Concierge

by Stella Barcelona

  In his arms, I wouldn’t be cold. Not even chilly.

  She shook her head in an effort to shake these nonsensical thoughts from her mind. “Whether you like this place or what vegetables are in the Bloody Marys. Like I said last night—”

  “I’m being too present?” Head cocked, he gave her his million-watt smile, as though he enjoyed anything she said, even if it wasn’t complimentary.

  She drew a deep breath. “Look. Nothing I’ve said is intended to make you smile—”

  “So now I’m not supposed to smile? Because I said I think you’re brave? You’re going to make me pay for that moment of honesty?”

  “If you’re not going to quit, perhaps you should just stay in the security room while you’re on my job. Out of my eyesight. Like I said, the other agents are better at putting the ‘un’ in unobtrusive.”

  She walked into the bathroom. She closed the heavy door hard enough so that it thudded. Scowling at her reflection in the mirror when she saw a flush of pink at her cheeks, she splashed her face with cool water. When she was through in the bathroom, she stepped out, left Brooke a twenty, and grabbed her coffee.

  The agent opened the door to the sidewalk, then stepped through it as he held it open for her. As she passed him in the doorway, he said, “Traffic’s picking up. Foot traffic and vehicular. The jogger we noticed earlier is still across the street, about a block down.”

  Normally, when she first stepped outside of a place where she felt safe, sights and sounds assaulted her. To fight off a breath-stealing anxiety attack, she had to process each observation individually, and focus on the reality that nothing bad was happening. With Agent Hernandez’s calm voice ticking through her own observations, she didn’t have to struggle to keep her anxiety in check as she gathered her bearings on the sidewalk and let the bright sunlight of the afternoon warm her skin.

  “Looks like the jogger is still on the phone,” he continued, his tone calm. “No issues there. Traffic’s coming. Wait till the white SUV passes. Can’t believe you said no to praline bacon, by the way. Sounds like a sweet and salty home run. Heads up. On your left, a guy’s turning the corner. Hoodie. Moving fast. Towards us. Six paces away. Five. Four. Andi—back! Behind me.”

  With his right arm, Agent Hernandez gripped her forearm, and pulled Andi between the building and into the shelter of his body. His broad back became as much of a barrier as the blue stucco wall of the restaurant. At the same time, he lifted his left arm to halt the man’s forward progress.

  She got a partial glimpse as the agent stepped forward to intercept the man. Sunglasses and green hoodie concealed his face. Worn leather jacket. Backpack over one shoulder. Tall. Not as tall as the agent.

  As Agent Hernandez shifted to distribute his weight, Andi caught another glimpse of the man. From her new vantage point, she spotted the top of a black guitar case slung behind his back.

  Pic!

  Chapter Seventeen

  Andi

  Before she could say anything, the agent slammed his palm dead center on Pic’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. “Close enough. Give the lady some breathing room.”

  “What the fuck! Hands off, asshole.” Pic tried to peel the other man's hand off him, but the agent kept him at bay.

  “No! Stop!” Andi grabbed Agent Hernandez’s arm. A gnat had more of a chance of pushing an elephant. His hard, thick arm had the strength of a steel piling and he had it poised, ready for a forceful push, if needed.

  The agent used his other arm as a barricade. “Stay back.”

  “I know him.” She couldn’t blame him for holding Pic away. With sunglasses and hoodie concealing his features, there was no way to identify him. “He’s my friend, Pic!”

  “Andi, call off your guard dog.” Backing up, out of reach, Pic stumbled and almost fell before regaining his footing. He shifted his right shoulder, letting his backpack slip to the sidewalk, then pulled his guitar case off his left shoulder and laid it down. Breathing heavily, he spread his feet, bent his knees slightly, lifted his fists and focused on the agent. “Touch me again and I’ll break your face.”

  Andi cringed at the put-on, cocky tone in Pic’s voice. Knowing him as she did, she knew the aggression was an act. Hernandez dropped his arm, stepping to the side to allow Pic access. She wanted to hug her friend, but he and Hernandez were posturing, each waiting for the other to make a move.

