Arriving at the office, I plopped into a seat at the conference table, phone already in hand, thumb poised over Oliver’s name. It had barely been five minutes since I’d parked the car. I needed to get a grip. He didn’t need me constantly breathing down his neck.
Shawn, the newest and youngest on our six-person team, at twenty-six, sat in his usual spot, perched backward on his chair, arms draped over the backrest. I liked him. He carried a different energy than the stoic, hardened demeanor most people pictured when they thought of people in our industry: unapologetically himself, shamelessly flirty, and somehow permanently grinning. He had that magnetic, “walk into a room and people immediately like you” vibe. Dude could legit charm a desert into a rainforest.
“Luuuuke, you’re back!” he sang the second he spotted me, in his exaggerated falsetto. “Stand up, give me a twirl, let me see what two whole days of freedom did to your spirit. Mmm. No, something’s off. The vibes are giving emotionally fragile yet pretending to be fine realness and I don’t like it. Spill. How were your days off?”
“They were . . . eventful.”
“Oof. That’s a PR-approved beige statement if I’ve ever heard one. So that’s a no to rainbows, puppies, and at least one hot man sensually washing a vintage convertible to an Ariana Grande remix? I am begging, talk to me.”
Sometimes I genuinely wondered if it was a universal gay superpower to sniff out feelings like a bloodhound. Ezra was the same way, freakishly good at reading people. I’d spent years being trained to read micro-expressions, threat patterns, all that tactical body-language crap, but put me in a room with those two and they could clock everyone’s mood and childhood trauma faster than I could blink.
Before I could answer, Brent trudged in with his one true love, his coffee mug. We’d both been on the team the longest. He could be a bit rough around the edges, but beneath the grumble existed a rock-solid man I trusted with my life—and had, more than once.
He dropped into the seat beside Shawn with a sound that was equal parts groan, greeting, and “speak to me before caffeine and I’ll end you.” The man fundamentally refused to acknowledge mornings as a valid concept until he’d mainlined at least three cups of coffee.
Shawn leaned toward me, whispering, “Don’t think you’re off the hook. You show up looking like a kicked golden retriever, it’s my sworn duty to put that pep back in your step.”
Then, to Brent, at full sparkle volume. “Good morning, my grumpy, caramel-centered silver fox. How are we today?”
Brent slid him a side-eye so dry it could’ve turned a cactus to dust. “Kid, if you keep talking at that volume, I’ll put a sock in your mouth.”
“I will take that to mean you’re delighted to see me. Go on, say it with your chest.”
“Keep dreaming.”
I bit back a laugh, leaning back as their usual routine kicked off. Brent had trained Shawn when he joined six months ago, and the rest of us had been reaping the entertainment value ever since.
Shawn seemed genetically engineered to get under Brent’s skin. And Brent, for all his fronting, had a soft spot the size of Texas reserved for Shawn, impossible to hide. He paid attention to Shawn the way a seasoned wolf keeps an eye on the pack’s most excitable pup, protective and low-key fond.
Dean trudged in next, looking like exhaustion had mugged him on his way to work, his hair only a few strands shy of total bedhead. “Someone put me out of my misery, please,” he said slumping into his chair.
“Whoa. You look even less ready for human interaction this morning than I am, and that’s saying something,” Brent said.
“Yeah, the baby had a fever. Screamed every time she wasn’t attached to me or Becca. I’m running on two hours of sleep. If Istart drooling on this table, roll me under it and fill me in later on what I missed.”
Shawn grimaced. “Oh, honey, you want a Red Bull? I’ve got a spare watermelon one in the fridge.”
“That stuff is vile and tastes like regret, but yeah, I’ll take it. I need all the help I can get.”
The last of our crew to roll in was Sarah. Even though she’d been out of the service for five years, her posture still carried the discipline of two military tours. When Paul hired her, we were all hyped. Sarah more than held her own in this male-dominated field, known for handing you your ass without ever raising her voice.
Case in point, a few months after she joined, Paul sent us to a multi-agency field training day with a bunch of other security teams. Real mixed bag of guys, some solid, some walking HR violations. Sarah hadn’t been there five minutes before a couple of them started in with the usual sexist crap.
Eventually one of the louder idiots, right in front of everyone, said, “Accuracy takes strength. Women don’t have the grip for recoil control. Smaller hands, weaker wrists, you can’t expect a chick to shoot like the boys. Biology’s biology.”
Opening my mouth to tell the guy where I thought he could shove it, Sarah gripped my shoulder in a silent “I’ve got this.” She looked at the douche with an expression so bored it came across as pitying and said, “Want to test that theory?”
They set up a target challenge. Hundred-yard range. Double-tap accuracy test. He went first, decent grouping but nothing to brag about. Then Sarah stepped up, adjusted her stance, and emptied her mag. Every round landed clean. Tight cluster, dead-center bullseye. You could’ve covered all holes with a silver dollar.
She ejected the clip, handed the weapon back, and said, “Huh. Guess these small, weak hands work just fine.”
Not one of those guys said a single sideways word around her for the rest of the day. Brent, Dean, and I damn near cried laughing about it later.
“Morning, boys,” she said, claiming the empty chair beside Brent. “Everyone surviving?”
“That depends on your definition,” Dean muttered.
“I see the cheer is strong today,” she said.
