6. Cole

6

COLE

I 've been all over the world, and seen a lot of dangerous places. But there was just something unsavory about what went down at Emory's place.

Just the thought of that creep Lovejoy watching her every move for who knew how long. With all the special privileges that his money can buy, he could probably have accessed a tablet or cell phone to watch her.

As if I already didn't want to catch the creep and throw him back into a hole where he belongs.

Emory and I drop the mini cameras off at the Platinum Security office. Jax says Harlowe will work on trying to use the cameras to trace Lovejoy's location. I am not an internet expert, but I know that it can be difficult to find someone who doesn't want to be found online.

I have a lot more hope for the greeting card angle. Lovejoy had been physically present at some point, being in direct contact with the card. Even if he hadn't been the one to pick the locks and drop it gift wrapped onto Emory's bed, he had still touched it.

If I can figure out where Lovejoy is hiding out, or at least narrow it down, there is a good chance I can lay hands on him and his buddies. Sometimes, the best defense is a good offense.

Or maybe, I just want to punish him for what he's done to Emory.

"What do we do now?" Emory asked as we got back into the truck.

"Now, I try to talk you into leaving town one more time–"

"No, I don't think so. I mean, what's going to happen with the cameras?"

"We'll have to wait until we hear back from Harlowe. She's the firm's hacker."

"I think I met her once, at a party."

I sigh and rub my eyes. It feels like it's been a damn long day in a city known for its long days.

"For now, since moving you out of town isn't an option, I think it would be best if I took up quarters in your residence."

She gives me a long look, then her face splits in a grin.

"You should wait at least until after the first date before you try to move in, don't you think?"

It should be funny, but for some reason I feel a stab of shame.

"It's not like that. I need to be able to watch over you day and night…"

We lock gazes, then laugh.

"There's no way to say it without it somehow sounding dirty," I say with a sigh.

"To be fair, anything can be twisted to sound dirty."

I have to stop and chew that one over for a moment.

"Surely that doesn't apply to everything."

"Oh yeah?" Her eyes light up with something other than fear. I like that look on her. "You want to bet?"

"Bet?"

"Yeah, loser buys the winner a snow cone. Think of a totally unsexy thing and I'll see if I can make it sound sexy."

I'm starting to wonder when I lost control of this conversation, but now I feel like I should just hang on and enjoy the ride.

"All right. Episcopalian."

"It has to be more than just one word," she says, slapping me on the arm. "Give a girl something to work with."

I twist up my thoughts until I come up with something suitably pedestrian.

"All right, here goes: There's a sale on creamed corn in aisle five."

Her brows arch toward her hairline as a devious smile plays on her full lips. I realize I'm having fun. Just goofing off with Emory, like I used to when I was in the service. Hurry up and wait. Either too busy or not busy enough.

When you find someone you can share those quiet spaces with, that's someone you treasure. Can't remember where I heard that, but no way am I smart enough to have come up with it on my own.

Emory drops her gaze, leaving her blue eyes half lidded. Her voice drops an octave as well, taking on a sultry, husky tone.

"Cole," she says my name in a breathy whisper that raises bumps on my skin. "There's a sale…"

Her fingers play over my forearm as she leans in close, close enough I can feel her breath. The way she pronounces the word "sale" makes it sound like something taboo, and delightful, in equal measure.

"...on, mmmm, cream corn in aisle five."

She lilts her voice up at the end, making it sound as if she's barely repressing an orgasm. There's only one thing I can do now.

I applaud.

"I stand corrected. You're right, anything can be made to sound dirty. Which is why it's important that you know I'm going to be a complete professional."

"Oh? So no going through my underwear drawer?"

She's smiling. Teasing me, with both her gaze and her tone. I'm trying to assert my stoic professionalism here, but I can't resist playing along.

"How do you know I haven't already?"

Emory nods sagely.

"It's true, I don't. You were in my house for a long time. For all I know, you're wearing a pair of them right now."

I sputter with laughter.

"No way would they fit."

"Some of the stretchier fabrics might, you never know."