  “Asswipe jerk.” Despite his words, Pic shifted his shoulders, relaxing just a hair’s breadth out of his on-guard stance.

  “Didn’t realize you were a friend. Pic, right?” Extending his right hand, he added, “Name’s Gabe Hernandez. I’m leading Ms. Hutchenson’s security detail.”

  The agent’s outstretched hand may as well have been carrying a steaming pile of shit, because Pic didn’t reach for it and his sneer, along with his stiff-shouldered, fists-clenched posture, broadcasted loud and clear that he didn’t accept the Agent’s not-quite-an-apology. Which seemed to matter not one lick to Hernandez, who continued talking, in his matter-of-fact, everything’s-A-okay tone. “You shouldn’t come in so fast, especially with your face concealed.”

  Agent Hernandez dropped his hand, shifting to face Andi. Touching his ear mic, he said, “Tyre. No problem here. Return to position. You good, Chief?”

  When she nodded, he added, “If you’ll step back, closer to the restaurant, you and your friend can talk there.”

  Andi followed the directive, as Pic dragged his backpack and guitar case closer. The agent planted himself between Andi and the street, within an arm’s length of either of them. While they stood in his line of vision, the direction of his sunglasses suggested his gaze was focused elsewhere, and shifting, as he surveyed their surroundings.

  Drawing a deep breath, Pic focused his attention on Andi. “Was heading to the park to find you, rounded the corner, and realized you were right here. I got so excited, I ran to hug you.” Pic’s voice, usually smooth and deep, sounded hoarse and nasally. He gave her a sheepish smile. “At least this oversized fucker’s doing his job.”

  Since the ‘oversized fucker’ stood close enough to hear everything they said, Andi was impressed that the agent maintained his jaw-set, stone face.

  “I missed you!” She reached for Pic with outstretched arms.

  Pic wrapped his arms around her, squeezed hard, and lifted her off the sidewalk. “Pic. Stop! I’m going to spill my coffee…” Agent Hernandez reached for the cup and took it from her before the lid popped off. “Dammit Pic! You can’t leave for that long again. Please tell me you’re staying a while.”

  “Yeah.” He paused, coughed, then reburied his head against her neck. “Not going anywhere anytime soon. Missed the hell out of you.”

  “When did you get back?” She held on tight and buried her face in his loose, shoulder-length hair, as she inhaled the essence of strong, industrial-strength soap and shampoo. She’d been around him long enough to know he took full advantage of homeless shelters and the showers they provided.

  “Last night.” He turned his head, broke from the hug, coughed again, then quickly recovered with a smile. “Had to make good on my promise to my favorite girl to be back in town for Mardi Gras, right?”

  She stepped back to assess him. The hoodie of the sweatshirt he wore under his leather jacket had slipped off his head. Sunglasses concealed his eyes. Turning, he covered his face with his elbow and gave in to another deep, chest-wracking cough.

  As Pic coughed, Agent Hernandez returned her coffee to her, then stepped back into guard position. For once, Agent Everywhere was being unobtrusive. He didn’t even appear focused on them, yet he was close enough for her to reach out and touch. Near enough to hear every word. Closer than the agents normally stood when she had a conversation that was supposed to be private.

  Yet another thing that’s different about him.

  His slight smile and nod in her direction jolted her.

  Great. I was staring.

  She dragged her attention to Pic, who had
finally stopped coughing, and was watching her and the agent look at one another. “That cough sounds godawful.”

  “Just a cold,” Pic said, shrugging it off. “Sounds worse than I feel.”

  “You sure? Because if you feel anywhere near as bad as that sounds, you need a doctor. Now.”

  He cleared his throat and nodded. “I feel fine, Andi. Really.”

  “And what the hell happened to your eye?” Pic, who seemed taller than she remembered, had about five inches on her height of five seven. From her vantage point, she saw a ring of purple under his right eye and a scrape along his cheekbone. His sunglasses almost hid it, but the lenses were a little too small for his face. He’d probably picked them up at a secondhand store for a few dollars, or fished them out of a surplus bin at a shelter.

  “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Take off the sunglasses.”

  He frowned. No movement.

  Sipping the coffee helped her keep her tone calm. “If it’s nothing, let me see it.”

