3. Tyson

3

TYSON

My phone goes off at the ass crack of dawn. I'm passed out on the couch with a bowl of popcorn perched on my stomach and the TV remote limp in my hand. The game I was watching ended hours ago, replaced by informercials late into the night.

I snort waking up to the jingle of my ringtone, my phone vibrating along with the sound. Who the hell would be calling me before the sun's even up?

The bowl of popcorn spills onto the couch cushions as I spring up and snatch the phone off the end table.

"'Ello?" I grumble.

"Tyson the Bison! Long time no talk! Hope I didn't wake you," comes the sunny voice of none other than Hal Fischmann. The two of us served in the Marines together as infantrymen before Hal was injured and medically separated. He decided to pursue his dream instead: working in the music industry.

We were never close, though he's made a point to keep in touch all these years, often using my old field nickname.

"Maybe next time don't call in the middle of the fucking night," I grumble.

"It's six a.m."

"I wake at noon. Why're you calling me?"

"Straight to the point. No chaser," Hal chuckles. "That's what I've always loved about you. Exactly why I'm reaching out now. I've got a gig for you. Interested?"

I scrub a hand over my face, feeling like death. My head pounds from the half a bottle of bourbon I drank last night and the lack of sleep I've been getting. The few hours I got on the couch just now was the most in weeks.

That tends to happen when you work yourself to the bone. A nasty habit of mine considering it keeps my mind off the dumpster fire that's my personal life. If I stay busy working security contracts, I don't have to face the void Jax has left behind.

I damn sure don't have to figure out what the hell I'm going to do with his room full of things…

"Depends," I say. "How much does it pay?"

"Trust me, my friend, money is bountiful in this case. Jerry McGuire show-me-the-money kinda mula!"

"Hal…" I warn.

He clears his throat. " Ahem. What I mean is, Bison, it's a very high profile client. Maybe the biggest one you've ever worked for."

"I've done security for the President."

"Think even bigger than POTUS, Bison! World's biggest superstar big. Modern day Michael Jackson big. Which is why I thought of you. This job has Tyson the Bison written all over it."

I roll my eyes at the ass kissing, my head pounding. "How long?"

"Contract is for the rest of the year. Did I mention the client is verrrry high profile?"

"Since when do I care about high profile? You know that's never meant squat to me. I'm about the job. If it's not the right one, then I'm not interested. It could be security for Jesus Fucking Christ and I still wouldn't be up for it if the job wasn't right."

His laugh turns shaky and nervous. "Well… you know what I mean, Bison. Just that… just that this client is very valuable. A hot commodity. It's a tall order, but you're the guy who can do it. If anybody can, it's you."

"Send me the info."

It's my sign off as I hang up on him.

A concession in a way that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. The last time I worked a gig Hal got me, it was security for some debutante heiress who couldn't have been a bigger bitch. She spent the entire time ordering me around like I was her personal assistant, not the security guarding her life. I put my foot down when she tried to get me to go fetch her a pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks.

But Hal was right about one thing: I am one of the best in the private security business. Skills I've spent over a decade honing. First in the military when I joined the Marines straight out of high school at the age of seventeen, then years later once I separated and went into civilian contract work.

My size helps. At six-foot-four, two-fifty, I'm nothing to sneeze at. Nobody to fuck with. Not only will I protect my assets with utmost attention to detail, I will have your ass flat on the ground the second you try something.

There's no denying I'm good at what I do. I'm aware I am.

And that's what's made losing Jax even more tortuous than it would be for anybody else.

The fact that I protect people for a living, yet I couldn't protect him…

My phone pings with an email notification. Hal's sent through the contract for the job he called about.

I take a few minutes to sort myself out before having a look. Five minutes of taking a piss, brewing some much-needed coffee, and cleaning up the bits of popcorn on the couch later, I grab my phone and read through it.

My left brow cocks higher as I scroll over the text. The fine print of the contract reads like some parody. A joke of a contract with so many stipulations that it can't possibly be real.

This is the job Hal thought I'd be a good fit for?

Who the hell am I guarding? The Queen of England?

"She's dead," I mumble under my breath. I scroll back up toward the top to read the name printed on the first page.

Kiana Baduza.

The name Kiana sounds vaguely familiar. But I'm not one to keep up with pop culture or what's the latest big thing.

I stopped paying attention when garbage like Instagram and the Kardashians became a thing.

Why would Hal think I'd be interested in guarding some spoiled, entitled celebrity that makes appearances on red carpets and at nightclubs? I'm supposed to follow her around like a fucking puppy while she jet sets to Paris for a shopping spree?

I've put my life on the line countless times. I've peered across enemy lines and been part of combat patrols in places like Afghanistan. Bullets whizzed past my head as I once escorted a foreign dignitary to safety in the middle of a terrorist attack.

There have been at least a dozen situations on the job when I probably should've died. Yet I somehow survived.

…yet now Hal thinks this is what I've worked toward, guarding Princess Kiana as she goes for pap strolls on Hollywood Boulevard?

I fire off a text letting him know my answer.

Thanks but no thanks.

It's not only a no. It's a hell no.

He responds almost immediately, like he was waiting on pins and needles for my answer.

Bison, you've got to reconsider it! Think of the $$$.

No money in the world would be enough.

Look again. All those zeros…

You'll be HEAD of security. 9 months for what you'd make in 5 years anywhere else.

I blow out a heavy breath and then scroll back to the contract where the salary's listed.

Hal's got a point. If what's listed is really how much is being offered for this job, then financially speaking, I'd be a fool to turn it down. I could take this last security gig for nine months and then get my crappy life together.

One last distraction before I face reality.

Before I deal with the ramifications of what Jax's death means.

I curse under my breath, scratching my thick beard as I weigh my options. It couldn't hurt to consider the proposal. Meet up with this Kiana chick's team and hear more about the job. Then go from there.

Blowing out another exasperated sigh, I shoot a follow up text to Hal.

I'll do the meet up. No promises otherwise.

Excellent!

Tonight at the Ice Lounge in LA. I'll be there with her manager.

You won't regret it, Bison. Guaranteed.

"Yeah," I grumble to myself, "we'll see about that."