Untitled Book 2

by Chantal Fernando

  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?”

  She purses her lips but reluctantly answers. “One of my father’s men. His name is Greg.”

  I’m not one to judge, and I generally don’t give a shit about what other people do, but it’s clear this chick is spoiled as hell and is used to getting anything she wants, including her way.

  “I don’t like the fact that there are all these fuckin’ people coming in and out of the house,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Talon said I’m in charge, so don’t bother arguing. The chef has to go, and no one else is coming inside. The night guard I will check out myself, and if I approve, he can wait outside; he has no reason to step inside the house.”

  Shayla surprises me by shrugging again and saying, “I don’t give a crap. Do what you want.”

  I exhale and walk out of the room. I change the code on the fence, and I change the locks on the doors. To really protect the little spoiled princess I need to be able to control the environment, who enters and who has access. When Greg arrives with dinner, I thank him but tell him he no longer needs to bring the food—that I will sort it out. He seems a little suspicious but agrees and lets it go. I carry the plastic bag of food to the kitchen and search through it, happy when I see tonight’s menu is apparently Japanese.

  “Did he bring my katsu chicken sushi?” she asks as she enters the room.

  I shrug and nod toward the bag. “Have a look for yourself.”

  She opens the bag and pulls out a box. “Sweet,” she murmurs, then grabs some water from the fridge. I have no idea how she’s being so casual about everything—including having me in her presence—without even batting those long-ass lashes. Maybe she doesn’t realize how dangerous a situation she’s in, but still, she seems completely at ease, even though she has people out to kill her. People so dangerous that she needs high security and has to remain hidden.

  “You can have the rest, this is all I wanted,” she says, walking out of the kitchen. I watch her leave, gritting my teeth. Something about her just sets me on edge. It takes me a few minutes to figure out exactly what it is—she reminds me a lot of my ex-girlfriend Eliza. Eliza came from money and thought she was better than everyone else. She was a spoiled, entitled bitch, but because she was my first girlfriend, my first regular pussy, I let her lead me by the balls. Yeah—Shayla might be beautiful, but she definitely isn’t my type. I like women who aren’t so high maintenance and used to having their way. This week is going to drag on, but at least I can keep myself busy sorting out the clusterfuck that is Shayla’s security detail.

  Let’s just hope she doesn’t drive me insane before the week is over.

  THREE

  Shayla

  I WATCH from the corner of my eye, pretending to ignore his very existence, as he storms around the house as if he owns it. There’s something different about him from the others who have been sent to protect me. I’ve seen him check the locks on the windows and doors more than once, and I can tell he’s questioning the way things are being run around here. It seems like he’s taking the job pretty seriously, even though I know for a fact that this isn’t what he does for a living. From what I gathered from Talon, Vinnie is some badass biker just using his life experience to protect me. But I trust Talon, and if he says Vinnie can be trusted, then I believe him.

  “Who does the cleaning?” he suddenly stops and asks me, running his hand over his shaved head, his brown eyes pinned on me. Seeing as we haven’t been doing much of the whole communication thing, his question catches me off guard.

  “Why?” I ask, lifting my head up to look at him. No one has ever asked me that before.

  “Answer the question,” he says, not looking impressed. “If you get a cleaner or some shit to come in, I think you need to reassess your priorities, because a little mess is better than you being fuckin’ dead.”

  My eyes widen at his outburst. I have a feeling this guy really doesn’t like me, although I’m not sure why exactly.

  “I do the cleaning,” I tell him, looking away and painting my toenail a bright red. I don’t know what his deal is. I finish painting the nail, then glance up again, wondering why he’s still standing there glaring at me.

  “The place is spotless,” he points out, looking around.

  I dip the brush into the bottle, then say, “I like things clean.”

  I can’t sleep if the place isn’t spotless. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been very organized and tidy. On top of that, I like to keep busy, and being stuck in the house all day doesn’t give me very many options. Since my father landed in prison, work is out of the question. No one wants an accountant—an uncertified one at that—whose father is in prison for fraud. Besides, I like to clean when I’m stressed out, or angry. It helps calm me.

  “You clean,” he says slowly, sounding surprised. “I’d have thought you’d be used to having a cleaner, or something.”

  “I did have a cleaner when I lived with my dad,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.

