We all crowd together, singing out loud and moving to the music, and when the chorus hits, my gaze drifts away from my friends once again to a familiar face at the bar.
But it’s not the familiar face I expect.
It’s my ex.
And Eric Patrick is taking our picture.
41
JUST A BOUNCER
BANKS
It’s a true shame I can’t rip that guy’s phone from his hand. Smash it in two. Toss him the fuck out.
I don’t know who he is. But one of the golden rules of close protection isnottolet things escalate. My job is to ward off trouble before it can become a bigger problem.
It’s one thing to keep a low profile as a random dude takes pictures of an actress and her friends dancing at a bar. But when Ripley stops dancing, tensing everywhere as she spots the guy, it’s another thing entirely.
That’s my cue.
The moment her smile vanishes, I push away from the wall, stride over to her, and whisper in her ear, “You okay?”
She turns her face toward me, tucking it close to mine. “That’s my ex.”
Oh, hell no.
My fists clench, and my shoulders tighten. As the song plays on, I weave past the group of women, heading to the shithead at the bar. He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, sporting too-messy-to-be-bothered sandy-brown hair, looking like he’s trying to channel Jeremy Allen White chefenergy fromThe Bear.
I get too close to him, nodding at his phone. “Maybe put that down,” I tell him.
He barely lowers the device and doesn’t look my way at all. He just leans harder against the wood counter, like he’s the epitome of cool. “Pretty sure it’s not a crime to take pictures.”
“Pretty sure it’s rude,” I counter.
“It’s a public place. And who put you in charge?” he shoots back.
“I did,” I say, cold and unflinching.
He scoffs, shaking his head. “Okay,bouncer.”
Seriously? Even if I were the bouncer, this is how he talks to someone who could toss him out the door from here?
He doesn’t seem to care though. Still holding up his phone, he walks away from me and right toward Ripley and her friends, who have stopped dancing. “Hey, you,” he says to her, pasting on an entirely different personality.
What is wrong with this asshole?
She peels away from her friends, moving closer to me as she folds her arms across her chest and answers him. “What do you want?”
He gives her a friendly almost-nudge that makes me want to throttle him. “So good to see you. Love that you’re out having fun in this sweet town. I took some pics of you and your crew. You don’tmind, do you?” he asks in the schmooziest voice I’ve ever heard. “This clown seems to think you’d mind.” He hooks his thumb toward me.
Oh, fuck him. I bump up next to him, letting my shoulder knock into him. I tower over him by a good six inches. I easily have sixty pounds on the guy, a chest much broader, arms much stronger, and legs much thicker. And, most importantly, I’m not fucking afraid of him.
Ripley flashes a huge smile I know is fake as she says to her ex, while pointing at me, “Oh, you mean my bodyguard?”
All at once, Eric Patrick stands at attention, his eyes flickering my way now with real worry in them. “Wait. You’re not?—”
“Some random jackass who didn’t want you to take pics at a bar?”
