The Girl in the Mirror (Sand & Fog #3) (33 page)

Palm pressed against me.

Telling me to go.

Downtime.

Christ, she can’t still be wondering about
that.

No, I don’t like it.

Maybe I’ve gone overboard with the make-up sex since our fight.

Guy feeling guilty.

Yep—but not over what she thinks.

I hate keeping things from her and not being truthful.

I smirk. “What kind of fun can I have without you?”

Her head tilts to the side as she makes the silly expression she does when she’s pretending to consider something. “Little fun. Not big fun. Other than that, I don’t know. I don’t know what guys do in their alone time—” Her lids fly open. “Wait, I do know and you can’t do that.”

I laugh, putting my forehead against hers. “I don’t want to do that.” I sigh. “You want to get rid of me, don’t you?”

Her eyes lock on mine, happy and sparkling. “Not forever. Just for a while. OK?”

The theater’s locked.

It’s packed with people.

What could happen to her here?

Stupid, Jacob. Nothing.

You’re being overly paranoid again.

She wants you gone so she can focus.

This is a big night for her.

Stop being a distraction.

I kiss her and step back. “Fine, I’m going. I’ll catch up with you in your dressing room later.”

She smiles and hurries up onto the stage to be enthusiastically greeted by the corps members. I watch her for a while, laughing and chatting with Cass, before I head to the lobby.

On the way out, I pass Milo Bassard coming into the theater with his entourage of sycophants. He doesn’t speak to me and I don’t speak to him. But eye contact. Serious eye contact. Asshat.

I go down the sidewalk to the small bar in the next block that I used to hang out in with Xavier before I nixed that relationship. It’s a nice neighborhood joint, the kind with regulars and where they remember your name. Small-town feel in the big city. Maybe I’ll have lunch and a beer. Sports on TV would be great.

Just do nothing.

Little fun.

OK, Krystal, you’re right.

This is a good thing for both of us.

I lever myself on a stool at the end of the bar and study the collection of booze on the wall trying to figure out what I want. I don’t usually drink this early in the day. I don’t usually have the opportunity. I’m always with Krystal. I wonder if she’s starting to get sick of having me around 24/7.

Bodyguard/husband not the best mix.

Well, not for her. What guy can say he literally loves his work?

Though not really my work since I married her.

Checks uncashed.

Savings dwindling for my living expenses and the help I send to Jane.

I need another job.

Brayden can’t get here soon enough to make my bank account happy.

I quit Black Star Security in spirit when we got married. Nope, I won’t take money for taking care of my wife. I just haven’t sent a resignation letter.

Fuck, what’s Alan going to do when I try to explain the getting married and not telling him, but pretending to still be working for Jared and not having him replace me?

Jesus Christ, that sounds lame.

Alan’s never going to accept me.

I do moronic shit.

But Krystal gets my wires all crossed. It sounded reasonable at the time. First her not wanting to tell her folks about us. Then I didn’t want to tell them about the marriage. Now this quagmire we can’t get out of thanks to Milo Bassard and NBBC. I can’t find a job in Manhattan and she won’t leave.

God, I love her…

A rap on the bar makes me look up. “Are you going to order, Jake, or just sit there all day?”

Crap, how long has Wally been staring at me? Quite a while if his expression is any indication. “How about a pale ale on tap to start?”

“Sixteen or twenty ounces?”

“Twenty. It’s opening night. You’re going to be stuck with me parked on a stool for a while.”

Wally laughs as he fills a glass. “You’re not the first ballet spouse I’ve had to take care of on opening night.” He sets down the beer on a coaster and places a shot beside it. “Trust me, you need the whiskey.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “No, man, just the beer, but thanks.” I scan the menu as I savor the taste of a cold one. What’s here to order that I haven’t felt right eating in front of Krystal? Oh yeah. “Wally, can I also get a cheeseburger with fries and a side of onion rings?”

“Sure, coming right up.”

Two hours later, I’m chomping away on the last of my onion rings, shooting the shit with some of the patrons, and watching golf on TV. Most boring sport in the world, but it’s the closest I’ve been to watching sports in three years. Fuck, we’re even betting on this, strokes per hole. It makes it sort of fun.

