8. Elijah

My alarm clock shrieked just after dawn. Yet I'd been awake for hours, thinking about falling chandeliers and fiery car bombs.

I swung my legs over the bed and sat up, rolling out an ache in my right shoulder. Adrenaline had been slow to leave my body last night. When it did, stress dreams lingered in its wake. Dreams of Luke, sliding into the car mere seconds before the explosion. Of Luke, smiling up at me while a chandelier hurtled toward his head. In both, I moved as if my limbs were trapped in quicksand, clumsy and slow and never reaching him in time.

A contractor had been dispatched immediately to clean up the mess from the chandelier. The thousands of glass shards had sparkled in the waning light, showing up in the oddest places: crushed into the carpet, a dusting on Luke's shoes, some in my hair. The contractor blamed the accident on an old mounting plate straining at the wood, which had gotten damp from an undetected leak.

"This was one hell of an unlucky accident," he'd said, carting away the shattered materials. Luke had agreed.

But I didn't believe in unlucky accidents.

After a quick cold shower and a cup of coffee, I dressed facing my apartment's floor-length mirror. Behind me, at the small kitchen table, my laptop chirped with a reminder for my virtual meeting with Foster in a few minutes. I finished buttoning my white shirt and draped a black tie around my neck. A perfectly knotted tie will drive a woman wild, my father once told me, under the auspices of helping me learn what he believed was a crucial skill.

He wielded fancy clothing and an expensive vocabulary like a precisely sharpened blade, charming women back to our house even as my mother worked the night shift to pay rent.

It can't be messy,he used to say. Never sloppy. The tie must be exquisite. A work of art. You're telling the world that you, too, are a work of art. A person to be respected.

The sun filtered in through the half-open curtains, highlighting the scarred lines on my cheekbone. I sniffed once. Cinched the tie tight, perfectly centered.

Not for art, but for purpose.

My father had already left when I came out as gay—not that it would have mattered if he'd stuck around. Handing over something as personal as my queerness would have been a mistake. All that luxurious clothing couldn't fully hide the ugliness of who he really was. Mercurial, moody, his temper on a hair-fine trigger, set off by any number of things. Once it was, however, he swerved from charming to furious, blaming anyone in his radius for whatever misfortune he believed had befallen him.

Finally satisfied, I pulled on my jacket and sat in the chair facing my laptop, gripping my mug of coffee so my fingers wouldn't fidget.

Foster joined the call ten seconds later. "Good morning, Knight."

"Sir," I said with a nod.

"Before we get to updates, I've gotta say I'm sorry again for pulling you from your vacation. And I really appreciate you stepping up like this."

"Nine days off was plenty," I said. "I'm feeling refreshed, all things considered."

Foster and I were cut from the same cloth, which was why he'd forced me on the vacation in the first place. I hadn't even given a thought to where I wanted to go. Simply found an island with affordable airfare and showed up, bags in hand, with absolutely nothing to do.

With all that unstructured time, it was far too easy for my thoughts to wander, for my old worries to crop up. I could scrutinize cheating spouses for only so long before a high whine would start up in my brain, sending my fingers curling into fists.

But being near seemingly happy people didn't help either. On the fourth day, my lounger had been close to a couple just a few years older than I was. Two men, one in navy blue trunks and the other in a rainbow-colored Speedo, so boisterously in love I could feel the entire beach getting drawn into their orbit.

Their affection was easy, practically careless. A kiss on the cheek, a ruffling of hair, the casual twining of their fingers as they read books and chatted.

It made my chest ache with a feeling I couldn't name.

"It sounds like everything's all set with the new contract and the new Beaumont, yes?" Foster asked, redrawing my focus.

My hand flexed around the mug. "Lucas Beaumont signed all documents, retaining the same number of protection agents as well as honoring the new rate you'd originally requested."

Foster looked relieved. "That's tremendous news. Well done. Any other issues I need to be aware of?"

I need something from you, and you need something from me.

"None whatsoever," I lied. The first time I'd done so to a supervisor, evidenced by the twisting knots in my stomach.

But my behavior yesterday was unprofessional, bordering on dangerous. Snapping at Luke. Letting him get under my skin. Allowing him to manipulate me into helping him tarnish his father's legacy.

I'd agreed for the right reasons—because Luke was my client and protecting him was the priority. Because the loss of this contract would be devastating to the company I was loyal to. And because the man in front of me had wished it to be done.

So it was done.

Except Luke was a fool if he thought I'd actually let him drag me along on this ill-advised quest. A quest that would turn up nothing, since Lincoln's secrets were no more scandalous than the average CEO's, even with that strange letter we'd received.

Luke would drop this ridiculous revenge plot as soon as something more interesting came along. I'd never met a person with that much privilege who could resist total power when it came calling for them.

"And what is Lucas like so far?" Foster asked, breaking into my thoughts.

My gut twisted tighter.

