Bitch Slap

by J. Kenner

  I bring the Rover to a squealing stop beside the Lincoln. "What's happening?" Jezebel cries, her voice tinny through the speakers.

  I don't bother answering. I'm out of the car and pulling open the left-side passenger door on the Lincoln. Delilah, looking young and scared, cowers away from me. I hold out my hand. "I'm with Jez. Come on."

  She hesitates, and I'm thinking that I'm going to have to dive in the car and forcibly scoop her up, when Jez's voice blares from the Range Rover's speakers. "Do what he says, Del. I'm coming."

  Immediately, Delilah lunges for me. I grab her hand and pull her toward me, then load her into the back seat of the Range Rover.

  "Hey!" the security guy calls, solidifying my assessment of him as an incompetent prick.

  On the hotel side of the Lincoln, a group of women are surging forward, their eyes filled with an anger I don't understand, but certainly can't deny.

  "Bitch!"

  "Levyl was too good for you!"

  "How could you hurt him like that?"

  "Whore!"

  They're getting closer, and I'm on my way back to the driver's side, yelling for Jez to meet us at the service entrance.

  But right as I'm about to get into the car, she bursts through the hotel door, then skids to a halt, just a few feet from the boiling crowd. Shit.

  Her phone's at her ear, and I can hear her cry of, "Delilah!" in stereo--from the sidewalk a few yards away, and through the rolled-down window of my Range Rover.

  "Jez!" Delilah calls. "Please, mister!"

  I hesitate only a second, debating whether it would be faster to get in the Rover or sprint to the sidewalk.

  I sprint.

  The crowd's not interested in her at first, but then someone calls out, Jezebel, and they move en masse toward her, shouting questions about Delilah. A surge of furious energy rips through me--they are not touching her--and I push myself to get to her faster, only taking an easy breath when I finally grab her outstretched hand.

  "Come on," I order, even though there's no need. She's right beside me and we race toward the car together, fingers twined, while young women grab at my jacket, shouting curses and questions and swearing that Delilah will pay for the way she hurt their sweet, wonderful Levyl.

  "In," I say, opening the door so she can get in behind me and be next to her sister. I slam the door, climb into the car, and burn rubber getting back to the street.

  I don't stop until we're well away from the hotel. Then I pull into one of the lots at Zilker Park, cut the engine, and relax, my eyes going immediately to the rear view mirror. To her.

  The women are right next to each other, Jez's arms around Delilah, who's cuddled up against her, crying softly. After a moment, Jez lifts her eyes and meets mine in the mirror. Thank you, she mouths, and I look away, my chest tightening with emotion. I tell myself I'm only thinking about Kerrie. Putting myself in Jez's shoes, and empathizing about how she's feeling now that her sister's safe.

  It's not true, of course. What I'm feeling is the shock of this woman's gratitude. That soft, grateful look from a woman I know is strong and competent, but who still needed me. And the pride of coming through for her.

  For her.

  Because it's not about the job. It's about the woman. And that's not something I've felt in a long time.

  Frankly, it's not something I want to feel at all.

  Suddenly, the huge interior of my Range Rover is feeling claustrophobic. I grab the handle and open the door, then step out, shutting it behind me. They need privacy. And I need space.

  But after a few minutes, I hear the door open, then slam shut. I'm leaning against the front of the Rover, looking out toward the soccer field and the river. My condo's on the other side, and from this angle, I can see the rise of my building blending in with the downtown Austin skyline.

  Home.

  "It's a pretty view," Jez says, easing up beside me.

  "Your first time in Austin, right?"

  I'm still looking at the city lights, but I can see her in my periphery. The way she turns toward me, her head tilted just slightly, as if I'm a knotty puzzle she has to solve. "Why were you at Thyme? It wasn't to meet me."

  "Blind date," I say, turning toward her. "Mistaken identity." I nod toward the car. "We should write it up. It could be one of those romantic caper films. Your sister could star."

  Immediately, her expression shuts down and she wraps her arms around herself as if cold. It's March, but it's Austin, so there's barely a chill in the air. Even so, I take off my jacket and put it around her shoulders. She flashes me a quick smile, looking both sheepish and vulnerable. "I'm starting to wonder if there's going to be anything to star in."

