The Girl in the Mirror (Sand & Fog #3) (6 page)

His gaze turns grim as he studies me and his expression changes into something more dangerous than anger. Hurt—so much less manageable in a guy than anger—and that warns this fight could spin out of control.

I struggle for something to say to end this. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said the things I said tonight, but dragging Maddy into our private stuff isn’t a solution to anything. You know that. Can’t we just sit and talk it out like we always do?”

We stare at each for ages. He breaks off first and lets out a shuddering breath. “There’s nothing left to talk about.”

Another flash and this time his hands move on the screen.

“Damn it, Daryl, don’t you dare,” I cry.

His fingers continue typing. “I’m hitting send, Krystal.”

“If you don’t delete those pictures I swear—”

He ignores me, his gaze locked on whatever he’s doing on the phone.

Jesus Christ.

“Please, Daryl. No!”

I fight against the ropes.

My bedroom door opens.

My heart jumps into my throat.

Oh no.

Oh no.

Oh no.

“Jacob”

Ignoring the sweat dripping down my forehead, I extend my arms from the floor, lift up and clap, over and over until I only feel the burn in my muscles and not the heat everywhere else.

Count, Jacob. Count.

Don’t think.

One hundred fifty.

One fifty-one.

Oh fuck.

I break off, stretching out on my back with my fingers painfully clutching my hair. I stare at the ceiling in the dingy apartment I share with Brayden as close to the ocean as we can afford in Redondo Beach.

We both work for Black Star Security and are part of the full-time detail with Alan Manzone and his family.

We both have issues with money.

We both have pasts we prefer never to talk about.

He has a daughter somewhere he doesn’t see and only pays support for, and an ex-girlfriend who’s cut off his balls and probably everything that was ever good about him.

Whereas me…

No, Jacob, don’t think.

Work the problem.

I’m physically stronger than I was twelve months ago after being dishonorably discharged from the army.

Dishonorably
—the word makes my gut twist.

Fucking military political correctness.

Nothing dishonorable about what I did.

But I was fucking mustered out of the army at twenty-three to recover on my own from a knife wound in my abdomen and a black mark forever on my service record.

Bastards.

I hear the twisting sound of a beer bottle being opened, and I sit up as Brayden enters our tiny living room.

“You still at it?” he asks, collapsing down into a chair.

“I can’t fucking work for the girl full time. Can’t do it. I bet the family hasn’t even told Krystal yet that I’m being reassigned to her once she’s off to New York.”

He shrugs. “Gotta do it. Won’t have a job if you don’t, and we both know you’re lucky to have anything with your service record. Anyone other than Alan Manzone wouldn’t have given you a look, let alone the work.”

I loop my arms around my bent legs. “You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand? We clock in. We clock out. We get paid and it’s a cushy gig for a whole lot of money. Better than the military ever fucking was for either of us, Jake.”

The way he says that—reasonable and practical—doesn’t do shit to lessen what I feel.

I meet his gaze squarely. “There’s a whole lot wrong with that girl.”

“There’s a whole lot wrong with all of them.” His features alter in amusement then he tips his bottle at me. “Girls, I mean. The way they are today. I don’t mean the family.”

No, not letting him drift this conversation into one of his rants about Shanna.

“Well, I do,” I counter meaningfully.

His brows shoot upward. “What?”

“Mean the family. There is something seriously wrong with that girl. A whole bunch of shit they don’t see.”

I shake my head, unable to put a finger on what Krystal’s issues are, but instinct tells me it’s bad. And I sure as hell don’t want to step into something that has my internal alarms ringing. Oh no, not a second time.

Step in it and it’s like an IED.

It will detonate on me, blowing me to pieces.

I’ve got enough problems without this one.

Krystal Harris.

Brayden studies me as he polishes off his beer then says, “You only say that because Krystal gives you shit. And the girl is a sweetheart. She treats everyone kindly, except you, because you’re determined to be an asshat to her. Lighten up. Smile once in a while. Talk to her normally. The only whole lot wrong is how you treat her.”

My jaw tightens as I shake my head. “No, not doing it. It’s like a control thing with her. Something tells me I’ll be better off if I don’t let her win.”

