it with that cheerful smirk on his face that makes you think he’s teasing you, no matter what words are coming out of his mouth. Dean frowns. He hates being teased even more than I do.
The waiter comes to take our drink orders. I get a vodka soda, Dean a glass of wine.
“Just water, thanks,” Raylan says.
“Still or sparkling?” the waiter asks.
“Whatever’s free and cold.”
“You can have a drink,” I say to Raylan.
“Nah,” he says. “I’m on the clock.”
“There is no clock,” I tell him.
“On the job, then.”
I don’t know why it irritates me that he won’t have a drink. I guess because I’d prefer to think of him as an unnecessary precaution, not an actual professional bodyguard.
Dean, seeing that he’s not going to get the information he wants out of me, switches to questioning Raylan directly.
“So . . . how do you know the Griffins?” he asks.
“I don’t,” Raylan says. “Riona and I met through Dante Gallo.”
That doesn’t help. Dean isn’t the biggest fan of Dante. They’ve met twice before—after which Dante said, “Yeah, he’s nice. Bit high on himself.” And Dean said, “Do you usually stay friends with your clients after you get them acquitted of murder?”
“Do you, ah, work with Dante?” Dean asks with a note of nervousness.
“We were in the military together,” Raylan replies.
“Oh,” Dean says, sounding relieved. “I considered enlisting, way back when. So I could get med school paid for.”
“Hm,” Raylan says blandly. “You don’t say.”
“I couldn’t be a soldier, though. All that toilet scrubbing and ‘drop and give me twenty’ shit. Guess I don’t like following orders,” Dean says, with a laugh.
I look over at Raylan, to see how he’ll respond to that nice little piece of condescension.
Raylan just grins, his teeth white against his dark stubble and his tanned skin. “Guess you’d rather be the general in your operating room, huh?” he says.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Dean says, smiling back at him. He doesn’t seem to notice the glint in Raylan’s eyes, which isn’t entirely friendly.
“ ‘Course, if you fuck up at your job, the worst you’re gonna do is kill some granny on your table,” Raylan says casually. “You don’t have to worry about watching all your colleagues, the anesthesiologists and nurses and other doctors, get captured and tortured and have their heads cut off. Or get blown to pieces right next to you. You don’t have to worry about dying yourself.”
“No . . . ” Dean says, smile fading. “But that doesn’t mean—”
“I guess that’s why in the military, we start small with scrubbing toilets,” Raylan says. “Then we move up to making our beds. Then we proceed through drills and training, and practice missions, before we ever head out in the field. It’s incremental progress. You get to know your brothers, and they get to know you. And nobody is promoted to a leadership position when they’re too arrogant to follow instructions themselves. Because that’s how it works when the whole team’s life is on the line. Nobody’s gonna serve under some shithead they don’t even like, let alone respect.”
Raylan is smiling pleasantly the whole time he’s speaking. He keeps that same friendly southern drawl. But somehow I become aware of his large, strong hands folded on the tabletop. And the width of his shoulders, under that flannel shirt.
Dean seems to become cognizant of the same thing—that Raylan is a trained soldier. Not to mention a good two or three inches taller than Dean.
Dean swallows hard. “Right,” he mutters. “We should probably order. The kitchen can be slow here . . . ”
“What should I get?” Raylan asks me, not bothering with the heavy leather menu and its array of choices spelled out in fancy scrolled print.
“Do you like steak?” I say.
“ ‘Course I do. What’s not to like?”
“Well, they’re famous for their ribeye.”
“I thought that cabbie said seafood was their specialty.”
I shrug. “He also thought Columbus Drive was the best way to get over here.”
“Alright, you convinced me.” Raylan grins. “Cabbie doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.”
Dean motions to the waiter.