Honestly, doesn’t sound as bad as I’m sure he believes it fucking does.
“While she has…reluctantly agreed to having a protection detail, do not proceed under the assumption you are welcomed into her life, or that she will greet you with open arms or like a guest whose presence she doesn’t mind. You will be an inconvenience for her. She will not hesitate to remind you of this especially while she’s working, which is never less than thirteen hours a day.”
Brilliant but a bitchy workaholic is what I’m hearing.
“She can also be quite stubborn, slightly defensive, and will push back on safety precautions she deems unnecessary. Do not by any means let her win those arguments. And she will try. She will use logic, science, facts, media references, whatever it takes to prove that she knows best. Most of the time, she does. Her vast amount of…knowledge, makes it difficult – yet not impossible – to win a disagreement. Nonetheless, you are under direct orders to do whatever you see fit to keep her out of danger, excluding of course physical assault.” Number Four pauses, purses his lips to one side, and silently ponders for a moment. “If necessary, handcuffing her may be an option for you to consider, but let’s save those types of thoughts for later.”
Another dick thump appears forcing me to carelessly drop the tablet on top of it.
Context clues easily tell me that what we want to do with handcuffs is not at all something her brother would sanction.
“I will be your direct contact during the duration of this assignment. You will be provided a protective custody kit, which will include new telecommunications devices, credit cards, and slightly advanced as well as altered weaponry.”
Intrigue instantly seeps into my expression.
Most contracts are pretty standard.
Gun.
Knife.
Taser if you’re feeling fucking frisky.
Kits are usually reserved for other branches of security I don’t dabble in.
Branches that would probably be better suited than me.
The thought regarding the latter prompts me to investigate, “Why was I chosen?
Number Four doesn’t shy away from responding. “You’ve proven your ability to think on your feet and use your environment to your advantage.”
The temptation to smile in flattery tickles the corners of my lips.
“You’ve proven your loyalty is to being professional rather than your personal desires.”
That one may be a bit more tested in this situation.
“Your track record over the years is clean. There are no signs of outside influences or concerns you may be considering employment at a rival company. Your evaluations have remained clear and without red flags. You have proven to be an asset to the company, yet you do not contain so much value that your sudden disappearance or death would render unwanted questions or suspicions.”
Ouch?
“You come from a large family, but do not have one of your own. No kids. No fiancée – anymore. No girlfriend since. Your inner circle of friends is limited to two, both of which you rarely see more than a few times a year due to your conflicting schedules.” A new level of coldness seeps into his speech. “In other words? You’re easily dispensable.”
The callous statement doesn’t sting.
After all, this is the life I chose.
One that keeps me traveling around the world seeing places I never dreamed of. One that provides a bit of distance between me and the nagging “why aren’t you more like your brothers” lectures that my mother would probably rather die than not give. One void of real attachment to other people outside of my family because rarely do the situations ever end without me getting fucked over.
Truthfully, I am that fucking disposable, and she isn’t.
I’m not only the right man for the job for the reasons listed, but because I understand the bottom line of my latest assignment.
Die saving Blake Rothwell.
Given his specific phrasing, I have no doubt that that moment is coming.
This is a suicide mission.
And that is the in your face, big, black, bold, impossible to deny headline.
Chapter 4
Blake
The light touch of my lab coat-covered wrist is attached to a faintly spoken, “Your phone’s ringing.”
Snapping up like a recently brainwashed recruit at a supervillain facility – or perhaps the sleep-deprived workaholic that I am – I immediately reach out to the device and answer, “This is Dr. Rothwell.”
“Dr. Rothwell, this is Haaz Olsen in security,” a voice I rarely hear calmly states. “You have a visitor.”
Sherman, the janitor who woke me up, shoots a warm, faint smile in my direction before resuming his trash dumping duties.
“Please, pull up Front Gate Feed 2,” Haaz politely instructs.
I let out a loud yawn, give my mouse a wiggle, and key in my password to log back on. Four clicks later, I’m staring at the sight of an unknown male, patiently waiting to be let in past the security checkpoint. The words thoughtlessly fumble from my lips, “I don’t remember ordering a Theo James lookalike stripper. Was I shopping in my sleep again?”
I’ve only done that once!
Well, the ordering a person thing, not sleep shopping.
That I do more often than I’ll probably ever fess up for.
And I have a habit of buying things logic knows I will never use such as vacuum shoes.
As for the person purchasing part, it was the week before my thirtieth birthday, and unlike my twin who was planning us “the bash to end all bashes” – where I would later spend most of the night lecturing a Swedish swimsuit supermodel about the religious roots of her first name before she joined an orgy with my brother – I was panicking over the number known to turn women into hormonal, happily-ever-obsessed nutjobs.
It seems while I stray from most social norms, I had no issues sticking to the manual on that one.
Unfortunately, it turns out hiring a guy that could’ve been a Morris Chestnut stunt double to take his clothes off for me and three of the women I work with was not the worst thing I did.
Trying to buy the company that houses the celebrity doppelganger exotic dancers was.
That shit was so, so far from my proudest moment.
There’s an uncomfortable throat clearing from the other end of the line that pulls me away from admiring the way the unidentified man’s dark features contrast deliciously against his lighter complexion. “Mr. Bradford has clearance through the gate; however, his credentials will not get him access inside. He will need to be escorted into the building by you directly.”
“Why me?”
“Those were the orders we were given, Dr. Rothwell.”
“By who?”
“The top.”
His vague response receives an eye roll and prompts me to reach out for my cell that’s stationed beside my keyboard.