His head falls back against the cushion as he laughs. “Fuck, you and your ego. Control thing? It’s called basic politeness, dude. When she speaks to you, speak to her. It’s not breaking the rules when the employers talk to you. Or does that fucking overgrown ego of yours worry she might be after your sorry ass? She’s not some military barfly after your benefits, especially since the army stripped you of those—” The look he tosses me is insulting. “—and she’s not some girl in the sandbox, thinking you’re her escape out. Krystal’s the total package. She’s got it all. She doesn’t need you for shit. So get over yourself, and your ego, and lighten up. She’s the job. Get used to it.”

Ego—bullshit, that isn’t what this is about, and fuck Brayden for not seeing it.

“You’re an asshole, Brayden.” I reach for my towel and wipe my face.

My jab doesn’t ruffle him.

He smiles. “Sure I am. A complete asshole. But I’m loyal, which is why I saved your pitiful hide and brought you here and got you a job, so why don’t you try listening to me, even if I am a prick?”

There’s no point in continuing this.

I spring to my feet. “I’m going to go hop into the shower. We still going out tonight?”

When he doesn’t answer, I turn to look at him.

His eyes are locked on his phone, reading a text.

His expression isn’t good.

I don’t want to ask.

Crap.

“Shanna again?”

He shakes his head. “No, Hot Mama.”

I glare. “Don’t call her that. I hate it every time I hear you guys chattering in my earpiece about the family. Christian Parker is a nice woman. She doesn’t deserve to be disrespected that way.”

He gives me a pained expression as he clicks off his phone. “Oh, lighten up. We all think the world of Chrissie. We’d all take a bullet for her.”

That’s true. The team is chock-full of good guys no matter what it sounds like when they talk among themselves.

He grabs his empty beer bottle from the floor and rises from the chair. “We’re back on the clock. Chrissie wants us in Malibu. Diva Two apparently is having a party tonight. We’re supposed to go, keep a lid on things and the house from getting trashed until it’s over.”

Diva Two
. It runs my spine like a nail.

Diva One—oldest daughter, Kaley.

Diva Two—middle daughter, Krystal.

Diva Three—youngest daughter, Khloe.

The guys don’t mean anything by it, but still, it isn’t right. “Don’t call Krystal Diva Two,” I rebuke. “Don’t call any of them divas. Whatever those girls are, they’re not that. It’s just plain wrong.”

“What are you tonight? The feminist police? Fuck, don’t answer that. Shower and dress. We’ve got to hit the road in ten minutes.”

Fuck.

I slap my towel against the wall as I head for the bathroom. Diva Two’s having a party at the beach house. So much for my night off. It bugs me almost as much as Krystal having a bash surprises me.

She’s a lot of things.

What I didn’t take her for was a party girl.

I guess I was wrong.

Oh fuck, hopefully I’m wrong about everything.

It doesn’t matter. Brayden’s right. I can’t afford to quit this job and I’m her full-time employee once we hit Manhattan.

Still, she feels like an IED to me.

No, I’m not wrong about that one.

I stare at the house, a multilevel concrete and glass structure that must be a block long right on the beach in Malibu.

Christ, I’ll never understand rich people. Owning two houses on the beach less than an hour apart. Like having an heir and a spare as royalty does, only with houses, and who the hell needs two beach houses on practically the same beach?

Rich people—I cut off that thought.

Even with the entire family being beyond my comprehension, I’ve been with them long enough to know they’re good people. Alan and Chrissie are always polite and considerate. Kaley is an incredible girl, smart, sassy and successful. Bobby Rowan, her husband, genuine in every way and a really chill guy. The four children still living at home—I hem and haw in my head—are less spoiled and bratty than I expected, well, all of them except Krystal. She’s absolutely the self-appointed princess of their universe.

Or maybe just the self-appointed princess of my universe. I’m probably the sole recipient of Krystal’s rudeness, though what the hell I ever did to deserve that is anyone’s guess.

“I don’t see any cars,” I say, raking the hair back from my face and rapidly surveying the driveway. “I don’t hear anything either. Maybe Chrissie got her info wrong. If there’s a party going on in there, they’re hiding it well.”

