“He already left,” I say, scanning the backyard. “Seemed pretty fuckin’ happy to do so too.”
“I’ll bet,” she murmurs, reopening her book and casting her gaze down, dismissing me.
“Which room should I use?” I ask, wanting to get settled.
“Upstairs, first room on the right.”
“Anyone else here?” I ask, trying not to stare at her ass and failing.
“Another guard comes at night,” she says, flicking the page. “You’re the only one here with me during the day.” She pauses, then says, “Although I don’t know what they expect you to do.”
I glance around. I have no idea what they expect me to do either.
Leaving her to her own devices, I check the upstairs and put my shit in my room, which is about three times the size of my room at the clubhouse. I’m glad it doesn’t have fancy floral shit or anything; it’s pretty much all white, with a giant bed that gives me ideas I don’t need to be having. I want to take a quick shower but instead I head back down, wanting to be debriefed properly about the situation, but all I know is what Talon told me.
From what I understand, Shayla is the daughter of some accountant who is Talon’s biological uncle. He had clients who required him to be creative in doing their books, which landed him in prison. Apparently there are rumors he’s working with the feds, so there are men after Shayla who plan to use her against her father. Not only do they want to threaten her life, they think she has the information her father needs. She’s his weakness. Talon thinks it’s the Mafia, since they were a huge client of his, but he isn’t really sure. No one has shown their faces. I have no idea why her father turned to Talon when he’d already hired guards, but here I am. I’m here to protect her, for a week, until they move her again.
This is the third house she’s been in in the last two months. Talon thinks moving is the solution to keep her from being found, and so far it’s seemed to work. On top of my being here as her personal bodyguard, her father’s hired men are also on call 24-7, and the house has camera surveillance. I personally think they’re going about this all wrong, but what the fuck do I know?
I’m just a biker who owes another biker a motherfuckin’ favor.
* * *
After a phone call with Talon, I take a shower and head back downstairs. Shayla has moved inside and is sitting on the couch, watching TV.
“What do you do for dinner?” I ask her as my stomach rumbles, making her jump in her seat.
She flicks her head around, her hair flying around her oval-shaped face. “Jesus, how do you not make any noise when you walk? You’re freaking massive.” She pauses, raking her gaze over me. “You’re one of those douchey guys who spends all his time in the gym, aren’t you?”
My lips tighten into a line. If I’m going to have to deal with this mouth for a week, I’m going to need something to keep me sane. Since women are out, and I can’t drink on the job, maybe I should take up smoking for the week.
Yeah, I can almost feel the nicotine craving begin.
“What happens for dinner?” I repeat, not impressed one bit.
“Someone usually drops something off,” she says, shrugging her petite shoulders. “At seven. Sometimes a chef comes in and makes whatever I feel like eating.”
A chef?
I blink slowly, wondering which idiot runs this operation. “Do they screen this chef?”
“It’s the same guy who comes,” she says, looking at the TV and flicking through the channels. “He’s been with us for years. He’s fine, practically family.”
I scrub my hand down my face and count to ten in my head. I have no fuckin’ idea how this girl is still alive. If I’m going to be in charge of protecting her, I’m going to change things around here. “Who drops off the food? Why don’t you just cook something? It’s not like you have anything else to do here all day.”
Her head snaps to me like that exorcist bitch. “Just because I’m a woman I’m supposed to cook? Times have changed, and I’m not going to be spending hours in the kitchen every day just because I have a set of tits. Why don’t you cook?”
I look up at the ceiling, my jaw tighter than it’s ever been. Wishing Talon had asked me to torture someone for him instead, I move to stand in front of her, blocking the TV from her view.
“Hey,” she growls, looking up at me.
“I’m here to make sure you’re not fuckin’ kidnapped, raped, or tortured,” I say in a tone that’s way too calm. “Who drops the food off to you?”