I put the truck in gear and we drive back to her place. Somehow, the talk about stretchy fabric morphs into a conversation about the Olympics. Turns out we're both fans, but for different reasons. The sun sinks below the horizon as I listen to Emory.

"You know, teaching dance choreography is as much about learning how to read body language as anything. That's how you develop the routines. You base it on the range of motion and kinetic intelligence of your subject."

"Wait," I say, keeping my eyes on the road but my ears on Emory. "What was that last bit? Kinetic intelligence?"

"Oh yes, kinetic intelligence. There are multiple intelligences, you know."

"What does that even mean?"

I risk a glance at her. She's drawn one knee up to her chest, arms encircling her own shin. Her blue eyes remain locked on me so intensely I almost feel shaken.

"It means that intelligence is more than just being able to do math. There's interpersonal intelligence, which is something that Julian has in spades. He's really good at manipulating people and turning conversations to his advantage."

"I've never thought about it that way, but it makes sense."

She nods, clearly lost in thought.

"A lot of people in the Olympics are physical geniuses. They really know how to use their bodies. Kinetic intelligence. Then there's people who really know themselves well, wise men and women in touch with the universe. Intrapersonal intelligence."

"I'm glad there's so many types. I don't have to feel bad for being dumb."

She gives me a sour look.

"I would never use the adjective dumb to describe you, Cole."

"Oh. Thanks."

"Stubborn, overbearing, and trigger-happy, maybe, but never dumb."

"Who's trigger-happy? I haven't shot anybody."

Emory laughs, a sound like ambrosia to my ears.

"Yet," I add.

She laughs even harder.

I swing by my apartment to pick up some things. It's too dangerous for her to stay in the truck, but I wasn't planning on company. My place isn't trashed, but it's not chick-friendly, either.

Fortunately, she seems willing to stay out on the balcony while I put together some clothes and toiletries. When I join her outside, she's texting someone with a furious profusion of keystrokes.

"Must be important."

"More like infuriating. There's a bunch of Paps outside the studio, trying to get a shot of poor TJ from Boys R Us. Or more specifically, trying to get a shot of him falling off the wagon."

We walk back to the truck. I toss my bag into the locker in the back and climb behind the wheel. She finishes her text and stows the phone in her Michael Kors leather purse. For a second, I take in how different we look. Emory the Barbie doll, Cole the tatted up military vet with more issues than Rolling Stone.

"What?" she asks, anxious under all my scrutiny.

"You say you study body language, and the way people move to learn things about them, right?"

"I do recall saying that."

"Then what does your special choreographer sense tell you about me?"

She purses her lips, eyes narrow with intense thought.

"Hmm. Well, you have a grace that belies your bulk. You've obviously spent a lot of time on your feet, not to mention a lot of time carrying a weapon."

"How can you tell the part about me being on my feet, and the weapons? I mean, you're right, but how?"

Emory chuckles, turning slightly in her seat to face more fully toward me.

"In your case, you have exceptional balance and tend to keep your weight up on the balls of your feet. That indicates someone who has walked long distances, stood for long periods of time, or both."

"And what about the weapon part?"

"When you walk, you tend to swing your arms out wide, as if avoiding contact with a munitions belt or holster."

I give her an extra sharp look.

"You're like Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh please, not hardly. Bodies are my business. I'm supposed to know this stuff."

I think of a couple ways I could make that dirty, then remember my promise to be professional. I take another route instead.

"I guess bodies are my business, too. Protecting them," I jut my chin toward her. "Or making more of them."

She rolls her eyes and guffaws.

"Oh my GOD…that was the most testosterone-dripping alpha male crack I've ever heard."

"Hear a lot of testosterone-dripping cracks, do you?"

She slaps me in the arm. I'm laughing, my heart lighter than it's been in a long time. Emory has a way of making me feel downright sunny.

"You're the worst, Cole Drake. Just the worst. How did I get so unlucky to have you as my bodyguard?"

"Bad karma, I'm guessing. Shouldn't have drowned those puppies in another life."

The jibe makes her laugh, but it was one I pulled from memory. Something Jake used to say. The same man I failed to save.

I can't fail again. I just can't.

"What's wrong, Cole? You have indigestion?"

