The Bodyguard (9)

Not much of an answer.

As we sat down, I could not rein in the impulse to lower my voice and say, “And how is he?”

“How is who?” Taylor asked.

“A person who rhymes with ‘Blobby.’”

“Ah,” Taylor said, her face tightening a little in a way that made me feel rooted-for. “I think he’s fine.”

“‘Fine’ is a thing for you today.”

“It means he’s not … not okay.”

“That’s a shame.”

“More importantly,” she asked. “How are you?”

“I’ve been stuck here for a month,” I said. “I’m dying.”

Taylor nodded. “Because you need water in your gills.”

“Thank you!” I said, like At last. “Thank you for believing in my gills.”

Just then, Glenn walked in. “Stop talking about your gills,” he said.

“She’s a shark,” Taylor said, in my defense.

“Don’t encourage her.”

Other folks followed him in, and the conference room filled up. Amadi—so ever-likable with his round nose and wide smile—was back from Nigeria. Doghouse, back from Burkina Faso, had grown a beard to cover the burn scar on his jaw. Kelly was just back from Dubai with some gold hoop earrings that exactly matched her blond curls.

I tried not to watch the door for Robby.

I maintained good posture. I arranged my face into a pleasant, fine-thanks-and-how-are-you expression so precisely that my cheek muscles started quivering. I ignored the white noise shh-ing in my ears.

Finally, just as Glenn was clearing his throat to begin, Robby strolled in.

His buzz cut was longer. He wore a new, slim-cut suit, a tie I’d never seen, and his famous Vuarnets—even though we were inside. Though he whipped them off just as he entered the room.

Dammit. He made it work.

He’d always been better at style than at substance.

Did it ache to see him? Did it suck all the air out of my chest? Incapacitate me with emotion? Feel like I’d just swigged down a whole bottle of heartbreak?

No, actually.

This is good, I thought.

Wait. Was this good?

This meant I was over him, right? My endless time in Houston-slash-purgatory had done the trick. They say time heals all wounds. Was that it? Was I done?

Or had the past month just destroyed my ability to feel anything at all?

As Glenn revved up the meeting, I held my breath.

Please, please, please, I found myself thinking. For once, just let me get off easy.

Sometimes I wonder if I jinxed myself in that moment.

Because when Glenn started the meeting—leading with my new assignment—it hit me pretty fast that it was not going to be the escape I’d been holding my breath for.

“First things first,” Glenn said, as the room quieted, pointing at me. “Let’s talk about the new assignment for Brooks.” Glenn always called me ‘Brooks.’ I couldn’t guarantee he even knew my first name. “It’s a juicy one,” Glenn went on. “Outside our normal wheelhouse. Should be pretty absorbing. It’s actually a new assignment for everybody in here. Kind of an all-hands-on-deck situation. But Brooks will be the primary.”

Glenn gave me a little nod. “She’s earned it.”

“Where is it?” I asked.

“I think what you want to know is ‘Who is it?’”

“Nope,” I said. “I definitely want to know where.”

“Because this client,” Glenn went on, his voice reminding me of how people talk to their dogs before they give them treats, “is really, really famous.”

We didn’t protect a lot of famous people at Glenn Schultz Executive Protection. If we’d been based in LA, that would have been different. But we were based in Houston—so we got mostly oil executives and business people. The occasional entertainer coming through town. I once did some remote location assessments for Dolly Parton, and she sent me a lovely thank-you note.

But that was about it.

I looked at Glenn’s face. He was suppressing a smile.

He was actually excited. And Glenn never got excited about anything.

He went on. “This particular assignment happens to take place in the great state of Texas—”

“Texas?!” I demanded.

Glenn ignored me. “Just right here in our friendly hometown of Houston, so—”

“Houston?!” I scooted my chair back.

In eight years of receiving assignments, I had never once protested a location. That’s just not how this job works. You don’t care where you go. You go where they send you. It’s fine.

But.

It had been a rough month.

Let’s just say I was right on the verge of doing something unprofessional.

But then Glenn told us who the principal was.

Pulling his lips back into a very pleased-with-himself smile, as if this good news would cancel out any bad news that might ever happen again, Glenn did his big reveal. “The principal for this one,” he said, clicking the remote for the whiteboard and flashing a movie poster up for us all to see, “is Jack Stapleton.”

The whole room gasped.

Robby launched into a coughing fit.

Kelly let out a shriek like she was at a Beatles concert.