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“Cobra, get our waiter,” Ariana said, moments after their food had been delivered. “I don’t like this dressing.”
Cobra was the code name I’d carried over from my time in the military. On assignment, I preferred it over my legal name. Having a client look me up after an assignment could get problematic.
I didn’t see the server but kept an eye out to flag him down.
“Yeah, Cobra.” Missy giggled. “Go get our waiter. Chop, chop.”
“No,” I answered without even turning my head in her direction.
“Why, Cobra?” Missy asked.
I ignored her. Missy got my protection at this lunch because of her proximity to my client, but that was all.
“You can tell her,” Ariana prodded.
I turned my head and gave her the stare. “A cobra strikes without warning and is deadly.”
Missy’s eyes bugged out when I added a hiss.
“Cool, huh? And he’s not allowed to leave me,” Ariana whispered. “Rules.”
My comms earpiece came alive with colorful cursing from my pal Winston Evers. Our ace tech guru, Jordan Hawk, my brother, was getting a tongue-lashing. And this time, it sounded like he deserved it.
“It’s not marked that way,” he tried. Jordy had been giving Winston directions to follow a target and had messed up by trying to send him the wrong way down a one-way street. The target now had a quarter mile of separation.
“Jordy, save it for later,” said my brother Lucas, our boss, cutting off the bitch session. “Give him a parallel route to catch up. And Winston, pedal to the metal until you get back in position.”
I clicked off my comms. The boss had it handled, and I didn’t need the distraction.
Missy nodded toward me. “Does he ever smile?”
“Nope. Probably also against the rules.” Ariana took another dainty bite of her rabbit food just as I heard a series of camera clicks.
The pap scooted out through the kitchen door so fast I couldn’t have the pleasure of chasing him andfixinghis camera for him.
“Want to take this seat so they get a better shot?” Missy asked Ariana.
“Good idea.”
They traded places. Staged casual shots were another Hollywood staple I didn’t understand. But reality-TV stars like Ariana were zero percent real. The nose, the boobs, and the tan were all fake.
I reconsidered that and decided on ten percent real. The Russian accent and the on-screen temper weren’t fake.
Incoming.A giggly pair of teenagers with phones in their hands headed our way. I left the wall and intercepted them, holding my arms out like a fence. “Hey, girls, give us some privacy. They’re here to eat. She’s not doing selfies today.”
“Cobra,” Ariana said from behind me.
The girls’ eyes went wide.
“It’s okay,” Ariana said.
I let the girls pass. When my phone vibrated, I checked the alert I’d set. The picture of Ariana and Missy at lunch had already been posted on ZMT with a caption that gave everyone the location. That meant fans were on the way, and our exit would be a zoo.
I stood back as the giggling girls took selfies with Ariana and Missy.
Why people put up with this shit, I would never understand. They never got any privacy. I knew firsthand that Ariana couldn’t do any normal things a girl her age might want to do, like go out to a movie, visit a pizza joint, stop at Baskin-Robbins for a cone, or sit outside Starbucks sipping coffee and watching people walk by.
After the giggleygirls left, Missy poked at her salad and made a face. “Don’t you just hate it when they put all the croutons on one side?”