Brayden climbs from the car anyway. “It doesn’t matter. We were told to report here.”

Exhaling, I follow him and click the car lock as we cross the street. “There’s nothing going on to report about, Bray. Let’s do a fast walk around the grounds, call the mother, and get the hell out of here.”

“What? You afraid you’ll have to talk to Krystal? I think you’re hung up on her and she won’t give you the time of day—not ever, dude—and that’s the whole problem.”

“Fuck you.” I growl. “That’s not it at all. It’s just there’s no point invading her privacy. Not if there isn’t a party or anything else going on here. Getting her pissed off at her mom, for no reason, isn’t something we should do.”

“Roger that,” Brayden says officially before he punches the security codes into the panel beside the main walk-in gate.

Shit, didn’t he hear me?

Going in is not a good idea, Brayden.

Teenage girls are apeshit about their privacy.

At least my sister, Jane, was.

My insides start to churn the way they do whenever I think of my sister. Hindsight is always perfect. I should have invaded her privacy, figured out what was going on. Maybe then I could have prevented it.

I shake my head to clear my memories, since thinking of her won’t change a damn thing.

I stop Brayden with a hand before he enters the house.

“I thought we decided to only walk the grounds,” I remind heatedly.

“You decided. Me, I decided to keep my job and do as instructed.”

He goes into the entryway and, cursing under my breath, I follow him. Loud music echoes in the house, but nothing else. No voices or any other human sounds.

Hello, Brayden, there’s no party here.

Nothing.

Just as I expected.

Why won’t he listen to me once in a while? The smart move for both of us to keep our jobs is not stepping into what is going to become a shitstorm between mother and daughter if Krystal discovers Chrissie sent us here. Yep, I remember Jane well enough to remember
that’s
how this ends if we fuck it up and let Krystal know we’re here.

No point in letting that happen. Especially since any fool can see the intel was wrong. No party. No cars. And hell, inside the house, no bodies.

At the edge of the living room, my mouth drops.

Un-fucking-believable.

Working at the main house didn’t prepare me for this. It’s like that stuff you see on TV about the lives of the rich and famous. Only on the small screen, it’s so much less than it is in reality.

An enormous open space contained behind a wall of glass with a dramatic view of the ocean. My gaze runs the walls. Impressive art and enough pictures and memorabilia to keep an Alan Manzone fan entertained for a lifetime.

I crouch down before a guitar case, studying the Gibson Flying V. On the wall behind it is a picture of Chrissie and Alan on stage. God, that has to be twenty years old. I move to the next picture and then the next

Just being in the house makes me nervous.

Like I’m invading some sort of sacred spot.

Which is moronic, since I don’t think Chrissie and Alan ever come here and, as far as I can tell, the Malibu house is only used as a party location for their children.

As I straighten up, I turn to find Brayden staring out at the patio.

“Can we get out of here?” I ask.

“Not until we do a walk-through.”

Great.

I hold back at the entryway as Brayden points outside. “I don’t see anyone, but the patio doors are open. They’ve got to be around here somewhere. I’m going to check the outside grounds, make sure everything is OK, then we can report and wait for instructions.”

“Instructions?” I grimace, because something about being in the house, even how the quiet feels, has put my nerves on edge. “You’ve got to be kidding. Nothing is happening here. I say we shoot off a text that everything is good, get the hell out of here and go home before Krystal finds out her mother sent us here to snoop on her.”

Brayden shakes his head. “Dude, this is our job. It’s what we do. We’re not leaving. Not if we want to keep collecting a check, which I’m pretty sure you do.”

He disappears out onto the patio.

Fuck.

The hairs are standing up on my arms, warning me not to go any farther into the house—a stupid reaction to being here—and I start checking rooms as ordered.

Open a door.

Switch on the light.

Switch off and close the door.

Over and over again.

In the kitchen I find on the island two wineglasses and an only partially empty bottle. Hardly any gone—I flatten my palm on the glass—and room temperature. Exactly my read on Krystal; they didn’t even finish a bottle of chardonnay.