  He pulled off the sunglasses, folded them, and slipped them into his back pocket. “See? Nothing.”

  “Black, blue, swollen, and your cheek’s scraped. Looks like something to me.” His blue eyes studied hers as she let her gaze crawl over him, looking for other signs of trouble. With smooth skin, cheeks ruddy from the cool outdoor air, and sandy-blond hair, he looked like an advertisement for outdoor clothing. Not new clothes, though. He wore faded jeans. The green hoodie was zipped midway up his chest, revealing a grey t-shirt underneath it. Tennis shoes and the black leather bomber jacket she’d given him last winter completed his outfit.

  “Well?” she prodded, taking another sip of coffee so she didn’t appear as worried as she felt. “What happened?”

  He gave a shoulder roll and a slight headshake. “It isn’t worth talking about.”

  “You have a black eye. It’s worth talking about.”

  As he stood there, silent, Andi drew a deep breath, then gestured with her chin to the guitar case and backpack. His Gibson Les Paul, ensconced in its hard black case, and a lightweight, battery-powered amp designed for portability, neatly tucked into his backpack, were things he’d let her buy him. She knew that all his other possessions, secondary of importance to him, were wrapped around the guitar and its paraphernalia. “Did someone try to rob you?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I can protect myself.”

  “I told you to give up your things if someone tries to rob you. I’ll buy you a new guitar, or whatever you need.”

  He shook his head and gave her a slight, rueful smile. “I don’t need you to buy me things. I’m not a charity case. I’m doing okay.”

  “No. A person who lives and sleeps on the streets, moving from one shelter to another—or worse, sleeping outside—is not doing okay. You’re going to be hurt, or killed, or…worse. You can’t live on the streets for the rest of your life. And how’d you get away with your things last night? If someone was close enough to punch you in the face, God knows what else they could’ve—”

  “Please don’t freak out. I don’t want to talk about it, anymore. This sort of shit happens all the time. I got away from the two assholes last night—”

  “There were two of—”

  “—and I’ll get away if it happens again. That’s all that counts. A black eye is nothing,” Pic said, turning his head with another cough, then giving her a smile. “You cut your hair. I like it.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “But don’t think your flattery means you’re changing the subject.”

  As Pic stood there, steadfast in his silence, Agent Hernandez said, “Pic.” His voice, low and steady, was authoritative. Commanding, as though he damn well expected Pic to pay attention.

  Instant animosity sparked from Pic’s eyes. A rapid pulse started beating at his temple as he gave the agent a sideways glance. “Yeah?”

  “Tell Ms. Hutchenson what happened last night.”

  Pic’s eyes narrowed. “Just ‘cause you’re on Andi’s payroll doesn’t mean I can’t tell you to fuck off, asshole.”

  “Pic!” Andi said. Two restaurant patrons had stepped out in time to hear Pic. They glanced at the three of them, then took a right on the sidewalk, walking fast, away.

  A flush of pinkish-red color flooded Pic’s cheeks, making his irises look a clear, cobalt blue, and the bruising around his eyes even blacker. “Our conversation’s private. Did you change security companies? All your other bodyguards knew to keep their fat mouths shut when you’re talking to a friend. Knew your conversations are none of their business. What’s with this guy?”

  “Been wondering that myself,” she muttered, while she stared at the purplish bruising around Pic’s eye, and her mind raced one hundred and fifty miles an hour with worry. “Security company’s the same. Agent Hernandez is new, but he’s right on this. I need to know what happened.”

  Pic, breathing hard, studied her as he studiously ignored the agent, who stood still, studying Pic. With his sunglasses in place, Andi couldn’t read Agent Hernandez’s expression, but the smile that had a way of appearing so frequently was nowhere in sight. He growled, “Start talking.”

  Pic kept his shoulders and his body facing Andi, yet his glance was directed at Agent Hernandez. “Have the steroids you’ve taken to blow up those muscles made you dumb?”

  “Pic! What’s wrong with you?”

  “His job is to protect you.” Eyes flashing with anger, he turned to face the agent. “Not question me about anything. And newsflash, big man. Brains go first when you take steroids, then your cock goes second. By the time you’re permanently limp, you’re too stupid to care. Can. You. Understand. Me?”

