"Do not apologize," I say. "It wastes time. And you are not at fault."
She laughs. That nervous sound again, the one that makes her shoulders hitch and her hands flutter. I note it. File it away with the other data points I have collected about Colletta Fears.
She laughs when someone threatens violence in front of her, that high, nervous sound that makes witnesses think she's complicit in whatever mayhem is unfolding.
She apologizes for things that are not her fault, for taking up space, for breathing too loudly, for existing in a way that might inconvenience someone else.
She drinks too much tequila and makes catastrophically poor tactical decisions.
She is mine for three days. Seventy-two hours. The contract she signed—while intoxicated, while panicking, while convinced this was somehow a reasonable solution to her problem, is clear on this point.
I am hers until Sunday at six p.m.
After that, the terms expire.
I take the next exit, following the route I mapped last night after she finally stopped talking and retreated to her bedroom. I heard her moving around in there, the creak of floorboards, the rush of water, the soft thud of a book hitting the floor. I sat on her couch and studied the venue layout I had pulled from the wedding website.
Vineyard Valley.
Outdoor ceremony. Reception in a converted barn. Multiple entry points. Poor sight lines. The civilian population was estimated at one hundred and twenty guests.
High risk.
"You are doing it again," Colletta says.
I glance at her. She has twisted in her seat to face me, one leg tucked under her, a coffee cup balanced on her knee. She changed clothes before we left. No more coffee-stained shirts. Now she wears a dark green dress that clings to her curves and makes her eyes look like forest shadows.
I do not tell her this.
"Doing what," I say.
"That thing where you stare at the road like it personally insulted your ancestors."
"The road presents no immediate obstacles," I say. "I am simply maintaining situational awareness of our surroundings and potential threats."
She shifts in her seat, the leather creaking beneath her. "Kruk, you've checked the rearview mirror eleven times in the last two minutes. I counted."
Of course she counted. She notices these things, catalogs them, then deploys them like small verbal grenades when I least expect it.
"Standard operational protocol," I tell her, keeping my eyes on the sedan three car lengths behind us. It has been there since the highway merge. Blue. Four-door. Two occupants. Still assessing threat level.
"Standard protocol forwhat, exactly?" Her voice rises slightly, that nervous edge creeping in. "Are you expecting a car chase? A drive-by? Should I be worried that someone's going to run us off the road before we even get to this wedding?"
I check the mirror again. The sedan takes the exit. Threat neutralized.
"For survival," I say simply.
She makes a sound, half-laugh, half-groan, and takes a long drink of her coffee. We stopped at a drive-through. I ordered black coffee. She ordered something with four separate flavor modifications and whipped cream. The barista looked at me like I might eat her. I maintained eye contact until she looked away.
Colletta tipped twenty percent.
"Okay," she says now, setting her cup in the holder. "We need to get our story straight."
"Our story is clear. You hired me. I am providing protection services."
"No, I mean ourstory. How we met. How long we've been together. Why we're engaged."
"We are not engaged."
