Blake
"Sloane, it’s me." I tune into the late-night grumbling down the other end of the line. The scorching midday sun beats down, warming my hair and making the neckline of my shirt itch as my skin produces its ‘I hate L.A’ sweat. "Yeah, sorry, Bud. I know it's late."
The suit is a mistake. I flex my arms against the tight, restrictive material.
Sloane moans some more. The world is at fault, but then so is every fucker's mother as well. Sloane’s sharp tongue used to keep recruits in line for the London Met police. These days he keeps an army of oversized muscle available for personal hire. I’m not one of his usual conscripts but he always sees me right when I need it. In turn, I take the jobs not many others would want. "I’m back in hell," I tell him. Sloane gave me the out I needed five years before and in all honesty, I never planned to come back. Not until the bundle of letters landed in my hand. Then, I knew I had no choice.
He chuckles down the line. "You’re a glutton for punishment, Henderson. Are you even getting paid?"
I ignore his probe and dart my own question. "Did you get the sample I sent?" I ask, my focus drawn from the conversation by a driver in a navy suit who has my name scrawled across a card held against his vast chest. Giving him a curt wave I allow him to lift my leather holdall out of my grip. I never pack more than the roomy carry-on can hold. Less belongings mean less attachment. It makes it easier to walk away. I learned that five years ago when I’d escaped this place the last time.
"Yeah, it’s not the same as the original threat." Sloane keeps his answer tight. This isn’t the time for verbose discussions on the ins and outs of the investigation. I need hard facts.
My feet stall a fraction and I shake my head, dislodging my disappointment. A knot of anxiety encamps itself in my chest cavity. I loathe being blind. "I knew it wouldn’t be, but it was worth a check."
The packet of foul letters burns in my jacket pocket. I daren’t put them anywhere else, their contents are too sensitive. I wonder if she knows? Wonder if they’ve told her? Does she even care?
Sophia Jennings. Once the brightest star in Hollywood, now gossip fodder and party girl.
Sophia Jennings. My mark. My client.
Sophia Jennings. Blackmail victim.
Sloane carries on. "We knew it would be a long shot, the original perp was never caught, of course, but I’d be surprised if his level of obsession was still so intense after a decade."
It’s always remained a mystery how the perverted letters threatening the safety of a then twelve-year-old Sophia Jennings had disappeared after I’d only been in my post as personal security guard for a few months. I’d stayed though. I’d grown soft and stagnant, my role confused and muddled as the little girl I’d once known had transformed into an unfathomable star.
"Yeah, I guess. It would have made it nice and easy though." I sigh a blast of air down the line and with it echoes my disappointment. Personal security prefer things easy, clean cut, organised. Anything less than that makes for longer hours and more headaches.
Sophia Jennings is the headache of my life.
I have a bad feeling the headache is going to upgrade to migraine levels.
"Does she know you’re coming back?"
The smile drops from my face, wiped clean with his question. "No idea." My insides contract into a hernia inducing knot. "No idea and don't care either way."
There’s a click of a lighter down the line followed by a rustle of papers. Sloane’s chair squeaks as he sits and I know he’s in his study. "So, I’ve done some digging…"
"Sloane," I groan and palm my hair with a frustrated hand. "I told you I didn’t need you to dig about. Whatever I find when I get there is just what it is. Another paying job."
A lengthy pause meets my words until Sloane cracks up into a throaty chuckle. "You talk such a crock of shit."
"Yeah, yeah." The driver’s waiting to speak to me, so I give him a nod and try to hurry this up. "So, if you dug the dirt, what did you find?"
"She hasn’t had a security detail last longer than a couple of months."
"Really?" I make a point to never read the press about my old charge, but even I haven’t been able to miss the headlines of the last few months.
"Yep, not one." Another chuckle. "You must have been something special to make the cut for so many years." The uneasy tightening in my stomach double knots with his words.