  "What are you talking about?"

  For a moment, I think she's going to answer. Then the wall slams back in place, and she just shakes her head. "Nothing. Never mind."

  "Jez..."

  "Honestly, it's not your problem." She pushes away from the car. "I appreciate your help--really. But we'll be fine now. When you take us back, you should probably go to that service entrance, though."

  "We're not going back," I say.

  "Excuse me?"

  "It's South By Southwest right now," I tell her, referring to the well-attended Austin conference and festival. "We're talking fans, reporters, the whole nine yards. They're all in town. And the Violet Crown isn't secure. You think the photographers are going to stay away from that bar just because you ask them nicely?"

  "You're right," she says, surprising me. "I'll take care of it tomorrow."

  "How about we take care of it tonight?"

  Her lips press tight together. "I appreciate what you did," she says. "But I'm not hiring you. I need a firm that can provide a long-term solution, not a one-night fix."

  "Tonight's working out pretty well for you," I say with a wry grin. "But just to be clear, in work, I'm all about long-term relationships."

  "So it's just your personal life that's truncated?"

  Something about the way she says it stabs me in the gut. As if she's stripped me down to the essentials and found me wanting. "Yeah," I say. "I've slipped on the relationship suit before. It's a little too tight for my taste."

  She nods. "Well, I don't suppose it matters either way. We're not in a relationship, we're not having a one-night stand, and I already have a new security team lined up for the rest of the shoot."

  "Led by the same guy who didn't show up at Thyme?"

  "Actually, yeah."

  I nod. "Seems reliable and solid. Good choice."

  "The studio vetted him," she says tightly. "They just got the date wrong when they set up the meet. He's flying in tomorrow."

  "And Larry?"

  Her brow furrows. "What about Larry?"

  "He's your former security detail, right? The one you were with for five years?" I make a spinning motion with my finger beside my head. "I reran our conversation in my head. It makes a lot more sense now that I know who you weren't."

  "What about him?"

  "He approve of your new guy?"

  "I--I wouldn't know." She draws a breath and looks down at the ground. "He died over a year ago. A drunk driver in Newport Beach."

  My blood pounds through me--this story is too familiar. "Larry?" I say. "Laurence Piper?" Colonel Laurence Piper?"

  Her eyes widen. "You knew him?"

  "I spent six months under him. I went to his funeral," I add.

  "You were in Special Forces."

  I nod. I don't like to talk about my time in uniform. I don't regret it--I have my job and my training because of the skills I learned in the military--but the things I saw can haunt a man. And I learned a long time ago to turn my back on the pain.

  "I think Larry would want me to make sure you're safe," I say now. "To get you out of the Crown." The wind's blown a strand of hair over her lips, and I brush it away without thinking, surprised by the shock of awareness that jolts through me as my fingers brush her cheek.

  She feels it, too. I'm certain
of it. I hear her shuddering breath. I see the way she drops her gaze, then starts to take a step back. She stops herself, pulling my jacket tighter around her. When she looks up again, she's all business. "We'll never find a room. It's the festival, remember? And all of our stuff is at the Crown."

  "In other words, if I can get your things delivered to you and set you up in a room, you'll move hotels, no argument?"

  "Well, hell," she says. "I walked into that one."

  I fight a smug grin. "Right straight into the fire."

  Her lips are pressed together, but this time it's not with irritation, but because she's trying not to laugh. And the effort is making her eyes light up, giving her a glow that's both sexy and sweet ... and really not the direction my thoughts need to be traveling.

  After a second, she pulls herself together. "Okay. Fine. You win. But you'll never get a room. It's insanity."

  "Shall we bet?" Now I'm the one playing with fire. But I can't help it. I want to feel the heat, even at the risk of being burned.

  Her eyes narrow. "What are the stakes?"

  "I thought you were my date earlier tonight. Let's make it official. Have dinner with me tomorrow."

  A single brow rises in that way she has. "When you thought I was your date, we were having drinks."