“Damn,” I groan, pulling a five from my stack of bills and dropping it in front of the guy next to me. “He had that putt. He blew it just to screw me.”

Laughter.

“You want to bet again?” Mark asks me.

I scoop up my money and tap it on the counter. “Better not. My wife is going to be pissed if I keep losing to you jerks.”

Not
.

Everyone laughs anyway.

My phone vibrates and I reach into my pocket. Crap, how long have I been here? I swipe and unlock.

Brayden:
What the hell are you doing getting drunk in the middle of the afternoon in a bar? I think Jared should have sent someone out here a long time ago to ride your ass. We don’t drink on the job at Black Star.

I look over my shoulder. I start laughing. Brayden is sitting in a booth shaking his head at me. Leaving my stool, I cross the bar as he stands.

“Jesus Christ. Why didn’t you tell me you were making this hop with the family?”

He wraps an arm around me and gives a hard pat. “Didn’t know until last night. Wanted to surprise you, fucker. Good thing I did. Getting sloppy on the job without me.”

We settle into the booth, and I lean back, smiling. “It’s good to see you. How long you out for?”

His gaze roams around the sparsely filled bar. “Where’s Krystal?”

“At the theater. It’s all good, man, so don’t give me shit about leaving her alone there. Wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t safe. Security at every door. Theater locked up. Taking a break before tonight.”

“Hey, I didn’t say a word. Everyone deserves a lunch hour.”

“How long you here for?” I ask again.

He shrugs. “Permanently. Didn’t Jared tell you?”

My brows lift, surprised. “Yeah, but I thought you were coming out in two weeks?”

“No…” He breaks off when Wally comes to the table.

“Want another beer, Jake?”

“No. Just the one’s good.”

He looks at Brayden. “What’ll you have?”

“Coffee. Black. Working late or I’d take his beer.”

Wally chuckles and moves off.

I frown. “How’d you find me?”

He stares at me, amused. “Yep, getting sloppy working on your own. Black Star app. GPS on every one of us. You used to know that.”

I grimace. “Sort of forgot a few things being out of the loop so long.”

His brows shoot up. “Yeah, boy, I think you did.”

I tense.

“What’s going on, Bray? You’re not here two weeks early without a call first from anyone unless there’s a reason for it.”

He rolls his eyes and waits until Wally sets down his coffee. “I’m here early because I got told to report to the airport and fly with the family. Nothing else to tell.”

Bullshit. I can tell when he’s lying.

They must have landed. “So they’re here? Krystal’s parents.”

“Oh yeah, not only Alan and Chrissie. All of them. Fucking loudest flight I’ve ever been on. That is one out of control family. Got to love them, though. And all the big dogs from Black Star did this hop with Alan. Dillon Warrick. Graham Carson—there’s a blast from the past no one ever sees anymore— and Jared. That guy who always says
fuck you
instead of hello…what’s his name? Oh yeah, Jamal. Alan’s A-Team.”

Oh fuck me.

He nods and I realize I said that out loud. Grimacing, I ask, “They’re out here because of me, aren’t they? What do they know?”

“I told you. I don’t know what’s up. The guys know we’re tight. They don’t tell me anything. But it can’t be good. The entire family. And I mean all of them with the four fucking horsemen of the apocalypse doing their security. I’d watch out if I were you.”

Yeah, like that’s going to help.

Brayden rakes back his hair. “What the fuck you do to piss everyone off so much?”

I married Alan’s daughter.

I shrug. “Nothing.”

“Hey, bring my friend a shot of something,” Brayden calls out.

That cheap-ass son of a bitch is buying a drink in the middle of the afternoon while I’m on the job. Yep, I’m fired. Shit, I’ve already quit, but it still feels awful. Christ, why are they all here? Seems a little overkill for standard employment termination.

Brayden laughs. “Settle down. Why are you so spooked? There are worse things in life than getting fired.”

He’s right. Telling Alan after becoming officially unemployed that I married his daughter over a year ago. Oh yeah, that one’s going to be worse.

I stare at the shot Wally sets in front of me. No point not drinking it. Alan has replaced me with a security detail that rivals the president’s. I’ll be lucky if I get near my wife again after they’re through dealing with me.

“How have things been with Shanna?” I ask, changing the subject, even to that, so as not to talk about my sorry-ass state.

