Page 20 of Gunnar

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Mia grins, accentuating her perfect red lipstick. “You won an Oscar. You stood on that stage and cried in front of a billion people. You’re legally required to tell us everything, especially the parts you left out of the interviews.”

“Especially the parts about Colton Cross,” Olivia adds. I laugh, wondering if I should ruin his allure by sharing he smells like hot garbage.

The drinks arrive in chilled glasses. Scarlet raises hers, her eyes meeting mine over the rim. “To freedom,” she says, her voice soft enough that only we can hear. “To being untouchable. To nights like this.” I clink my glass against hers, Olivia’s, and Mia’s. After taking a sip, I glance out the window to the crowd on the other side of the tinted glass and find myself wondering whether he’s out there. I push the feeling away, knowing that in this booth I am safe.

Tonight, I can pretend things are normal. Tomorrow, I can be careful again.

The four of us are in the den, our makeshift command center. We are huddled around monitors, tablets, and the endless paperwork that accompanies legitimate security concerns. Hawk is reviewing implementation timelines, his finger tracing across the entire property’s digital security feed, marking blind spots and vulnerabilities that still need to be addressed. Damon is taking notes with silent efficiency.

I am trying to focus on the iPad in front of me, on the rotating schedules and emergency contact lists and the thousand details that demand attention, when Jagger’s voice cuts through the professional drone.

“Um…” His tone arrests me immediately. Jagger is many things—irritating, immature, a menace to anything resembling professionalism, and a perpetual adolescent trapped in the body of a grown man with serious skills. But uncertainty is not among them. Uncertainty from Jagger is ominous.

I look up from the tablet. “What?”

He’s staring at one of the tracking monitors, his gaze fixated on the display of GPS signatures for each of the tagged vehicles. His face has gone still in a way that makes my stomach clench. He turns the monitor toward us, the screen pivoting agonizingly slowly on its articulated arm. “Did anyone clear one of the vehicles leaving the property?”

I feel the blood drain from my face, my stomach performing a slow, nauseating roll toward my feet. “No.”

I should have known.

In retrospect, the warning signs weren’t merely present. They were glaring, neon-bright, and impossible to miss unless you were willfully blind. Which, apparently, I have been. The eye-rolling has been theatrical, performed with the kind of dramatic flair usually reserved for soap-opera actresses. The sarcasm cut sharper than any blade, each word dripping with contempt for the very protocols designed to keep her breathing. My denial of her last-minute dinner plans this evening was received with the subtlety of a declaration of war on her civil liberties.

Jagger’s expression answers before his mouth moves. I see it in the set of his jaw, in the way his eyes won’t quite meet mine. “Why?”

He swallows. “Because the Aston Martin just pulled up on Sunset Boulevard.”

The Aston Martin. The vehicle I specifically designated as restricted. The one that Devyn Martin should not, under any circumstances, be driving. I close my eyes, slowly and carefully, as though by controlling the speed of my eyelids descending, I might somehow control the chaos unfolding around me.

“For fuck’s sake.” The words tear out of me before I can catch them, scraping up my throat on their way into the world.

Damon and Hawk both look deeply unsurprised, while Jagger looks absolutely delighted. His eyes are bright with the particular joy of someone who loves chaos, feeds on disruption, and finds entertainment in the exact situations that make my life a living hell. “See?” he says, gesturing broadly as though presenting evidence in a criminal trial. “I told you she was going to be fun.”

“Fun isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Spirited?”

I shake my head.

“Independent?”

“No.”

“Difficult?”

I point my finger at him, stabbing the air like a blade. “That one. That is the word. That is the only word.”

Hawk sighs. It is not a small sigh or casual exhalation, but the deep, weary release of a man whose coworkers are actively shortening his lifespan. Without a word, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a set of keys, then tosses them across the table in a gentle arc. “Go get her.”

Damon catches them one-handed, already rising from his chair, already moving toward the door.

Jagger has slumped in his chair. “Come on. He gets to have all the fun.”

“This isn’t fun.” I stand, my chair scraping against the floor.