2
SAMUEL
The night was short and the little sleep I got wasn’t exactly restful, but it would surprise me if it was any other way. After a shower and a coffee from the machine in my room, I no longer look like I pulled an all-nighter.
I frown as I look through the outfits Rockwell organized for this mission. I’ll look like a fucking choir boy on steroids. Polo shirts and slacks aren’t my usual attire, and they aren’t dirt-caked and blood-smeared enough for my liking.
Not to mention that those pants have way too few pockets. Where the hell am I supposed to put all my stuff?
The girls behind the reception desk chuckle as I walk past, giving me even more reasons to complain as soon as I call Rockwell.
I’m twenty minutes early to my appointment with Mr. Barron and apparently, I look misplaced. After not even a minute of standing around in the lobby of the office building, a woman walks up to me.
“Excuse me, sir, can I help you?” She talks in that specific tone some women put on to appear charming, a bit too highpitched and I think back to the banshee baby on yesterday's flight.
“I’m here for a job interview with Mr. Barron,” I say, flashing her a small smile. It feels forced and unnatural and I hope I don’t look like a goddamn serial killer. It’s just that I don’t smile that often. Sure, I laugh, from time to time, but I don’t do those “oh, look at me, I’m so charming”smiles.
It’s not expected to smile at hostages or cartel members during raids, and unlike Logan, I don’t run around grinning while emptying my AK-47 into the air. I already miss him. He’s a good guy.
The woman’s cheeks flush slightly—good, no serial killer impression—while I wonder if everyone in this town is that flirty. Max and Logan would have a field day if they were here.
“Ah, you must be the new bodyguard for his br—daughter.”
“I hope so,” I say, unsure if I want to hear her gossip or if I want to be surprised by the horrors that possibly await me.
“Mr. Mills?”
I’m almost startled by the deep voice that comes from behind me, and I hope it doesn’t show on my face as I turn around.
Mr. Barron is shorter than I expected him to be, but he carries himself as if he is at least twice his size. His deep voice doesn’t fit him, but it fits his slicked-back black hair and his pinstripe suit that probably costs as much as I make in a month. The leather of his shoes is so shiny that I can almost make out my reflection in it, hard not to catch it since I have to look down to meet his gaze.
His hand is outstretched to greet me, the big smile on his face showing just a tad too many teeth. It makes him look like a shark that’s trying to convince fish he’s not dangerous at all. Too bad that I’m a fucking orca if we want to keep it nautical.
We walk towards an elevator that takes us up to the 38thfloor. I counted the floors because I don’t like elevators. I also don’t like high-rise buildings. Something about being so far away from the ground just feels wrong to me.
His office is generic, as if he flipped through a catalog of model offices and picked the one that looked the most serious. I doubt he manages his actual business from here.
The interview goes smoothly; he asks about a few things on my resume, another thing that was on Charlie’s to-do list, but at least he didn’t fuck this up.
I answer all of his questions that I already saw coming, but then he asks me something that wasn’t on my prepared list. Maybe because those fuckers wanted me to believe that I was supposed to work ashisbodyguard for as long as possible.
“My daughter can be a bit complicated.” The worn-out expression on his face tells me that it’s probably a bit more than just complicated.
“It’s fine,” I reassure him. “I have experience dealing with rather complex clients. They usually behave under my watch.”
Of course, they behave when you hold a gun against their head, but I keep that part to myself.
“Ruby is good at twisting things around. She’s also good at getting what she wants. Do you have a wife at home, a girlfriend, anything like that?”
My brows furrow at his weird question. My thoughts travel back to the memo, and I clear my throat with a slight feeling of disgust.
“Please excuse the question, Mr. Barron, but how old is your daughter again?”
“22, no, sorry, 24. I’m bad with numbers,” he says with a laugh, pulling out his phone. “My assistant must have forgotten to add that to the job description.” Aggressively, he types something into his phone. Looks like I’m not the only one who has to work with idiots.
I don’t know if the revelation that Ruby is an adult makes the situation better or worse.
“Sir, I can assure you that I keep all my work relations strictly professional.” My answer is as vague as his question, but it seems to be enough to please him. He leans back in his office chair, his posture less tense.