“Still busting my balls and taking my money.”

“You get to see your daughter?”

“Twice a year for one week.” He spins his finger in the air. “That’s what an attorney I can’t afford and battling in family court got me. You were smart never to have kids or marry. Family court can cut off your balls quicker than a Ginzu knife. Hit it and quit it always with a condom now. I’ve learned my lesson.”

I lower my left hand beneath table. I forgot about my ring until Bray said that part about not being married. Maybe I should take it off until things get resolved with Krystal’s family.

My heart twists.

Fuck no.

She put it there; it’s staying there.

Brayden looks toward the bar. “Hey, get him another shot. My friend’s not looking good.”

I wave my hand toward Wally. “No, I’m good.”

The door opens and a burst of light causes my gaze to shift. Dillon Warrick, head of security at Alan’s Pacific Palisades estate, and the only member of the team who lives on the property with them.

My heart stops.

Oh, this can’t be good.

I’ve never met the guy next to him, but no one needs to tell me who he is. He’s a fucking legend. War hero. Congressional Medal of Honor recipient. If the rumors are to be believed, he single-handedly took out a terrorist cell. Now I get the joke— “
the manny”
—why the guys laugh about our toddler division of security being headed by none other than
him.
Oh fuck, he’s the best of the best in security and a killing machine when provoked.

Six foot four inch body of iron even in his forties, black hair, piercing gray eyes, still stands and walks like an officer in the military. He’s probably got a weapon strapped on every limb. Not that he needs one. This is the kind of guy who can kill you with his bare hands before you even know he’s moved.

It’s him.

Graham Carson.

Great, they’ve popped in for a private chat before the theater.

I’m a dead man.

They hover above the table and stare down at me. Fuck, I’m sweating like a pig and whatever this is about hasn’t even started yet because Alan and Jared aren’t here.

“You all caught up on everything?” Dillon says to me and it’s not lost that it was without a greeting first.

“Oh, I think we’ve got his attention,” Brayden says because my mouth has deserted me.

Graham Carson crosses his tree-trunk-sized arms on his chest. “Then let’s roll. What the fuck are you peckers doing still here? Family is already at the theater with Jamal and Jared. You’ve got the back of the theater, Brayden.” Those cold gray eyes shift to me and he takes a headset from his pocket, the kind we wear at the house, and sets it front of me. “No one gives a fuck where you are, kid. But keep that on. You don’t want me to have to look for you twice.”

The guys peel off from me as I cross the lobby, and I feel a wave of near crippling relief. Fuck, it’s practically empty and the house lights are flashing. It’s too late to go to Krystal’s dressing room.

I make my way down the left side aisle, brushing past the usher there and weaving my way through the crowded concrete corridor before taking the short flight of steps two at a time to backstage left.

I spot Krystal in her foamy ice blue form-fitting costume, dark curls loose around her sultry made-up face, watching from the barre as she moves and stretches to keep her limbs warm.

Modern ballet.

Sexy as hell.

Well, sexy when it’s my wife.

She looks stunning.

I hear the music—shit, the curtain’s going up, and anything I was going to say to her is going to have to wait until after the performance. At least I get a few moments with her before she goes on stage. Her first appearance is five minutes into the production.

The dancers race in front of me onto the lighted stage, and I wait until a pathway clears to get to where Krystal is watching excitedly.

She stands just out of view, tucked behind the curtains, hands on hips, and foot moving in a ritual I know well. Heel-to-toe circle on floor, stretch, land, then other leg.

Coming up behind her, I place my hands on her shoulders and do a gentle glide down her arms.

“Relax. You’re going to do wonderfully.”

She looks over her shoulder at me, a nervous crinkle in her dark brows. “My parents are here, right?”

“Yes, babe. Your entire family. Box on the right.”

“My dad?” she asks anxiously.

“Yes, I saw Alan. I’m so proud of you. You’re going to blow them away.”

She beams. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too.”

She nods, letting out a slow breath before shifting her focus back to the stage, and I hear, “I love you, Jake,” in Brayden’s moronic voice from my earpiece and fucking laughter, though I’m not sure which guys are adding their two cents on this. Probably all of them. Assholes. I forgot they can hear me and I can hear them.