"Yeah whatever. I’ll call you in a few days when I’ve settled in. I still need to feed back on Wallis." The last three months had been a ball-aching bore, guarding the CEO of Wallis Industries, an Oil tycoon renowned for producing the greatest eyesores of the world. For valid reasons Greenpeace had been after his arse.
"Sure thing, Blake. Listen." He pauses. "She’s going to be pretty mad at you."
I groan but my guts clench. Underneath the heat and clamminess of my skin a chill twists within me. "Of that, I have no doubt." I laugh it off. It isn’t convincing, like bad acting on some lame daytime soap. "Catch ya, Sloane, and I’m sorry for dropping you on the next job."
"Yeah, yeah."
"Hey, Sloane, cut down on those cigarettes, hey."
He curses me out, hanging up the phone, and I turn my attention to the driver.
"Where’s Samuels?" It’s a long shot but I ask the question anyway.
The big guy folds his thick arms across his chest. His white shirt matching his teeth, offset against dark skin. "Who’s Samuels."
I shake my head. "No one, doesn’t matter. I wonder what other staffing changes there have been? Where to, anyway? Where is Sophia?"
This is the first time I’ve said her name out loud in five years. I expected drums to boom, or birds to take to flight, but nothing happens. Nothing. The driver continues to lounge against the limo and nod at me, a broad smile splitting his face—clearly this situation is amusing.
"She’s at a party."
She’s at a what?
I gawk, waiting for him to tell me he’s cracking a wide one. He doesn’t. "A party?"
Straightening from the car he shakes his head. "It’s a post recovery party, everyone is going to be there."
"A post recover…" I can’t even finish the sentence; the idea is so preposterous. What is going on? No one left rehab and went straight to a party.
"Shall I take you to the house, so you can get cleaned up?"
"No, no. I need to get to the party." My spine tenses.
"I’m Jacobs." He gives my shoulder a squeeze and rumbles a thunderous chuckle from the base of his chest. "My friend, believe me; you need a shower, and there’s no rush."
The letters burn hotter in my pocket. As if he can sense my thoughts he gives a small shake of his head. "You haven’t been here for five years, is that right?"
Someone must have told staff I’m coming back. Did they tell her though?
"Yeah." I nod my agreement.
"A lot has changed in five years, my man." He pulls on the car door. "A lot."
The changes become apparent straight away. I’m slumped on the back on the leather seats, the letters spread across my lap as I analyse them for clues, but I sit up, sliding across the leather upholstery when he pulls up at a smallish condo—midtown. "What’s this?" I stare through the window. Have I been placed here? There’s no point living off site. I mean, I’m not overexcited to be near the woman who tested every moral reserve I have, but I can’t guard her, can’t do my job properly if I’m not there.
"This is Sophia’s place," he says. There is no affliction in his tone hinting at what he thinks of Sophia’s place, or why there is a Sophia’s place at all.
I continue to gape open mouthed through the wire fence, nothing more than chicken wire, which couldn’t prevent the invasion of racoons let alone trespassers and at the tatty dried lawn and misshapen bushes. "Really? What happened to the mansion?" Before, I’d lived in the pool house there. The place in the Hills was palatial.
Jacobs nods. "Oh, we still have the mansion. Erica lives there, and it’s used for press and social meets."
He reaches over the seat and passes me a key. I turn it in my hand. "The guest room has been made up."
My face freezes into an astounded mask. I can’t stay in the guest room. Pool house, sure. Purpose built garage, even better. But there needs to be some serious cubic square feet between me and her.
Jacobs chuckles, another deep rumble. "You know the last bodyguard lasted two weeks?"
"What happened to him?"
"Miss Jennings doesn’t like following rules," he says and I snort in response. Now that doesn’t surprise me. I go to clamber out the car before pausing.
"Jacobs?"
"Yeah, Mr. Henderson?"
"How many of these keys are there?" I hold the bronze nondescript house key out in the palm of my hand and Jacobs shrugs. Which is answer enough in itself.