  Agent Hernandez’s chuckle was deep and throaty, with genuine humor. “Really? I understand you perfectly, you little punk. Trying to pick a fight with me doesn’t earn you an A for smarts.”

  “Goddammit, Agent Hernandez! Both of you—stop it. Pic, tell me what the hell happened.”

  “Sorry, Andi.” Pic paid only lip service to the word. His face was beet red, his hands were curled into fists, and he was glaring at Agent Hernandez. “But this guy’s out of line.”

  Pic broke the staring contest first, with a glance at her, then he did a one-shouldered shrug, looked at his feet, and she suddenly got it. Knew why he wasn’t saying any more about the black eye. Knew why he’d worn sunglasses, when he didn’t typically wear them. Her young friend knew way too much about her. Knew why she’d tried to kill herself, because she’d told him some of the details. Knew why she needed to have men like Hernandez protecting her. And that’s what Pic was trying to do—protect her by not giving details.

  Agent Hernandez slid his glasses off, folded them, and put them in his back pocket. With his gaze intently on the younger man, he turned his shoulders slightly, stepping forward a few inches. The agent was taller than Pic, his shoulders were broader, and Andi had no doubt who’d win in a fight, if it came to that.

  “Pic, you’re one hundred percent correct that my job is to protect Ms. Hutchenson, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. Might be hard, but can you be an adult about this?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Stop acting like a twelve-year old. Ms. Hutchenson’s file doesn’t state how old you might be, but—” He paused, studying Pic from head to toe. “I’m guessing you’re just short of eighteen. Nineteen, at most. Act whatever-the-hell age you might be and tell her what caused your black eye. Clearly, she’s already worried. Not divulging details will worry her more. Is that what you want? To give her more stress?”

  “If it was important, I’d come clean. It’s not.” A breeze lifted a clump of Pic’s hair. He swiped it off his forehead and pushed it behind an ear, as some of the flush faded from his cheeks. Glancing at Agent Hernandez, Pic shifted his posture by straightening his back. He was imitating the agent’s stance, arms at his side, shoulder’s square, as he glared into the larger man’s face. “If you’ve studied her file, you know why I’
m not giving her details. So, butt out.”

  “Wish I could. But I can’t. Not if I want to do my job the right way.” His voice became softer. More conversational. “Come on. You’ve got to know that if you don’t tell her what happened, she’ll worry. And you’ve got to know that worrying about your safety is about the worst thing that can happen to her.”

  She’d had enough of the testosterone-driven pissing contest, with both of them being overly protective, in their own way. “Stop talking about me like I’m invisible. The agent is right, Pic. Please tell me.”

  Agent Hernandez gave her a nod, but kept his attention focused on Pic, who kept his attention on the agent. Without glancing at her, Pic said, “He’s the one with the problem.”

  “You’ve got a skewed perception of problems. But that’s irrelevant.” The agent softened his expression, “She’s the most important person in my world right now and I’m betting she’s pretty damn important in yours. I’m guessing you’re trying to protect her as much as I am.”

  Pic glanced at Andi, drew a deep breath, then gave a chest-wracking cough behind his hand. “Stupid cough,” he muttered, shaking his head in frustration as he turned his attention back to the agent. “Stick to your muscles and guns. I know her better than you.”

  “You started the story by showing up with a black eye. If you didn’t want her to know what happened, you should’ve stayed away until it faded.”

  “Couldn’t,” he mumbled. He glanced at Andi, with a frown. “I need to ask you something.”

  Andi’s irritation with them was forgotten as a black van passed in the street. Through the front windshield, she saw two men in front, but as it passed, they were concealed by dark-tinted, side windows. About ten yards past them, there was a brief tap on the brake lights, then it continued down the street. It was similar to the van she’d seen on Friday, on Esplanade. As she tore her gaze from it, she saw the agent and Pic were focused on it, as well. After it turned a corner, Agent Hernandez looked in her direction, and gave her a nod and a shrug that echoed her first thought—It’s nothing. There are millions of vehicles like that.’