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“Ready to go get pedicures?” Natasha asks, walking up to her.
“Yep.” She nods, completely indifferent, but her aunt doesn’t seem to pay attention to it.
“Ready when you are, Mr. Hercules,” Natasha says to me with a small smile.
As we head out of the dress shop, Briar trudges beside me. “You never answered me, Hercules. What color are you going with for your tootsies?” She pauses. “You strike me as … a black-polish sort of guy. Not in an emo way. But in, like, a bad-boy sort of way. Black to match your black motorcycle or something.”
“Don’t have a motorcycle,” I mutter as I pull the door to the Escalade open, and they slide across the leather seat. I close it, not wanting to engage further, before climbing into the driver’s side behind the wheel.
“Wow, I had you all wrong. I thought for sure you were a motorcycle guy,” she says nonchalantly.
It’s weird to see this side of her. The same side I saw for a split second earlier, when she told me I didn’t strike her as the type of guy to get my toes painted.
Glimpses of an actual human being. That’s what I see in her before she goes back to being a robot. And I don’t know what the fuck is real and what isn’t.
Robot or not … I don’t care. And I’ll keep telling myself that too. Because I can’t fuck up this job.
I sit in the waiting area, sticking out like a giant fucking sore thumb while Briar and her aunt get their pedicures. I flip through a random magazine and look at the time.
How long does this shit take?
I feel like I’ve been here for an hour. It’s hot in here. And it smells like nail polish remover, making my head hurt.
My phone vibrates, and I quickly pull it out of my pocket. I instantly feel tense when I see Enzo calling. That’s almost never good news.
“Hello?” I say into the phone and wait for whatever this fucker is going to throw at me. And with him, it’s extremely hard to guess.
“You took Ms. James out dress shopping today.” His cold voice speaks flatly, but it’s clear he’s pissed. “And you didn’t think, for one fucking second, to make her change her clothes before you brought her out and about, looking like a goddamn homeless crackhead.”
I stare at her as she reads a book with a bright cover that has cartoon people on it. A small crease on her forehead tells me she isn’t completely relaxed. But the way she slumps down before a yawn rips through her proves she’s calmer than she was earlier.
I don’t think she looks like a homeless person; I think she looks beautiful. But I’m not going to tell my supposed boss that.
“Apologies, sir,” I say quickly. “I honestly didn’t give her outfit much thought. But now, I know for next time.”
“Word’s getting out that she’s going to be my wife,” he growls. “Do you think I want my fiancée having paparazzi take pictures of her in fucking leggings and a trashy sweatshirt? Use your brain, Hercules. For Christ’s sake, Beckett bragged you up as a top-dawg guard. I’m beginning to think you sucked him off to get this position.”
At his words, I roll my eyes. I’d like to tell him to get fucked, but instead, I drag my hand down my face and remind myself to breathe. “Sorry, boss. That’s my bad. I really didn’t know. But now that I do, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Good,” he tosses back before quickly ending the call with no further words.
While Natasha is decked out in a fitted dress with her hair curled perfectly, Briar is wearing a Brooks University hockey hoodie with black leggings. Those damn things that hug women’s asses and thighs, leaving little to the imagination.
Even through the thin black fabric, I can see her legs are sculpted, like she works out, which is good because there will be times in her life with Enzo when she will have to fight back. I relax a little, knowing that maybe, just maybe, she’ll be strong enough to fight back if she ever has to.
But who am I kidding? The girl is five foot three—at most. And she can’t weigh more than one hundred twenty-five pounds.
She should be able to wear whatever the fuck she wants without being criticized by a man who’s going to be her husband one day. If I’m being honest, men like Enzo would be better off dead. Because I know without a doubt that he won’t hesitate to hurt a girl at any given time.
I barely know her, yet I know I can’t let that happen. She doesn’t deserve to be in this fucked-up situation. If I could, I’d make sure she got out of it.
“Tonight, at nine thirty, you will be at this location with the packages I supply you.” Enzo points at the map, sitting at his fancy desk in a chair that’s overkill and far too large.
To be honest, I’m not even sure why we’re in here right now. It’s my understanding that we were brought in to protect Briar and the Bensons when they were in the country.
“This isn’t territory we typically cover. This is usually Ricci’s side of the city. But since he’s been lying low while the investigation on his family unfolds, that leaves a lot of customers in need.” He sits back, putting his hands in front of him. “We’re always looking to expand. But be warned … Ricci’s crew isn’t going to like it.”
What he’s really saying is, Things are about to be a shit show. Good luck. And if you die, I don’t really fucking care.
