Chapter 5

Vance

Isabella loves to stir up trouble, that much is clear. She's sitting with some young bag of muscles who's eyeing her from across the table with a hunger that looks pathetic from where I sit.

She leans over, accentuating her chest beneath the low-cut black dress, and reaches for her glass of red wine. He says something and she laughs, and it sounds fucking fake. Not that he seems like he'd be able to tell. This is probably entirely normal behavior around him. Fucking rich people.

She knows I'm watching. I can tell by the way she flips her dark hair, big curls draping down her back, or the way she crosses and uncrosses her legs. All of it has a hidden meaning. And even that has hidden meanings, because it's not like she likes me.

Quite the contrary.

Her fingers curl and drag up her thigh, spreading the long slit in her dress and exposing her tan thigh for my viewing. Not for the bag of shit in front of her, but for me. I have to talk down my dick because the twinge of excitement I feel is completely inappropriate.

I do not fuck clients. I never have, even when they threw their naked bodies onto my lap. Hard no.

There's not some kind of ethics board for bodyguards, but if I get blacklisted by people like my boss, I'll never work again. Not above the dark asshole of a strip club, at least, and that's a problem. I like consistent income more than I like pussy.

When the job is finished, it's a different story. I have fucked women after I watched over them. Usually we ended up accidentally running into each other somewhere, and a quick fuck was an A-OK bonus for me.

"Vance? Is that you?" says a voice behind me.

I close my eyes and silently curse the irony. I turn my head and see one of my past clients. Someone I worked for before my current boss, but after the strip club. A weird middle place where I was doing small gigs for men I would never meet in person. I like the intimacy of having one boss who knows just how to ruin my day with a single phone call.

"It is you!" she squeals as she shuffles her high heels to the table and sits in the vacant seat across from me. She pushes the plate and silverware aside and puts her elbows on the placemat.

"Hi, Theodora," I say with a pleasant smile. I guess Isabella and her meat bag aren't the only fake ones.

"What are you doing here? This place seems too?—"

"Classy?"

She opens and closes her mouth.

She meant that but doesn't want to admit she meant that.

A place like this is too classy for me. Rich people don't make good protectors. The poor, the rough and tumble types? Yeah, those guys make good bodyguards.

Apparently, a suit can't mask my status. I look like trash to them, no matter how fine the fabric. Which is fine. I'm not interested in rising to their status level or playing by the rules that dominate their world.

Theodora's big eyes motion to the right, toward the bathroom. Interesting how she wants to sleep with someone as classless as me.

"I'm working," I tell her.

She glances around the restaurant, trying to pick out my mark. She twists fake blonde hair between her fingers, and her eyes come to rest on me. "Take a break?"

Am I tempted? Yeah. Really fucking tempted. Especially as she uncrosses her long legs and gives me a glimpse of her lack of panties.

I look at the watch on my wrist and catch Isabella in my peripheral. A waiter has just delivered their meals. She should be busy for a little while.

I'll give myself ten minutes.

One single break.

Without saying anything, I get up and walk toward the bathrooms tucked away from the main floor. I go into one of the rooms and wait. It'd be classless for her to come in here, but I'll give her one minute.

Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight.

She sneaks into the bathroom with me, and I close the door and twist the lock. Before I even get my hand off the metal, she's on me. Her rosy lipstick smears across my lips as she kisses me.

"I've always wanted a way to thank you for all you did for me," she says against my mouth.

"No need to thank me, Theodora. It was just my job." I made sure her husband knew she was serious about the divorce. Really hammered the point into him.

Her hands work open my belt buckle regardless, and her fingers fly into a frenzy as she unzips my slacks. I look at my watch. Eight minutes.

I lean against the wall as her hands reveal my dick with an aggression that's very clearly stifled. She strokes me with long, dedicated movements, her eyes on my face.

Guilt flushes through my veins, and I push her hand away. "I can't do this. I have to go back to work."

She scoffs and wipes her hand against her dress. "Well, this is embarrassing," she says, wiping the lipstick from around her mouth and stepping away from me.

"It's not you, and you know that," I say. I throw her a wink. "You know how seriously I take my job."

"Yeah, yeah." She twists the lock and barges out of the bathroom.

I tug up my slacks and go to the mirror. Smeared lipstick circles my mouth. I wipe at the rouge marks until my skin is pretty much the same color the lipstick once was. Satisfied enough, I return to the dining area. When I look at the table where Isabella sat, the food sits abandoned.

"Fuck." This is why I don't take fucking breaks.

I walk to their table and snag the waiter, dragging him aside. "Did you see where those two headed off?" I gesture between the two empty chairs.

He tosses his chin toward the exit before hurrying away from me.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

This is the one gig that will cost my life if I fail. I hurry out the door and my eyes scan left and right, trying to find my bearings while also not boiling over with panic.

The Italian restaurant is part of a strip of businesses and restaurants. One building runs into the next...except for the alleyway on the one side that leads to the parking lot.

I break into a jog when I reach the alley, and my eyes narrow on the back of her BMW. Fog creeps up the glass. The breath of relief is followed by one of panic, and I rush to her car and whip open her back door. She's grinding on the man's lap. I stop her mid kiss, and her gaze rises to me with a hint of disgusting playfulness.

She did it on purpose.

"What the hell?" the guy says, pushing her off his lap as he covers his erection with his hand. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Her daddy," I say, a cruel smirk crossing my face.

"Your father, Isabella? Really?" he snaps.

I pull him out of the car by his jacket and he flails against my hold.

"You're fucked!" he screams in my face.

"And you aren't. Get lost," I growl.

The moment I release the man, he runs off, heading down the alleyway toward the restaurant. Once I can no longer hear his footsteps, I turn toward Isabella.

"What were you thinking?" I ask as I pull her ass out of the car too.

She lowers the hem of her skirt as she clumsily gets to her feet. "Same thing you were thinking, I guess," she quips, wiping at the lipstick on my chin. "If I can't play, neither can you."

I rip away from her touch. "I'm sorry? Are you in a position to make rules, little girl?"

She scoffs. "Watch me."

I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and draw her into me. My eyes narrow. "Real bratty for someone who needs protecting."

"How would my father take it, you think, if I told him you went off with some woman while you were supposed to be watching me?" She tightens her lips. "Spoiler alert: not well."

She's truly the most difficult person I've ever watched, and I've watched tweaking strippers, for Christ's sake. It's like she wants to be abducted. All she had to do was sit and eat like a normal person for ten fucking minutes. What game is she playing?