  I can actually feel the judgment pouring off him. He thinks I’m spoiled and is surprised by the fact that I can keep a tidy house. Like he said before, though, I haven’t really got much else to do. I’ve been taking some college business and marketing classes online, for a degree, to keep me busy. If I’m not studying, I’m
reading, cleaning, or working out. I feel like I’m in prison, just a really fancy, expensive one. I can leave the house if I take someone with me, but all my previous bodyguards have preferred that I just stay home, probably so it was easier for them to do their job. Still, what I wouldn’t kill to be able to walk outside that front door freely and without being paranoid that someone is coming for me at any given moment.

  I don’t complain though.

  This is my life right now, but it’s only temporary. I just need to suck it up and know that so many other people have it worse than being trapped inside a luxurious house. Some people don’t even have a house. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  “So you spend all day tanning by the pool, demanding food, and painting your fuckin’ nails?” he asks, looking extremely put out.

  “What exactly do you want me to do?” I ask, scanning his face. I don’t bother to point out the fact that I’ve already told him that I clean the place. It’s not like I’m sitting on my ass doing nothing, and besides, what else am I supposed to do? “You haven’t even been here for a full day and you’re judging me? I’ve been living like this for weeks now. Do you think I enjoy being locked up?”

  “I’m just wondering why everyone is fighting so hard to protect someone who seems to be nothing but spoiled and shallow,” he says easily, like each word isn’t cutting me.

  “You’re a dick,” I tell him, shaking my head in disbelief. “And your job is to protect me, not try to make me a better person. We have a week in this house together, so why don’t you just keep your hastily drawn conclusions to yourself, all right?”

  Maybe I was spoiled—my father always gave me everything I wanted.

  But I wasn’t shallow.

  And I think it says more about him than me that he decided what I was before trying to get to know me, even a little bit. But oh well, he wasn’t the first person to think so, and he wouldn’t be the last.

  He ignores my rant and sits down on the couch opposite me. To make matters worse, I find myself physically attracted to him—not that I’d ever admit it out loud. He did have that whole bad-boy thing going for him, a good build, and a handsome face. Although not classically gorgeous, he still has something about him that makes me want to take a second or third look.

  “I need to run to the store to get a few things, and you need to come with me.”

  I perk up at the thought of leaving the house. I haven’t been outside since the day I walked into this house. “Okay.”

  “Do you know the area?” he asks, stretching his neck from side to side and not looking at me.

  “No,” I say, leaning back on the couch. “What do you need to buy? I can do a Google search and see what there is around here.”

  I’d do anything for a little tiny taste of freedom, even ignore his previous rude-ass comments.

  “I saw a grocery store as I was riding in, so that’s fine,” he says, glancing at his watch. “I want to go to a sporting goods store where I can get some weights or something, or I’m going to go batshit crazy here.” He pauses. “And maybe some swimming trunks.”

  Not remembering the last time I went shopping in person, I feel a bubble of excitement surrounding me. “Okay, sounds good. I can buy some new stuff too. When do you want to go? Tomorrow morning?”

  He nods once. “Yeah, all right. We’ll have to take the vehicle they left here—can’t take my bike.”

  “That’s no problem,” I say, unable to stop the smile spreading on my lips.

  “Should’ve known shopping would be your weakness,” he grumbles, stealing the remote and changing the channel.

  I don’t let his comment get to me. Let him think what he wants—I don’t care.

  I am happy to be able to go shopping.

  If I could take a walk in a park, or go to the library, even better—but I’m not going to push it.

  “You got me there,” I say, rolling my eyes. Sure, I had designer bags and clothes, but that was because my father bought them for me as gifts. I’ve never bought something so expensive for myself, and I don’t feel comfortable spending anyone else’s money. It sucks as it is that I can’t work, that I need to stay hidden. My father got into some serious shit, and now I’m the one sacrificing for it.

  “Must be nice to have everything handed to you on a silver platter,” he says, glancing down at his phone.

  I grit my teeth and try to stop myself from replying, but the words just leave my mouth. “You must be a pretty hypocritical biker to judge my life when you live yours in a certain way.” I pause. “Crime, women, drugs, and who knows what else, but sure, let’s concentrate on the fact that I grew up with money. Apparently that’s the only thing you can use against me.”

  Vinnie raises a brow at me, looking extremely unimpressed. “You learn all that about bikers by watching Talon? I sure as fuck don’t do drugs.”

  I notice he doesn’t address the other issues I mentioned, so the women and the illegal stuff must be true.