I force a smile I don't feel onto my face.

"Something like that."

When we get back to her place, I circle the block a couple of times to be sure it's safe. Emory doesn't complain this time. She stays oddly silent, even when we pull into the driveway and then the garage.

"So, I think I saw a guest room earlier?" I ask.

"Yeah, just down the hall from my bedroom."

"You might not like this, but we're going to have to switch rooms. You sleep in the guest room, I'll sleep in your room."

She gives me a look. "Why?"

"Because Lovejoy will think to look for you in the master bedroom. It might give you a few minutes warning if he tries to kill me first."

"Oh."

Realization dawns in her eyes.

"Well, I want to sleep in my own bed, though. It cost me a lot of money and it's set just the way I want it."

"I'll move your bed into the guest room and help you set it up."

"Ok. But you'd better not go sniffing around my panty drawer."

"I'm more into socks."

It takes her a few seconds to realize I'm kidding.

"The worst, Cole. You are the worst!"

She hip checks me, a pretty solid hit. Her athleticism is impressive. Of course, my mind immediately goes to a very dirty place. I have to stop doing that. A little bit of flirting is one thing. Mutual attraction is another.

Fucking up my first solo assignment with Platinum Security because I'm screwing the client is something else entirely, however.

Her bed turns out to be one of those fancy types that adjust based on a numeric system. It also turns out to be incredibly heavy. Naturally, getting through the hallway and into the narrower guest room is a challenge.

I'm blinking away sweat by the time we fully get the beds switched over. I do another perimeter check, and once I see that all is clear I turn to Emory.

"All right, it's secure. I'm going to set the alarms, and take one last eyeball check of the street."

"What should I do?" she asks.

I shrug. "Do what you normally do. Try to pretend I'm invisible and concentrate on living your life."

She scoffs. "As if I could imagine your big ass didn't exist. Besides, I kind of don't want to pretend you don't exist."

I don't know what to say to that. I head around the house and check the alarm system. Everything looks in order. I don't know how Lovejoy or his accomplices managed to pick the lock to her bedroom window without setting it off.

Then, something crumples under my toe that isn't grass or an insect. I bend over and pick up a tiny chewing gum wrapper. If you're clever and careful enough, you can use one of these silver wrappers to keep the circuit flowing through an alarmed door or window.

The cocky pricks left the evidence right here for anyone to find. And I just marked it up with my own prints, potentially destroying evidence. Not a smart move on my part.

I whip out my switchblade and do a little minor remodeling. Specifically, I create a gap much too wide to bridge with a chewing gum wrapper. They won't get in the same way twice.

I go around and do the same to all the windows and doors. Once I'm satisfied there's no longer an easy way past the alarm, I head back inside and set the alarm again.

"That should do it," I call out.

"Thanks," she calls back. I find her in the living room. She's changed into shorts and an oversized T-shirt, her socked feet propped up on a padded stool. "You can have a seat wherever. You want something to drink? I have all kinds of stuff in my fridge. There's even beer."

"I'm good on the beer. I don't want to get buzzed while on the job."

"Well, get something non-alcoholic for yourself, and get me some water while you're there, pretty please."

I open her stainless steel smart fridge. Inside I find neatly organized shelves and plenty of things to drink. I take two of the bottled waters and return to the living room.

"Thanks," she says as I hand her the drink. I settle on the sofa, the middle cushion separating us. The water cools and refreshes my throat. I hadn't realized it had been so long since I'd had something to drink.

Or maybe I'm just thirsty in a whole different way. It takes effort not to ogle her finely shaped legs. You can tell she's a dancer, that's for sure.

"So," I say, trying to move past this moment, "I need to coordinate with the head of studio security. I want to try and bring you in through the service entrance if possible."

"If you say so. Do you really think Lovejoy or his pack would take a shot at me in such a wide-open, brightly lit area filled with witnesses?"

"Lovejoy is unhinged. There's no telling what he might do. He disconnected from reality a long time ago."

"Maybe, but he's connected enough to reality to escape from prison. And to stay escaped."

She has a point.

"In any event, it's better safe than sorry. A lot of the things I'm going to ask you to do might sound strange, or even silly, but I assure you there is a purpose."