  "Fair enough," I say. "Drinks and appetizers. Deal?"

  "Deal," she says. "But you're not going to win."

  "Watch me." I pull out my phone, hoping my confidence isn't misplaced, then dial a friend I haven't spoken to in years. "Ryan Hunter," I tell her. "He used to own his own security business, but now he's the Security Chief for Stark International," I continue, referencing the huge international conglomerate owned by former tennis-pro turned billionaire entrepreneur, Damien Stark.

  "And that's helpful how?"

  "The new Starfire Hotel on Congress Avenue is a Stark property. So if management is holding back a room, I'm ninety percent sure Ryan can snag it for me."

  He answers on the fourth ring, and after some quick catching up, I cut to the chase. "Ideally a suite," I say after explaining the situation. "But I'd be grateful for anything you can wrangle."

  "Hang on," he says, then puts me on hold. "You're in," he says when he returns. "Ask for Luis when you get there. He'll get them set up."

  "I owe you."

  "I'll remember that."

  I chuckle, then hang up. A lot of the security business is run on traded favors. Today, that practice worked well for me--and for Jez, who's eyeing me with curiosity.

  I flash a victorious smile. "Never bet against the house."

  "Let's go," she says, and though her voice is stern, I hear the humor underneath.

  As promised, Luis takes good care of the Del and Jez, providing them with pseudonyms for check-in, a suite on a floor with private key access, and a floor plan that consists of two bedrooms that connect from opposite sides to a huge living area.

  "I hope this is suitable?" Luis asks.

  "It's great," Jez assures him.

  "So you're all set," I say after Luis leaves. He's promised to personally act as a liaison with the Crown to arrange the delivery of both women's things. "Tomorrow night. I'll pick you up at eight."

  "I'll meet you at Thyme," she says, then smiles innocently.

  "Fair enough. But no club soda with lime."

  "Deal," she says.

  "You two need to shake on it," Delilah says, walking in from the bedroom she'd claimed.

  I hadn't gotten much of a look at her earlier, but it's easy to see why she'd shot to stardom. At eighteen, she has a maturity about her that seems much older. But there's an innocence, too, suggesting a life that's just a little too sheltered.

  She's shorter than her sister, and thinner. Almost too thin, at least for my taste.

  Her face is classically beautiful, but a smattering of freckles gives her an approachable quality. She's full of laughter, despite the harassment by the fans, and it's easy to tell which is the more serious of the sisters.

  "Thank you again," Delilah says to me, for what must be the thousandth time. "For the rescue and for the room."

  "You're welcome again," I say, and she grins.

  "He was good, wasn't he?" she says to Jez.

  "Bossy and arrogant," Jez says, her eyes flickering to me. "But, yeah. He was good."

  I smile, more pleased than I should be by the compliment.

  "Of course, he's also an ass," she adds, making Delilah burst into laughter.

  "Watch it, or I'll make another bet. I think we both know your track record."

  "I'm quaking with terror."

  Delilah's head moves, her eyes wide as she watches the two of us like a tennis game. "So tomorrow, right? I'll just hang out here."

  "You'll definitely hang out here," Jez says. "No late shoot tomorrow. So no repeat of tonight." She glances at her watch. "You have a five a.m. call. I'll wake you at four. Go." She nods toward the bedroom.

  Delilah looks at me, her expression exasperated. "She forgets that it's been five years since I was thirteen."

  "You forget what a bitch you are when you don't get enough sleep."

  That's her, Delilah mouths, holding up a hand to shield the finger she's pointing at Jez.

  "I heard that."

  "I'm going, I'm going." Delilah pauses in the door of her room. "Thanks again, Pierce. For everything."

  "My pleasure," I say. And then she closes her door, and I'm alone with Jez, and this palatial suite seems suddenly too small.

  I clear my throat. "I should let you get to sleep, too."

  She nods. "Yeah. It's late."

  "Tomorrow," I say.

  "Tomorrow." She steps toward me, and my heart pounds in anticipation of her touch--and then with mortification when I realize that all she's doing is walking to the door.

  "Lock it behind me," I order.

