CHAPTER 6
Rachel
I make my way down an empty corridor of gray concrete flooring and white cinderblock walls. I’m not particularly fond of security details, even less so when they’re of some diva pop princess whose highest risk is getting stampeded by thirteen-year-old girls. It’s not exciting enough for me and it’s below my comprehensive skill set, but at least they’ll have me perched in the catwalk that runs above the stage with a rifle. This pop star has had what have been deemed to be credible death threats, and while metal detectors are used at the venue, they’re not foolproof. Her manager felt that adding specialized security through the Jameson Group was a wise use of her money, and I probably agree. I’m on the team covering tonight’s Los Angeles concert. Another team will meet her in Houston for her next one.
Still… I’d rather be running black ops in a foreign country or protecting an important government official. Those are the jobs that gets my juices flowing, and make me feel vital and important.
I’m on this detail because I volunteered for it, and I volunteered for it because I don’t know how many job details I’ll be getting over the next few months given my pregnancy. Dr. Anchors and I discussed that privately.
I didn’t want Bodie involved because I don’t want him to know I’ve been pregnant before and had it end in a miscarriage, an event I still blame myself for to this day, despite being told repetitively by medical personnel that it hadn’t been my fault.
But I know a part of it was due to the lifestyle I’d led at the time. I know it down in my bones, so I have to tread very carefully with how I treat my body over the next few months. I should keep stress to a minimum as well.
I decide to check on the various hospitality rooms they have set up in the concert venue. There’s one for the star of the show—an incredibly skinny girl of seventeen named Janie March, who wears outrageously miniscule outfits and sings into a headset microphone, which, in my opinion, only Madonna can make cool. There’s also one for the media and another for music industry VIPs. There will be someone from Jameson in each room following the concert. Our team for this detail totals eight, including Bodie, who I’ve hardly seen since we arrived a few hours ago. I have my perch set up, and I won’t ascend until the venue doors open.
I check Miss March’s room first. She’s in there with her own security as well as Hannah Miles. Hannah is a retired Chicago cop who still needs to work to support her husband’s gambling needs since they moved to Vegas. She’s been with Jameson for four years now. She nods at me when I pop my head in, and I return it.
As I head toward the VIP room just down the hall, I’m surprised to hear Bodie and Cage’s voices coming through the open doorway. They’re probably just hanging out in there since they’ll both be in the stage wings during the concert, those two being the ones who would swoop Miss Miles off stage if something were to happen. There’s a well-constructed plan that was developed between our team and hers weeks ago to ensure her utmost safety.
When I turn the corner, I halt when I hear my name—definitely Bodie’s voice. That first zing of adrenaline that I’ve caught him talking about us immediately gives way to relief as I realize he’s talking business.
“Hart could pick any shooter off from anywhere in this colosseum from her perch,” Bodie says, and is that… pride in his voice over my abilities?
“I’d sure as fuck hope so,” Cage says with a snort. “Her Olympic medals are decent credentials in my opinion.”
My hand comes to my mouth, so I don’t snicker out loud while they talk about me. I press against the wall about three feet from the open door, and shamelessly listen.
I don’t talk about my Olympic experience much, although everyone at Jameson knows I competed. It’s not that I’m not proud of my accomplishments—because I totally am—but it was just so long ago. These days, there’s better crops of young athletes coming through that would smoke me all over the place.
I was a winter athlete and competed in the Biathlon, which combines cross-country skiing with rifle shooting. I attended the Games when I was seventeen, and again when I was twenty-one. I competed in the 15-km individual and the 12.5 km mass start events, receiving three silvers and a gold between the two, and then I was just done. I was tired of the grueling training regimen, which seemed almost exotic as I grew up in the sport because it kept me away from home and traveling all over the world. But then it hadn’t been fun anymore and, despite my coaches having a cow, I retired at twenty-one.
Of course, my skills with a rifle translated into this type of work. A biathlete can hit a target less than two inches in diameter from a hundred and sixty feet while exhausted, out of breath, and laying prone on the snow-covered ground. My current rifle is a little better, though. The CheyTac M200 Intervention can hit a target from twenty-five hundred yards, so yeah… better toys with The Jameson Group.