Her brows climb high on her face.

"And what strange things are you going to ask me to do? Just what kind of a girl do you think I am?"

I laugh to cover up the fact my pulse just shot up a hundred miles an hour.

"I'll need to go ahead of you in most public places, and I might tell you to get down on the ground out of nowhere. It's important that you obey these directives at once."

"Yes, Sir, Mr. Cole."

She blinks her eyes with an innocence in her tone that her gaze belies. More of her ‘I can make anything sound sexy' shenanigans.

Emory has a couple glasses of wine, while I stick with bottled water. That doesn't mean I don't loosen up a little. You can't work in LA without hearing some wild celebrity stories, and Emory has some real good ones.

"Oh yeah," she says, pointing at her stomach. "He totally did it. Had the bottom two removed and a spacer put between the vertebrae on his back. It was not just a rumor."

"No way," I reply. "Just so he can do…that? On stage? There has to be an easier way to make a buck."

"Well, if he was any good at making music, he wouldn't need the facepaint and the self-pleasuring on stage, would he?" She shakes her head and grimaces. "Out of all the video shoots I've worked on, that was the only one where I felt truly uncomfortable."

"Nothing happened to you, did it?"

"No, nothing happened to me. I was lucky, I guess. At any rate, the really gross thing is when men have to shave behind their ears."

I do a double take. "What, now?"

"It's true!"

She pantomimes grabbing her cheeks and stretching them up and back.

"You see, when they get a face lift, they just grab everything and pull it back and stitch it in place. So the skin that used to be on their neck is now behind their ear. If you see stubble or razor burn behind a guy's ear, that's how you know he's had surgery."

"Damn. I never would have guessed. How did you even notice that sort of thing?"

"When you're helping someone with a dance routine, you get all up in their business. Bad breath, sweat, drugs, booze…I've been privy to a lot that I keep hidden. Don't want to lose clients by spilling their bad laundry all over the place for everyone to see."

"Like you just did with the double M guy?"

"That's different. His career is already over, and even if it weren't, no way would I work for him again. Or anything involving him."

She checks her phone, the screen illuminating her lovely face.

"It's getting late, and I have to be at the studio by seven in the morning. I'm going to turn in."

"All right. Don't forget you're down the hall."

"How can I forget, after watching you sweat and cuss all night trying to get the bed into the guest room?"

Emory stands up and stretches like a cat, eyes squeezing shut. I can't resist taking a long, lingering look at her lovely body. Her eyes open, and she walks past me toward the steps. My eyes bulge out of my head. She's been sitting this whole time. I had no idea those shorts were so, well, short.

The grin on Emory's face says she knows exactly what kind of effect she's having on me. Once she's out of sight, I shake my head and sigh.

"She's not making it easy, that's for damn sure."

I stay awake a little bit longer, then retire for the evening myself. It's hard to find sleep. I'm used to bedding down in lots of different places. The problem is an internal one, not external.

The next day, I rise with the dawn. I wait until I'm sure she's finished in the bathroom before I even venture in there.

Emory is laser focused on her job today. She's polite enough, and engages with me some, but her primary concentration remains on the dance number for Boys R Us' comeback video. She spends as much time staring at her phone as anything else when we dine on breakfast tacos delivered from down the street.

Once we reach the studio, I take her around back. I chat with the head of security for a bit, and secure permission for us to use the rear entrance for the time being. I like the rear entrance much better because it's a wide open, plain, and empty street guarded by a twelve-foot stone wall.

In other words, there's nowhere to hide, and nowhere to set up an ambush. Much better than the glitzy, always crowded main studio entrance.

Lucky me, I get to meet the band, Boys R Us. I'll admit they're not quite what I expected. Especially when I watch Emory put them through the ringer. Those guys work their butts off to learn the choreography, and then perform it without a hitch.

It kind of reminds me of demolition disposal. You have to follow all the steps, in order, or you'll be in trouble. The difference is what happens when you fail. Botched choreography isn't quite the same as a bomb going off in your face.

