“I’m going to ask you this once.” Thatcher confronts me on Christmas Eve. All of SFO—except for Oscar who drives us to Atlanta—are secluded in the second lounge. Not for a meeting.

Not for a lecture or a pointless fight.

We’re all undressing.

For a Hot Santa Underwear Contest. Our clients are the judges, waiting for us in the first lounge. We randomly picked underwear styles out of a hat. From tame to nearly-naked. Akara dubbed tonight “chill” and “fun”, but everyone forgot Thatcher has no concept of either.

As I pull my black shirt off my head, I try to suppress an eye-roll. “Okay, ask me,” I say. Multi-colored bulbs flash to the beat of a holiday jingle, and more lights are strung throughout the bus.

Thatcher unbuttons his charcoal shirt. “Did you tell Jane and Maximoff about the stalker?”

I unbuckle my belt, a bitter taste in my mouth. I can name a hundred other topics that deserve anger, and keeping my client and his client in the loop isn’t one of them.

Akara, Quinn, and Donnelly undress around us, listening and watching a shit storm brew. I can already tell Akara is pissed. His eyes pierce me as he wads up his muscle-shirt in a fist.

“Yeah, I told them,” I say easily. “I assume you overheard them talking about it.”

“I did.” His voice is strict. “There are rules, Farrow. Rules that protect the mental well-being of Maximoff—”

“He’s desensitized to this shit,” I cut him off. “It’s more helpful keeping him informed—”

“No it’s not,” Thatcher retorts. “We can gather intel without him. We know everything about his relationships, his life. There’s nothing he can give us that we can’t learn ourselves.”

That truth bothers the hell out of me. I can consume his past without even speaking to him or asking for permission, and that’s not what I ever want to do. I prefer a less invasive route.

I extend my arms. “I told him the truth. I don’t regret it. I wouldn’t change it, and if you’re looking for something different, I can’t help you.” I understand the rule about keeping demented shit secret.

I followed that rule when Lily was my client. It applies to her and kids like Xander. Anyone who may get anxiety.

But Maximoff hates being kept in the dark, and I don’t tell him every tweet, every bullshit internet post. This was a real threat, and he’s the last person who needs water wings.

Thatcher steps forward. “I don’t care how you feel about the rules. They exist for a reason, and like I told you in Cleveland, for every single one you break, there’d be consequences.”

I glance at Akara as he tells me, “We’re deducting your pay. You’ll be fined a grand for every infraction.” He shoots me a no-nonsense look. “Starting with the one you just broke.”

Meaning, I just lost a grand.

I tense.

If I calculate all the times I slip between the rules, I may be fined to the point where I’m working for free. Or worse, I could owe them more money than I make.

I grew up fortunate. My father paid for my undergrad and medical school at Yale, but I don’t have a trust fund. His money is his money, and I haven’t accepted a dime since I changed careers. My salary is entirely from security work.

I can live on less than I have right now. The Hales, Cobalts, and Meadows pay for security’s housing. I don’t own a car, and I already paid off my motorcycle. I just need to be careful about spending. Because I’m not changing how I do this job.

“Fine,” I say. Merry Christmas to me.

“That’s not it,” Thatcher says as he removes his button-down.

Quinn and Donnelly undress to their underwear and mutter under their breaths to one another. Looking grateful that they’re not under this spotlight.

“You’ll be asked to do a series of physical activities as punishment.” Thatcher nods to me. “Right now, drop and give me fifty push-ups.” He’s serious.

I don’t blink. “No.”

Thatcher is now two feet from my face. Towering, glaring. “This isn’t negotiable.”

This is bullshit. “I’m not a green bodyguard. I’ve paid my dues, and I’m not dropping to my knees every time you’re pissed at me. No thanks.” I take a seat on the couch just to put distance between us, and I untie my boots.

He’s fuming.

Akara is more at ease since I agreed to a pay cut. He’s down to his boxer-briefs, and he digs in the shopping bag for the contest’s underwear.

Thatcher scratches his unshaven jaw, his gaze narrowing on me. “When doctors told you to do something, is that what you said to them, no?

I yank hard at my laces. See, I listen to authority. I respect authority like Akara, but I’ve lost some respect for Thatcher the more he comes at me. This personal vendetta is getting old.

“Did they even let you see patients,” he asks, “or were you a liability for them too?”

I glare. I’m not wasting my breath boasting about doing rotations. When the hospital was short-staffed, some attending physicians treated me more like an intern. Like an asset. Because I wasn’t afraid to listen to my gut. I knew my shit.

I thought quickly, and I didn’t treat textbooks like the know-all, end-all. And that’s exactly how I am now.

Here.

I kick off one boot. “If you think I’m a liability, then fire me.”

“I should’ve,” Thatcher says coldly. “And I still can—”

“No,” Akara interjects. “We need Farrow.”

Quinn nods strongly. It almost makes me smile.

Donnelly opens his mouth, but he catches my gaze that says, don’t. He’s not a lead of a Force, and they’ll just yell at him for interjecting. Donnelly doesn’t give a shit. “You fire Farrow, I’ll walk out.”

I cringe. “Man, be smarter than that.”

“You die, I die—”

“Oh my God,” I mutter and pinch my eyes.

“Stay out of this,” Akara says to Donnelly in his harshest voice, then to Thatcher, he repeats, “We need Farrow.”

Thatcher shakes his head once, but he knows I’ve never made a mistake that’s truly jeopardized the safety of a client. I’ve just done things differently than the status quo. And it unnerves him.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” I ask him and kick off my last boot.

“Be committed to this profession.”

I clock two hours a sleep a day trying to track a stalker. I spent the last four tour stops, including Nashville and Boston, securing the convention space just on the chance that they would appear and attack Maximoff.

And what’s worse: I’ve added my own father to the short suspect list. Because he has access to the families. To security. Knowledge of the next meet-and-greet stops.

And it makes me physically sick to think he could be harassing my boyfriend.

To hear Thatcher say that I’m not committed is a slap in the face, but I want to know why he thinks that I don’t care. Especially when my actions say I do.

I stand up with a deep frown. “Tell me why I’m not committed.”

“Since the start,” Thatcher says sternly, “you’ve had one foot in, one foot out. At any minute, you can leave for a hospital. So leave if this isn’t what you want to do. Go.”

“Hey,” Akara snaps. “He’s staying.”

My nose flares again. I’ve been in a cold war with my father over choosing this career. I’m fighting against a generational legacy just standing here. But if he can’t see that, then there’s only one way to prove that I’m serious about security. The team, this job, this lifestyle, my client.

It matters to me.

As much as I can’t stand Thatcher, I drop to a push-up position, and I say, “I’m not going anywhere.”