“She’s smokin’ hot, though,” Cage says, and I lean toward the door to listen more closely. “I’d love a crack at her, but she doesn’t give anyone in our group the time of day. But I bet Kynan’s had her at least once. They’ve known each other forever and are as thick as thieves.”
This type of talk should bother me, but it doesn’t. I know it happens. I’ve developed a thick skin. I can never let anyone know I’ve taken offense because, frankly, I’m playing in a world that’s heavily dominated by men. They don’t want to work in a dangerous situation with someone who lets emotions rule them or where they can’t just be their disgusting pig selves at times.
But I do feel apprehension take root deep within me, because I don’t like this conversation happening with Bodie. He knows me carnally and he’s gotten me pregnant, two facts I do not want spread about. The pregnancy is going to come to light eventually, but I’d rather not have to explain the thing with Bodie to anyone.
I’m completely tense while I wait to see how Bodie handles this. Cage Murdock is his best friend, and they are tight. I know they talk about this shit because all guys do.
“Have some respect,” Bodie says in a low but neutral voice that barely carries through the door. “She’s our teammate.”
I’m warmed through to my core by his protectiveness of me.
“Come on,” Cage says teasingly, and I can almost imagine him nudging Bodie in the ribs with a knowing wink. “Don’t tell me you haven’t looked at her and—”
“I said have some fucking respect,” Bodie snarls, and I jump at the anger saturating his words.
“Jesus,” Cage mutters apologetically. “I’m sorry. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
I spin away from the doorway and walk quickly back the way I came. I don’t want to hear anymore, and I’ve heard enough. When I told Bodie I wanted to keep this secret, I trusted his word he wouldn’t tell anyone. What I just heard was affirmation that my trust was well placed. If he were going to tell anyone about us hooking up or about me being pregnant, it would be Cage.
Clearly, he hasn’t.
It also confirms we weren’t seen together that night at The Wicked Horse. I didn’t think we’d been, but if we had, the rumor mill would have been churning hard. Cage also would have said something.
I smile as I realize Bodie truly has my back. He’s always had it when we’re working together, but it’s nice to know he has it on the other side.
He had it when we were at Dr. Anchors’ office day before yesterday. No woman likes to get a pelvic exam. I hated myself when I flinched, because I don’t like showing weakness. But damn if Bodie didn’t see it, and then immediately started telling me all kinds of horse shit about me being beautiful and sexy. I didn’t give any credence to the actual words, but I did give him a hell of a lot of bonus points for trying to distract me.
God, did I need it, too. More than just during that pelvic exam, the entire visit I’d been strung tight. And my talk with Dr. Anchors went no differently than my talk with the doctor who’d treated me when I miscarried thirteen years ago.
After Bodie left, I just bluntly told the doctor, “I’ve been pregnant before, contrary to the history form I filled out. I miscarried at nine weeks, and I need to do things differently this time.”
He’d nodded at me in understanding, not asking why I’d left that information off the intake. I’m sure he figured out I didn’t want Bodie to know. Instead, he replied, “What do you mean ‘do things differently’? What did you do the last time that you think might have attributed to you losing the baby?”
It was obvious what the good doctor was thinking. Perhaps drugs. Maybe alcohol.
Not exactly, but not all that far from the truth.
“I was not good to my body for many years,” I told him. I explained briefly about the brutal training I went through from my early teens through my retirement from the Olympics at twenty-one. After that, I hadn’t been any better to my body. I channeled my need for thrills by moving from Olympic competition to the rush of adrenaline-pumping activities like skydiving, base jumping, and extreme climbing.
For almost a full four years after I left the Olympics, I traveled the world and lived like a bohemian bum, moving from one thrill to the next. I slept in cheap hotels or on friend’s couches. I only had with me what I could carry in a duffel bag, always seeking bigger thrills, more dangerous adventure. I ate poorly and slept even shittier. In fact, it’s how I met Kynan… base jumping off Angel Falls in Venezuela. I was jumping with a parachute. He went before me and jumped with a wingsuit. I saw him zip away, knowing jumping with a parachute was going to be way too boring for me.
