by Lexi Whitlow
“Hey,” he says, catching my arm. “I think you ought to let me walk you home.”
My heartbeat quickens. I don’t like the way he said that, but I like the way his eyes lock with mine. The drinks—far more alcohol than I’m used to having—they’re making everything fuzzy.
“It’s just a mile. I think I’ll go it alone.” I give him a weak smile. When he looks in my eyes, I admit it. There’s a spark there. At least, I think there is.
“No, seriously,” Aden says. “There are some weirdos out there. I think I’ll walk with you. No expectations. Nothing like that.”
Ella looks at me and shrugs. “Go for it,” she mouths in my direction. “He’s cute.”
Aden sees her too and grins. “Like I said, no expectations. I’ll walk you. You ought to let me. A woman needs a man to protect her in this kind of town.”
“I don’t need a man to protect me,” I say, laughing. “If I wanted to, I could have my mother’s security team follow me around on campus. But I don’t.”
I bite my lip, suddenly embarrassed. What if this guy doesn’t know who my mom is? That would be a huge advantage. I let it hang in the air between us, and he doesn’t make mention of it. Instead, he takes my arm in his, like a gentleman. And we walk out of the bar.
We wander out into the night, feeling pleasantly drunk. He puts an arm around me and I lean up to kiss him as we walk. We kiss and walk for a while, and when we stop I realize we've gone the wrong way, which makes me laugh. Then I see his face, and I stop laughing.
Some men get a look in their eyes before they're going to do something bad, like the guilt needs an outlet, even if it's not enough to stop them.
“Aden…” I start.
"It is you, isn't it?"
The next moment he's slamming me back into the wall. I scream—how can this be the one night there aren't photographers on my ass?
A flash of pain in my head.
Blackness.
That's all I remember.
Chapter Two
Avery
The first thing I'm aware of is the sterile lights looking down on me. I've woken up to lights like this once before — a minor operation I had back in college. My disordered mind puts the pieces together and tells me I'm in a hospital. A pair of dark blurs lean over me.
"Avery?" I recognize my father’s voice.
"Avery?" Mom's voice is always sharper, but there's worry there too. Probably worry about her campaign, but still, I latch onto it.
The blurs coalesce in to people and I become aware of another person standing behind my parents, by the wall. Not a doctor from the looks of him, perhaps part of my mother’s security detail. The one I accidentally bragged about to the asshole who knocked me out. Fuck.
Where were they when I needed them?
I’ve refused security at least seven times in the past year. Now my mother is going to use this incident to force it. She’ll get me some stuffy, boring bodyguard, and I’ll be stuck with him.
Fucking dammit.
I groan and try to turn over in bed.
“Avery, don’t try to move just yet. The doctor said the stitches were in a delicate place on your head.” My mother’s clipped accent cuts through the hazy mess of my thinking, and I groan even louder. It’s like her voice is giving me an extra headache on top of the one I already have. I reach up blindly and feel at my head. My eyes are bleary. One of them feels like it’s glued shut. I can feel a neat row of stitches at the top of my forehead. A jolt of agonizing disgust sears through my body when I touch the wound. I pull my hand away quickly.
“Avery,” my mother says. “Stop that this instant. Stop moving around. You’re going to make it worse. And God knows that scar is going to show up on camera and in the papers. People have plenty of sympathy for your attack, but we don’t want a scar showing up when I’m at the convention later this summer.”
I lift my fingers to the wound again, this time just to piss off my mother. The shadowy figure in the corner lets out a sound that might be a laugh. My head is swimming from the morphine, but it sounds comforting, that laugh. Like something old and long-forgotten.
“Avery!” My mother pulls my hand away and puts it by my side. “Don’t poke at it. I don’t want any of those stitches coming undone. Not before the plastic surgeon gets a look at you.”
“Jesus, Mom,” I moan. I close my eyes hard and try to open them again. I don’t add anything because there’s nothing to add. She’s thinking more about my TV appearances than she is about whether or not I might have brain damage.
“Evelyn,” my father says. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. The plastic surgeon will take care of the scar. Plus, it could be good for the campaign. The scar would remind people of what she went through. Our brave girl. We can spin it just like we did this story. The attack—out of nowhere.”
“Yes, spin it. I’m sure you will,” I growl.
“We’ll have to, won’t we, Avery?” My mother’s voice is thin and angry. The tiny amount of concern that was there before is gone now. “Your appearance is important for the campaign. The scar, though, that won’t look good on camera.”
"Sorry, Mom, I'll try to quit getting mugged," I reply sarcastically. The pain in my head throbs in time to each word. I glance again at the man in the corner. Everything is foggy, and that one eye won’t come open.
“You need to be safer,” my mother says icily. There’s something wrong with her voice, like she’s even more distant from all of this than usual. Gone are all traces of worry. “And you need to have security.”
I lift my hand again and trace my fingers lightly over my eye. Bruised. Swollen. I groan and try to roll away from my mother’s voice, but it’s everywhere.
“Stop touching it,” my mother hisses.
“Evelyn—” my father starts. But he doesn’t say anything else.
“This was bound to happen eventually,” my mother continues. “With you refusing security guards and any kind of protection.”
