“I know enough,” he snickers.
“Fuck off, asshole,” I flip him off, picking up the pace. My eyes burn with anger, but I remind myself that this bodyguard is just one of my father’s pawns. He’s a shallow asshole, and I will not let him get to me.
My feet hurt like a bitch, so I’m grateful when I’m in the foyer of my apartment building. I press the elevator button; furious I hadn’t thought of changing out of my heels.
“Still not going to get you there any faster, sweetheart.” As he passes me and takes the stairs up, I let out a string of curse words I hope he hears.
I’m glad he is not in the hallways when I reach our floor. I slip out of my shoes and wince. I know I’ll have at least one blister from wearing these monsters all day. I limp all the way to my door then slam it shut behind me and fling my bag to the ground.
I look around the unit. It’s a wreck. I just about trashed the entire living room. I hadn’t realized how angry I was last night. I plop myself on the couch and press my palms to my eyes. I stay like that for a good fifteen minutes, switching my Fit-Watch on relaxation mode, breathing and trying to calm myself down.
My phone vibrates, and I glance at it once seeing that my mother is calling. I look away, resuming my breathing again. It is so easy for people to judge. I’ve been judged my entire life, and I should have gotten used to it by now. But I’m not. It makes me sick. Who does Braxton Hayes think he is? I should go over there and give him a piece of my mind.
“Fuck it,” I say out loud. I stand, slip on my flats, and swing the door open to find his hand raised in the air mid knock.
“Before you say anything, I shouldn’t have said any of that,” he raises his hands in defense.
“Is that an apology?” I place a hand on my hips. “Because I didn’t hear, ‘I’m an asshole’ in there.”
He shakes his head, pushing his hands into the pocket of his jeans. I hate that my eyes roam over his white t-shirt clad chest and black leather jacket. This look is so much easier on the eyes than the black suit and tie he wore earlier.
“I know this situation isn’t ideal for either of us. But I have a job to do, and that means I’m going to be around until I’m told not to be. I’ll stay on my side, you on yours, but there is no reason why we can’t be civil.”
Silence beats between us as I fold my arms across my chest.
“I’d like to start over, if you’ll let me?” he tries again.
I sigh, the sincerity in his voice making it difficult for me to keep being a bitch. “Yeah, sure. Just stay out of my way. I’m not a child. I don’t need to be followed everywhere.”
“Well that kinda complicates things. Following you is pretty much my job.” he quirks a brow.
“Just keep it on the down-low. People are starting to notice you, and that makes me look weak. I don’t like looking weak.” I frown. I have always been an independent woman and having a man follow me around is really frustrating, especially when it’s on my father’s orders.
“I get that. I just don’t see how to give you the space you want when I’m supposed to protect you.” I shrug.
“See, therein lies the problem. I don’t need protection. My father is just using you to keep tabs on me.” I run my hands through my hair.
“You think I don’t know that already? Eliana, I am not here to give your father a play-by-play. He thinks you’re in danger, and I am just here to assure him you’re not.”
“Come in,” I tell him. “Maybe we can start with a drink. “I’m much too sober for such a long conversation.”
He smirks then steps over the threshold. Something tells me I’ll regret this, that letting him in will be the worst decision of my life. Still, I offer him a beer which he declines, and I proceed to drink two gin and tonics on an empty stomach, laughing far more than I usually would with a stranger.
At some point, I changed into sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt, causing him to intentionally look away. I didn’t miss the appraising look he gave me before he did, though.
“I should get you some food,” he suggests, looking too big in the small armchair he sits in. Earlier in the doorway, I couldn’t help but notice the stormy gray of his eyes. His brown hair is cropped short, and the slight stubble on his strong jaw gives him a rugged look. “Pizza good?”
“Pizza is perfect,” I say as he whips out his cell phone, punches a few buttons, then places an order.
“So what’s your story, Braxton Hayes?”
He leans back in the chair, considers me, then gives me a small smile. “Nothing as exciting as yours, I’m sure. I grew up in San Diego, ex-Navy. I started working as a private bodyguard a few years after I left the service.”
“Ah, a serviceman.” I lean forward, tilting my head, observing him.
“That’s right.” His voice is clipped and he adjusts in his seat telling me he isn’t used to talking about himself.
“So you got a wife back home? Girlfriend?” I tease.