What started then was a friendship that spanned many years, and is still going strong to this day. We were friends first because I was involved with someone else. Later, when I was unattached, we screwed around. When we could, we’d meet up to experience death-defying jumps or swimming uncaged with Great Whites. We’d fuck like crazed animals, and then we’d go on our way. We’d keep in touch with periodic emails or calls. It was a good friendship with a great benefits package while it lasted, but it was never exclusive.
It stopped when Kynan brought me on board to The Jameson Group. Of course, he didn’t own it back then. Jerico Jameson did, and I had to pass his muster first. But when I accepted the job, we both knew we couldn’t be involved sexually since he was in a position of authority over me.
And that was fine by me. It was just casual anyway.
So I told most of this to Dr. Anchors. The adrenaline and stress of my lifestyle. The poor nutrition and running my body into the ground. Always traveling and never resting. How I hadn’t even known I was pregnant until I miscarried because my period was never regular.
That I miscarried within hours after a harrowing bungee jump off the Macau Tower in China.
Dr. Anchors listened to me patiently, which included a rundown of my more dangerous work with The Jameson Group.
When I ran out of steam, he said, “Rachel… just because you miscarried once, it doesn’t mean it will happen again. And there is no way of knowing why you miscarried. It could have been one thing, or it could have been several factors, but the truth is that miscarriages are all too common in the first trimester.”
That didn’t make me feel better. Nothing would make me feel better, because no one could ever know the devastation it had caused me. Well, no one but Kynan. He had been in Macau, too, and he went to the hospital with me when I started bleeding badly. The boyfriend who had accidentally gotten me pregnant weeks before with a broken condom was long gone. He had never been long-term material anyway, so there was no reason to even track him down and tell him.
Yes, Kynan watched it all and let me cry on his shoulder, a vulnerability no one had ever seen before, nor has anyone since. Then he offered me a new path to pull me away from my grief.
The Jameson Group.
And here I am, repeating things all over again.
I make it to the stage, intent to climb the catwalk above for another check. I won’t be moving my rifle up there, which is currently locked in our cargo van outside, until just before the doors open.
I put my foot on the bottom rung of the ladder that connects to the scaffolding above when I hear Bodie behind me. “Hey… Hart. Wait up.”
Christ, he looks yummy in black cargo pants, a tight black t-shirt with the Jameson logo on the front pocket in white, and a holster with a Glock on his hip.
“What’s up?” I ask in a cool tone. Him calling me Hart rather than Rachel tells me this is business.
He walks right up to me, but rather than stopping a respectable distance from me, he backs me up into the ladder, his hands coming to hold the rungs by my head and caging me in. Bodie dips his head and murmurs, “Tonight after we wrap up here… I’m coming to your room.”
A shiver of anticipation runs up my spine, but I act offended. “What makes you think—”
“You’ve ignored me for two days,” his deep voice rumbles right over me. “Ever since the doctor’s office. I don’t like being ignored.”
This is true. We had a nice but brief chat after I talked privately to Dr. Anchors, and I told Bodie when the next appointment would be. Then we left in separate cars. I haven’t seen him until today, even though he’d texted me the last two nights telling me he was at The Wicked Horse waiting for me.
There was some hesitation on my part because I didn’t want to risk being seen by anyone else in the group. Mainly, though, I just avoided him because I don’t want to be a “thing” together. I want to keep it as causal as can be, and that means we don’t see each other every night.
The longer I drag this conversation out, the better the chance someone will stumble upon us in this intimate pose. Truth is that I want Bodie again, and tonight would be perfect. We’re staying in L.A. after the concert, and don’t fly out until morning.
“Fine,” I say before slipping out from between him and the ladder. “Come to my room, and we’ll get it on.”
Bodie snickers and steps back into me. I hold my ground, refusing to even lean slightly away. His lips come very close to mine, but don’t touch. His breath whispers over me, and I have to press my legs together when he says, “You know, Hart… there was a part of me that was kind of hoping you’d fight me a little. I was looking forward to making you submit.”
“In your dreams,” I mutter.
Bodie laughs and steps away from me. He gives me a quick wink and turns on his heel, walking away from me with a confident strut.
Maybe I’ll put up a little bit of a fight tonight. I never mind being overpowered in the bed.