“I left with him. He was going to walk me home. He seemed nice.” I say the words flatly. “I didn’t know.”
“We’re going to make sure it doesn’t happen again, Avery. We don’t want to see you like this.” She tries to reach a hand out to my arm to be comforting, but I pull away.
I hate how I am with my parents. I feel like I’m thirteen, railing against everything they say. I shouldn’t have to defend my choices, and at twenty-five, I shouldn’t be forced to be a part of their career. Yet, here I am. Trapped. I lash out the only way I know how.
“No, you want to see me on TV, with no scar. You made that perfectly clear.”
“Being a Thomas comes with certain responsibilities. We’re an old family name. Your forefathers helped found this country. I’m a four-star general, and your mother is a senator of this state. You have public appearances and—”
“So I should stay safe and sound and scar-free? Just sit up in my apartment and brush my hair five hundred times a night?”
The man in the corner laughs again, though I can hear he’s trying to hide it. I smile weakly.
“Now that you mention it, you could use a touch up around your face. I like it best when you have blond highlights. The red around your face doesn’t look great on camera.” My mother attempts to touch my hair, but I swat her hand away.
My father sighs. “You’re our wild card, Avery. And this campaign doesn’t need a wild card. There are rumors about you in the tabloids. That you’re going home with men all the time. Is that true?”
“No,” I say, my voice short. “I used to go on a lot of dates, but it’s all a bunch of dumb, boring assholes—”
“If you had a respectable boyfriend like that Gary fellow,” my father starts, “maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”
“All I need is a man to protect me,” I say. “Gary wanted to work for you. Not be with me.”
“What about the guy before that?” My mother touches me again, and this time, I let her. She smoothes my hair.<
br />
“He wasn’t into me either.” My eyelids are heavy. Images in my mind all blur together. I don’t want to rehash that particular fiasco, not right now.
“We’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” my father says. “And then we’ll find a man for you. Someone who is comfortable with the Thomas family name. Someone who respects it.” He pats me on my arm, but I can tell his mind is somewhere else. Spinning the news. Reliving his glory days in the military. Anywhere but here, with me.
Tears sting my eyes, and I turn away from them, burying my head in the scratchy hospital pillow.
The guy in the corner clears his throat, like he’s uncomfortable with my parents’ bullshit. Anyone would be.
I open one eye and look at him again.
He looks familiar, but I can't place why. Like a painting of a photograph of someone I once saw, a long time ago.
If he was in a painting, he’d be in a military painting. Well over six feet tall, broad, built like a tank, each line of him indicating precision and physical perfection. His stormy blue eyes are the thing I notice most, even looking at him, blearily, through my one good eye. They’re distant and cold, but there’s an echo of something kind and patient. His deep brown hair is cropped close, not quite military regulation but almost. And the stubble on his chin indicates he’s not on active duty. But I’d recognize a Marine anywhere, even with a concussion.
“Who the fuck is that?” I force the words out, and it feels like my mouth is filled with cotton and sand. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Language,” my mother replies automatically. I’m not looking at her, but I can tell she’s flipping through emails on her phone.
“Your mother was against it,” my father says. “Very much so.”
The man in the corner sighs.
“Still am,” my mother says. “But the papers like a good redemption story, and your father found one for us. It’s good to show the media we’re protecting you after your brush with danger, Avery.”
“Seven years in the Marines, out on honorable discharge for an injury. He’ll be your new bodyguard. No refusing it after this, Avery. He needs the money. His mother helped us for years. So we’re helping him.”
“How Christian of you,” I say. The man’s face starts to come into clearer focus. My heart skips a beat and then pounds hard. The blood rushes to my face all at once.
The man grins, and my memory pours back in. Warm evenings out on my parents’ roof, the sweet taste of pot and cheap wine. The bitter, angry taste of disappointment that stayed with me the entire summer I lived in Vancouver.
Fuck. Him.
And he’s been here the whole time, listening to my whiny, bitchy ranting.
I turn bright pink. I can feel it in my cheeks.
“I think you must remember Maddox Bryant, Avery. Your father will go on and on about how we promised him a job and how we’re helping him out. But I know you do remember him. He left right after you graduated, didn’t he?”
I purse my lips. “Yeah, I remember him."
Maddox nods at me, but says nothing. The grin vanishes as quickly as it came, but his eyes remain locked on me. That cold gaze flickers over my body quickly, and a jolt like lightning sears through me. I can’t help it. It’s just a reaction.
“He’s been back from Afghanistan for a few months. Injured leg. He’s still stronger than any other man we interviewed. And he needs the job. Don’t you son?”
“Yes sir. I do.” His voice seems to fill the room. Deeper and richer than it was when we were in school together.
“He's going to be your bodyguard," my mother says.
“I don’t need a damn bodyguard,” I say flatly. “I just won’t leave my apartment again. Like I’ve said a thousand times, I don’t want to be part of your shitty political game.”
“You’re part of this game whether you like it or not,” says my father. “And Maddox here is making sure you keep playing. He’s going to be a somewhat unconventional employee in that regard.”