Around midday, the band is taking a break while Emory takes notes on her tablet. Something moves out of the corner of my eye. A man, walking swiftly across the studio's concrete floor. At first, he seems like just a food delivery guy, but then I take a closer look.

A hat with the brim pulled way down low hides most of his face that isn't obscured by dark glasses and a thick, possibly fake beard and mustache. He makes a beeline for Emory, his hand reaching inside of a paper bag–

"Get down!" I bellow. I don't have time to make sure Emory is listening. I interpose myself between the assailant and Emory.

With a chop of my hand, I send the bag flying from his grasp. I slam my hip into his side and flip him head over heels to land hard on his rump.

"Keep your hands where I can see them!" I holler. "Let's see who you are under this fake ass beard."

I yank on the beard, and he howls. Shit, this thing is real.

I look over the spilled gyros, the puddle of iced tea, and realize that this isn't a trained assassin in disguise as a delivery guy.

It's a delivery guy who needs to rethink his hygienic and fashion choices.

"I'm sorry, man," I say, helping him up. "Did I hurt you?"

"Are you crazy?" he blurts. "Look at the food I was supposed to deliver. I'm not paying for this!"

Emory comes over to me and puts a hand on her hip.

"Well, I'm glad you protected me from that Greek lamb wrap. It might have really hurt someone if it had the chance."

It takes me a few days, but I get used to the regular delivery people, and the production assistants, the grips and the camera crew. That doesn't mean I don't still stop and frisk them if I suspect something is up. On the fourth day of the week, Emory takes a break from working with the band to speak with me.

"Look, you're really starting to upset people. John from catering is NOT likely to secretly be a hired assassin."

"You never know who a man like Lovejoy can get to. With his money and ability to manipulate–"

"John. From catering!" She slaps me on the chest. "Cut these people some slack, will you please? No one is going to like you otherwise."

"This isn't a popularity contest. I'm not here to make friends. I'm here to keep you safe."

There is a root for my ill feeling and anxiety. There are tons of people looking for Lovvejoy and his accomplices. The police, the FBI, the CIA, and even the boys from Platinum Security, both on and offline. The prison Lovejoy escaped from even hired a private investigator to try and find the missing inmates to help stave off bad PR.

And yet, despite this massive manhunt, no one has been able to find a trace of any of the three missing men.

It just doesn't make any sense. They should have at least been spotted by now. Unless…

Unless someone is helping them.

"Can't you keep me safe without scaring the shit out of everyone who works here?" She sighs, and puts a hand on my shoulder. "I know you're just doing your job, but you're going to have to learn to trust some people, sometimes…aren't you?"

After that conversation, I try to be a little bit nicer for the rest of the day, at least. I still have to do my job, though. I still have to keep her safe.

When we arrive home on Friday at the end of the week, I insist on going in first to check things out. After I give her the all clear, Emory looks at me with exhausted eyes.

"When is my life going to go back to normal, Cole?"

"Soon as we catch the bad guys and put them back in jail," I mumble in response. I'm not really paying attention, either to her or what I'm saying. I'm focused on a car down the street which I'm mostly sure isn't a threat. Mostly.

"Oh gee, well, thanks. That just clears everything up for me."

She storms past me on stiff legs. I watch her vanish into the house, and realize I've fucked up.

Disarming a white phosphorus bomb underwater is less tricky than dealing with Emory, or my growing feelings for her.

It takes me some thinking to figure out what I did wrong. My response, it was too cavalier. She probably thinks I don't really care about protecting her, that it's just a job to me.

I go inside and track her down, intending to apologize. I've stepped in it, but I think I can make things better.

I find Emory in the guest bedroom, sitting stock upright on the bed. Her phone is up to her ear. The look in her eyes makes my heart squirm.

"What are you saying, Mom? Is it serious? Do I need to come up there?"

I stop by the door, afraid to come inside. Afraid to intrude on what might be a family moment.

"I'm…why won't you tell me anything, Mom? You don't know? You must know something, if you think he has to be rushed to the…hello?"

Emory curses and stares at her phone as if it has betrayed her.

"Emory, what's the matter?"

She looks up at me, blue eyes filled with agonized worry.

"My dad… something's wrong."