"He's impulsive," I said. "Reckless. Seems to have a complete disregard for his own safety."

Foster nodded at something off-screen, accepting a file he then tossed onto his desk. "The letter he received is concerning to me. I'd assumed these ongoing threats were directed at Lincoln Beaumont specifically. If they're continuing, unabated, it points to something bigger. A hatred for the entire company perhaps."

"It certainly puts everyone at higher risk," I admitted. "Ripley will be covering Luke's night shifts while I'm on days. The rest of the team will be assigned the estate, as well as mapping out driving routes and researching any public events or guests. As of right now, TBG's satellite offices, including the main one in Manhattan, haven't been hit with anything. They've been thrown into chaos with Lincoln's passing, but nothing dangerous."

Foster closed the file he'd been reading and flicked his gaze back to mine. "And I've got nothing to report from local law enforcement yet, though given the high value of this client, they're taking it seriously." He paused, then said, "I'm glad you weren't hurt."

The images from my nightmare came back to me—the horror when I realized Luke was behind the wheel of the car. His lopsided grin, so trusting, so amiable. The words I tried to scream at him. You should have been more afraid.

"I feel very lucky, sir," I replied. "Thank you for your concern."

"Maybe the timing of my retirement is for the best then. One more month and then you won't be in the field risking your life anymore. Are you sure you'll be fine with riding a desk and sitting through meetings all day?"

I thought about my mom, about my brother and my nephews. Remembered all the things I'd promised them. All the things they deserved—safety, security, stability.

"I'll be more than fine. As long as you are, sir."

He gave a small smile. "There's only one person I want filling that role, and that's you."

I cast my gaze to the side, humbled by the minor praise. "Thank you. That's nice to hear."

After we hung up, I set my empty mug in the sink and drove the short distance from my apartment in East Hampton to Luke's house in Cape Avalon. That stretch of the island was narrow, with the Atlantic Ocean shimmering on one side, the bay on the other.

After doing this same drive for five years, I hardly noticed the coastal scenery that drew wealthy New Yorkers every summer. Yet the temporary nature of this work couldn't be helped. It was true that my apartment was more hotel room than home, that my sense of community here was nonexistent. But it served a greater purpose—the protection of our clients—allowing me to blend into the background without bias.

Everything else was a distraction. And that included my new client's disarming smile and playful flirting.

I arrived at Luke's to relieve Ripley from his shift a few minutes early. He was stationed by the front door while a second agent, Sylvester, stayed parked in a car down the road.

Ripley was a new hire, young with a shock of red hair so bright he was easy to spot in a crowd. It only made the freckles on his face stand out darker on his pale skin—skin that flushed as soon as I approached. I hadn't been happy that he'd left Luke's detail simply because Luke had demanded it.

He'd been fidgety around me ever since.

"How did last night go?" I asked, rebuttoning my jacket. "Any issues?"

"None, uh…none at all," Ripley replied. "It was pretty quiet. The client had dinner at home, then I escorted him to a bar down the street, where he stayed for a few hours with a group of friends. Their backgrounds checked out."

I glanced in that direction. "Which bar? And was he inebriated?"

"The Shipwreck, sir. And no, he wasn't. I did keep a close eye on the bartender to make sure the drinks weren't tampered with."

I nodded. "He didn't happen to share today's agenda with you, did he?"

Ripley shook his head and I cursed under my breath. When I'd driven Luke home last night, after the chandelier fiasco, he'd promised to share his meeting calendar with my team, so we could start the tedious process of checking people's backgrounds and ensuring driving routes were safe, among other things.

This is part of our deal, I'd reminded him.

He'd given me a mocking salute and drawled, Aye, aye, captain, as if he had not a care in the world.

Now, an alarm clock blared through one of the open side windows, drawing my immediate attention.

"Is he up yet or still asleep?" I asked.

"Asleep, as far as we know," Ripley said. "No one's gone in or out."

The alarm persisted for another thirty seconds, prickling the skin at the back of my neck. Luke seemed the type to hit snooze about a dozen times—not leave it blaring nonstop.

I unlocked his front door and cracked it open. "Lucas?" I called out, listening for movement.

Nothing—just the alarm.

I pushed inside and followed the sound, Ripley close behind me. We passed his couch, where a paperback sat open next to a blanket. Passed his kitchen with a few pots filling the sink, a half-full cup of coffee on the counter. His surfboard was still where he'd left it the other day.

The alarm continued.

I followed it, down a long hallway toward what I assumed was his bedroom, dread pooling in my stomach. At the door, I knocked again, louder this time.

"Luke," I said. "Luke, can you hear me? It's Elijah."

I didn't think, just acted. Shoved the door open and braced myself for whatever it was I might find in there.

Which was the alarm clock, still shrieking. An open window, the sage-green curtain fluttering in the morning breeze.

And Luke's bed, completely empty.