  I know that Talon and the Wild Men aren’t innocent at all, because Talon is always tangled up in something or the other.

  “Really? Must suck to be stereotyped like that, then,” I sneer, flashing him a fake smile.

  The bastard suddenly looks amused, his lips twitching and his brown eyes filling with mirth. “You’re rich, spoiled, and you have a mouth on you. I was told about all this before I even stepped into this door, so don’t act like it’s completely wrong. It’s not just me coming to this conclusion. It’s basically fact.”

  “Well, if everyone thinks it, it must be true,” I say in a sarcastic tone. “Everyone being Talon, since he’s the only person we both know.”

  Talon always tells me I’m a brat, but in a fond way. I’m his baby cousin, of course I’m a pain in his ass, it’s part of the job description.

  Vinnie shrugs and infuriatingly says, “I’m a good judge of character.”

  The only thing he’s good at is being an ass.

  “So I’m assuming you don’t come from money, then?” I ask, not rudely, but all of this has to be coming from somewhere. “What do your parents do?”

  “I don’t have any parents,” he says in a flat tone, looking back down at his phone.

  “Everyone has parents.”

  I mean everyone came from somewhere. I was adopted as a baby, and I don’t know anything about my birth parents, except their names. Maybe one day I’ll travel back to Vietnam to find answers, but for now, my parents are the ones who loved and wanted me, not the ones who birthed me.

  “Not me,” he says, sounding like he’d rather be talking about anything else right now. “I grew up in foster care.”

  He still had biological parents, just like I did back in Vietnam, but I don’t point that out.

  “My dad and mom adopted me from an orphanage in Vietnam,” I tell him, wanting him to know he’s not alone, my biological parents didn’t want me either.

  “Yeah, well, no one adopted me,” he says, standing up. “I’m going to go outside and check the perimeter. I need to have a chat with the night guard too.”

  He leaves, and I’m left feeling . . . something.

  He didn’t get adopted.

  What would my life have been like if I hadn’t been? Maybe that’s why I don’t complain about the predicament I’m in right now.

  Because my life could have been a hell of a lot worse.

  FOUR

  HE comes back two hours later and ignores me, so I do the same, pretending we never shared something so personal with each other. I’m reading a romance novel when he sits down opposite me again and says, “It’s late.”

  I raise my gaze to him. “And?”

  “And aren’t you tired?”

  “Aren’t you?” I fire back, wondering what he is getting at here.

  “If we’re going shopping early, you better get your ass up. How long does it take you to get ready? An hour? Two?”

  He’s really laying this bullshit on thick.

  “You’r
e ridiculous, you know that?” I say, narrowing my eyes on him. “I’ll be up and ready before you are, don’t you worry about that.”

  “I really fuckin’ doubt that,” he scoffs, putting his bare feet up on the red couch. “Be ready to leave after breakfast, say, ten?”

  I roll my eyes. I wake up at six every morning to do yoga, so being ready by that time isn’t a big deal for me.

  “I’m sure I can manage that,” I say, glancing back down at my book. When Vinnie makes a sound of amusement, I lift my head again and send a threatening look in his direction. “What now?”

  “Nothing,” he murmurs, still grinning.

  I look into his brown eyes, lighter than my dark ones, and demand, “Tell me.”

  He scrubs a hand down the stubble on his cheek, then points to my book. “I know the author, is all. It still amazes me how popular her books are.” He pauses. “And that she writes them.”

  I take a deep breath and try to curb down my inner fangirl. “Are you trying to tell me that you personally know Zada Ryan? No bullshit?”

  I want a signed book.

  No, I need a signed book.

  No. I need all her books signed for my signed bookshelf.

  With a personalized message.

  “No bullshit,” he replies, searching my eyes and frowning. “What’s wrong with you? Your eyes are all wide and crazy, and you’re squeezing the shit out of the book in your hand.”

  I drop the book on my lap, trying to act cool. “I’m fine,” I say, tucking my hair back behind my ear. “So, just how are you friends with Zada?”

  This is huge.

  “On a first-name basis are you?” Vinnie asks, smirking. He taps his fingers on the arm of the couch, and I stare at the tattoos covering his knuckles as I answer.

  “I love her books,” I admit, shrugging. “Aren’t I allowed to be curious?”

  He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Tell you what, you behave yourself for the next week, listen to everything I say, and stay out of trouble, I’ll introduce you to her.”