“He’s not just tasked with stopping bad things happening to you,” says my mother, enjoying this way more than she should. “He’s going to make sure you show up on time, properly dressed, freshly showered, and appropriately sober. For everything we need.”
A wave of deep sadness washes over me. I haven’t felt this low in years. They have me where they want me — and this time, I can’t refuse. There are pictures of my injury everywhere, no doubt. I need security. And with this redemption story they’re selling — they need Maddox too.
Fuck.
My heart sinks.
I can't find the words to express what I think about being treated like I'm ten. But in my mind I find the response that I can't say.
I’d like to see him try.
Chapter Three
Maddox
The hospital is a fucked-up place to be.
I’ve spent too many nights in hospitals in the past year. On leave, holding my mother’s hand. That’s one story I won’t be telling Avery.
My mom is sick. Your parents are helping. They talked me into this damn job even though I don’t want to be here.
And later, looking up at the ceiling while my stitches healed, hiding the screws and plates in my leg.
My bionic leg. That’s what my mom calls it. She thinks it’s funny that we were sick at the same time. She still is. But thanks to that godawful asshole, General Thomas, her brain tumor has stopped growing. Her speech is normal. She can lift a spoon and feed herself.
I fucking hate that man. And he’s tasked me with taking care of Avery.
I thought I was done protecting people for good. I left the military with my honorable discharge papers, and I hadn’t intended on returning to any job that had me interacting with people, guns, or sand. I’ve had enough of all three.
But when a man shows up out of the blue with a hundred thousand dollars and a cure for your mother’s cancer, you start rearranging things in your mind when it comes to what you will and won’t do.
I just didn’t think it would be so jarring to see Avery. Even in her hospital bed, I can tell she’s the woman I always thought she was going to be. Full of fire and sass and self-righteous rage. It’s all currently directed at her parents, but she can use her particular brand of crazy for good when and where she needs to.
I watch. I remain silent. Sit in the corner. Bring coffee. Do all the things I’m supposed to do. I fill the lengthy list of requirements that I was given, and I do them all over the course of three days while Avery’s injuries are assessed. She’s wheeled back and forth for x-rays and a new round of stitches. Each morning, her one eye is brighter, as they taper her off of the painkillers. On the fourth morning, she opens the second eye. Bloodshot still, but as blue as the open sky. As sharp and accusing as a cat’s.
She still refuses to speak to me.
No hello. No thank you when I place a lukewarm coffee in her hand. No, ‘Hey, Maddox. How was Afghanistan?’
I’m well aware she’s angry. More at her parents for even getting her a bodyguard in the first place. I can’t imagine that she’s still angry at me for running off. Maybe she is. Who the fuck knows with that woman?
In silent moments, when her parents are at some meeting or another, I sit in the corner and look out of the window at the cars passing on the Golden Gate Bridge. I don’t look at Avery, except when she’s sleeping.
When I do watch her, I don’t like the thoughts I have. They’re not regulation thoughts. Not thoughts I’m supposed to even consider, according to my contract with the Thomases.
But these are the thoughts I have, in no particular order.
Her hair, somehow, is redder. Her lips, fuller. Her eyes are even more penetrating, and her cheekbones more defined. Her body, even under the hospital gown, is ripe and round, with wide hips and a teasing ass, and a pair of perfect breasts. Beneath her gown, I imagine her skin is pale, freckles golden. Her nipples, a pale pink. I’m not entirely sure—but that’s my best guess.
We only kissed. But I find myself thinking like I did when I spent those summer nights on her roof. What she would look like with her legs wrapped around my waist. If she would taste as good as she smelled—like warm ginger and rich spice. If she would feel like fire and heat if she were in my arms.
On the fourth day, I can’t help myself. After her parents relieve me, I walk back to my hotel room, images of Avery filling my mind. I barely make it into the room before my cock is so hard that it aches. I strip and step into a cold shower, but it only makes it worse.
So I give in. I close my eyes and think of her shirt falling off one shoulder, her nipples hard beneath her light pink dress, the one she used to wear after she changed out of her school uniform. I go back to an old fantasy—lifting her skirt, pulling her panties to the side, and sliding my cock inside of her on her roof, while her parents had dinner below. I think of her warmth, her heat, pulsing around me. Legs shaking. And I come, groaning, hot ropes of it against the wall of the hotel shower.
After that I sleep like the dead. Better than I did in all the years I served our country.
When I return to the hospital room the next day, her parents leave for yet another meeting. And Avery finally speaks to me, looking at me with that clear, blue gaze.
“You’re taking me home this evening. They have an apartment for you across the street from mine. I heard Mom on the phone with some furniture company. They’re moving shit in. Hope you like blue. Evelyn isn’t terribly creative when it comes to interior decorating.”
“I don’t mind blue,” I say. I give her a crooked grin. I can’t help thinking about the hotel shower. Nothing will come of that fantasy. I made sure of that seven years ago when I left. It was the same fantasy that kept me sane for years in Afghanistan. Maybe it’ll keep me sane when I’m dealing with Avery herself.
Avery nods, satisfied. She turns her gaze to the dreary hospital window. “You’re getting a fat paycheck. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I leave the other stuff out. The stuff about my mom.
