“I need you to meet your new bodyguard.”
Over his dead body. “What the hell, Nisha! We talked about this.”
He started walking and slammed his hand into the elevator button. When had his family completely stopped paying any heed to his wishes?
Nisha waddled after him into the elevator, face as patient as a saint’s.
“I told you I don’t want to talk about a new bodyguard, and I meant it,” he said as the elevator slid shut. “At least wait until I’m campaigning again.” Until Abdul wakes up.
“And I told you that not doing this right now is not an option, and I meant it.”
They stood there staring each other down. “Are you questioning my professional opinion as your campaign manager?”
“As my campaign manager you’re supposed to work for me, which, you know, involves taking my wishes into consideration. At least every once in a while. You’re basically freaking out as my sister, and I’m telling you that I will be fine. I don’t need security to walk from my car to buildings.”
She took a step closer to him, but her pregnant belly kept her from actually getting close enough to breathe down his neck. “You will be fine?” Her voice did a high-pitched wobbly thing that was all sister and zero campaign manager. “You’re not a superhero. This is not you going to prom by yourself so you could dance with all the girls who have no one else to dance with. Get over yourself. You have no way of knowing that you will be fine.”
“So you think someone is going to shoot at me twice in one campaign cycle?”
Sticking out her hand, she started counting off on her fingers. “Reagan, Johnson, Nixon, Carter. They’ve all had over fifty assassination attempts. Some over a hundred!”
His sisters were the earth’s most annoying creatures. “Those are all presidents. And they all survived the attempts.”
“William Goebel, gubernatorial candidate. George Wallace, gubernatorial candidate.”
“You’re in the wrong century.”
“And you’re underestimating the power of racial hatred,” she snapped.
“Bill Richardson, Deval Patrick, Bobby Jindal, David Paterson, Susana Martinez, Michelle Grisham—”
“And listing all the minority governors from this century proves what?” she snapped again.
“It proves that we can run for elections without ending up dead.”
The elevator stopped and he waited for her to get out. “California’s economy is larger than almost every nation’s in the world,” she said, heading off across the lobby.
“No way, really? Is that on Wikipedia?”
It was a miracle she did not wring his neck. “Really? Being a patronizing prick, that’s your response, because you have nothing intelligent to come back with? I haven’t lost you a single election in ten years. I’d like you to show me some respect.”
“And I’m the one who won those elections. I’d like you to show some respect for what I want.”
With a sigh, she grabbed his arm. “Yashu, think about this. It’s three months to the election. And we’re going to have to do this with a ground game, door-to-door, like we’ve won the rest. There’s no way you’re doing that without security. Not after what just happened.”
“If someone is going to shoot me again, I’d rather not have anyone take another bullet for me.”
Her eyes filled with sympathy. “Oh, Yash.” Her thumb stroked his arm.
“How can you not understand this?” Of all his siblings, Nisha and he were usually on the same page. She would, in fact, tell anyone who’d listen that she knew what Yash was thinking better than he himself did. It wasn’t untrue, and was terrifying as hell.
“I do understand it.” Her voice was entirely nonconfrontational now. “I just want you to meet this person. Just say hello. She’s here. Don’t waste her time, at least.”
That stopped him in his tracks, as Nisha had known it would. She was such a sneak.
“You found me a female bodyguard? And you thought that would somehow make the job of bullying me into it easier?”
She had the gall to grin. “Bingo. Wait here while I text her. We’ve made her wait long enough.”
He sank into a couch off in a private corner of the hospital waiting area. “I really pity poor Neel, you know that?” he said with all the spitefulness of a sibling who’d lost an argument.
Her grin widened, a damn whoop of victory if he’d ever seen one. “You’re so easy.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, deploying one of her own favorite strategies for getting her way. “You know Ma loves me more than you, right?”
“Sorry, buddy, I’m the favorite by miles. Substantiate your claim by getting her to admit it, or shut up.” With that she grinned widely at the woman approaching them with long, powerful strides.
Brandy Hennessy (yes, that was her name) was not what Yash had expected. Although he couldn’t say what it was he had expected. She had cherry-red hair cut into short spikes and biceps that pushed into the sleeves of her muscle shirt. If you wanted your security detail to be visible, she was your person.
“Isn’t it your job to disappear in a crowd?” Yash said as soon as Nisha had introduced them, being deliberately and uncharacteristically ornery.
“I don’t believe that is part of the job description. In fact, I would say warning people off is the job description, sir.”
“Okay, let’s cut to the chase. There is only one condition on which I would hire you. If there is a shooting I need your assurance that you will not jump in front of any flying bullets.”
Nisha knew better than to interrupt, but she threw him a look that would have maimed a man who hadn’t dealt with her his entire life.
Ms. Hennessy met his stubborn gaze, stood, and shook his hand. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Raje. I hope you find someone who does the job the way you want them to.” With that, she turned and strode away.
Nisha ran after her. “Brandy, listen, could you hold up a minute?” Before Nisha disappeared out the giant glass doors, she threw Yash the nastiest glare.
With a deep, deep sigh, Yash followed the two women out. Both of whom were moving a little too fast. And Nisha was pregnant.
Fortunately, Brandy noticed that Nisha was chasing her down and turned. Good, because the woman gave off a Terminator vibe, one that said she could outrun them if they were driving cars.
“I’m sorry,” Yash said, catching up. “Can we come up with a compromise?”
“A compromise?” Brandy said, as though it were a word Yash had just made up out of thin air.
“Yes, in case of an assassination attempt, could you just shout me a warning or something? Oh, and could you wear a bulletproof body suit—head-to-toe?”
Not a single muscle on her face moved. She looked as though the question were too far beneath her dignity to address.
Yash raised his brows in a do-we-have-a-deal? gesture.
“No.” Just that. A single word.
“No to one or both?” he said, and tried to ignore the fact that Nisha looked like she was going to kick his shins, even as she texted away furiously on her phone. What was she up to now?
“Both.” Another single-word answer from Brandy. He could work with this woman. Especially if she trained everyone else in his life in the skill.