  "Of course."

  Then I'm outside, and she smiles, and the door closes in my face.

  And that, I think, is the end of that.

  Except it's not. I'm going to see her tomorrow.

  And right then I realize that I made a mistake with that bet. I should have kept my mouth shut.

  I should have just walked away.

  Because Jezebel Stuart is the kind of woman who gets under your skin.

  But I'm not the kind of man who sticks.

  Five

  "This is my favorite shot," Kerrie says, holding up her tablet so that Connor can see what she's looking at. Then she turns it to me, as if I'm just an afterthought. "I like how everything's in focus except you and Delilah. You're both just a little blurry."

  "Nice," I say, leaning back against the break room countertop and sipping my second cup of late-afternoon coffee. After a day reviewing blueprints in prep for an upcoming job, I need the caffeine. "Way to be kind to your big brother."

  The image is from the Crown, and it shows Delilah and me hurrying from the Town Car to my Range Rover.

  "An action shot," Connor says, flashing a wide grin. "And with a movie star. I don't know, Blackwell. Could be the start of a whole new career for you."

  "Nah," my sister says to Connor. "You're the one with the movie star looks."

  "Hey." I hold up my hands, pretending offense. "What am I? Dog food?"

  She sets the tablet down and eyes me critically. "You'll do," she says. "Empirically you're pretty hot, even if you are my brother. It's the eyes that do it. You have bedroom eyes."

  By the fridge, Connor snorts.

  "I'm serious," my sister says. "I mean, he's got the body for sure--thank you Uncle Sam-- and a solid jawline. Extra points, by the way, for the beard stubble."

  "I try."

  "But it's those pale blue eyes that get him laid. I mean, basically he got what I was supposed to have. The bastard."

  My sister has dark hair and brown eyes, and she knows damn well that she's stunning.

  "But you," she continues, looking to Connor, "you have that mysterious dark thing going on. It's seriously hot."<
br />
  "You just want in my bed," Connor teases.

  "Been there, done that," she says airily.

  As always whenever their past fling comes up, I eye both of them, searching for signs that their short-lived relationship is going to somehow blow up--and blow back on the business. But they both seem fine with having moved on. And although that surprises me--Kerrie's had a crush on Connor since she was thirteen and I brought him and Cayden home with me when we were on leave--I also know that the fourteen-year age difference between them is something that Connor was never comfortable with.

  Since they didn't bother consulting me when they broke it off, I don't know all the reasons. But I do know they've stayed friends.

  Which works out well for the business, because my sister's doing a stellar job as our office manager, a role she took on after she confessed to me that she was bored out of her mind with her previous job as a paralegal. Now, she runs the office and is going to school part time for her MBA.

  She picks up the tablet again. "There are dozens more pictures like that one. Maybe hundreds. Want to see?"

  "No," I say firmly, as Connor says, "Hell, yes."

  "Fine," she says, putting the tablet down with a smirk. "I'll show Connor later, when Cayden's here to share your humiliation."

  "That's why you're my favorite sister. You treat me so well."

  "I'm amazing," she chirps. "But seriously, your fifteen minutes of fame could be good for our bottom line."

  Cayden slides into the room, then leans against the wall, his arms crossed. "Well, that's something I like to hear. What did our Mr. Blackwell do?"

  Kerrie passes him the tablet, then gives him a rundown of last night--her version, at least. Cayden listens, amused, his expression much the same as Connor's. To be expected, I suppose. They're identical twins. But it's easy to tell them apart these days. Cayden wears a patch over his left eye--the injury being the reason he'd been discharged three years ago despite intending to stay in the game until retirement.

  He still does some fieldwork at Blackwell-Lyon, but mostly he's the face of our organization. And he's damn good at the job. "The patch makes me look tough," he often says. "And that's a baseline requirement when I'm asking folks to put their lives in our hands."

  He hands the tablet back to Kerrie. "So all this coverage is bringing in new business?"

  "Not a flood," she says. "But I must have fielded at least a half-dozen calls today. I guess folks figure if Pierce is watching out for Delilah, then he can watch out for them, too."