Six
TEN MINUTES LATER, I had everything I needed, and I was packing up my stuff, more than ready to get out of there.
There was something so exhausting about all that handsomeness.
Seriously. It was unabated. It was relentless. It was grueling.
And I wasn’t even looking at him! He was looking at me.
Finally, I paused to look back. “What?”
“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be,” he said.
I gave him a look. “Right back atcha.”
“I expected you to be bigger, for one,” he said.
“You didn’t even know I was coming.”
“Today, I didn’t know. We were planning to hire you before, though. Then I changed my mind.”
“And then the studio changed it back.”
“Something like that.”
Jack was still assessing me, and I can’t begin to describe how strange it was to be the watchee rather than the watcher.
He went on, “I guess I thought you’d be more of a tough guy.”
I was not a tough guy. I was the opposite of a tough guy. But I wasn’t telling him that. “Nothing about this job requires you to be a tough guy.”
“What does it require?”
“Focus. Training. Awareness.” I tapped my head like I was pointing to my brain. “It’s not about being tough. It’s about being prepared.”
“But a bodyguard, you know? I just feel like you should be larger. You’re, like, tiny.”
“I am hardly tiny,” I said. “You just happen to be enormous.”
“What are you? Five-four?”
“I am five-six, thank you.” I was five-five.
“So what would you do if some massive guy tried to beat me up?”
“That would never happen,” I said. “We’d anticipate the threat and remove you from the scene before it ever came to that.”
“But what if it did?”
“It wouldn’t.”
“But just—hypothetically?”
I sighed. “Fine. Hypothetically, if it did—which it wouldn’t—I would just … take him down.”
“But how?”
“I’ve done jujitsu since I was six, and I’m a second-degree black belt.”
“But what if he was really big?” Jack lifted up his arms like a bear.
I squinted at him. “I don’t think you understand how jujitsu works.”
He squinted back.
“You don’t believe me?” I asked. “Do you realize how sexist that is?”
“It’s not sexist…” he protested. “It’s just … physics. How does somebody your size take down somebody my size?”
“That’s not physics,” I said. “That’s ignorance.”
“Show me,” he said.
“What?”
“Jujitsu me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I sighed. “You want me to take you down? Right now?”
“I mean, not really. But I do think I’d sleep easier if I knew for a fact that you could.”
“You’re saying you want me to hurt you? For real? Because if I do what you’re suggesting, I’ll definitely knock the wind out of you—and possibly dislocate your shoulder, too.”
This was a genuinely bad idea.
But I guess Jack did want me to hurt him, because he grabbed my hand and dragged me out his back door, across the patio, to a patch of grass by the pool. “Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea,” I said, as he tugged me behind him.
“See how easy it is for me to manhandle you, though?” he called back.
And I guess that’s when I gave in. I was never a big fan of being underestimated. Especially by a guy who thought I was the cleaning lady.
He wanted me to hurt him?
Fine. I’d hurt him.
When we reached the grass, he let go of my hand and jogged off a little further. Then he U-turned and came back at me, launching into a run.
I guess we were doing this.
Sigh.
By this point, there was no decision to make. Once a six-foot-three guy starts running straight for you—there are no decisions left. You just do what you’re trained to do.
As soon as he reached me, I grabbed his left wrist with both hands, yanked it down, and rammed my hips into his. The trick here is to get a rolling motion. You’re pulling his arm and shoulders down while you’re shoving his lower half up—and then forcing a roll over the pommel of your butt.
It sounds more complex than it is.
To sum up: You tuck your head, and over he goes.
That’s physics.
In less than a second, he was flat on his back.
Moaning.
“You asked for it, buddy,” I said.
As I stared down at him, his eyes found mine. And then, for the first time since I’d been there, he smiled. A big admiration-saturated smile. “Oh God, that hurts,” he said.
“I told you,” I said.
He cradled an arm around his midsection, panting. Or wait—was he laughing? “You’re such a tough guy!”
“I’m really not.”
“You’re awesome,” he said.
“That was never in question.”
Next, he flattened out and spread his arms wide, staring up at the sky. “Thank you, Hannah Brooks! Thank you!”
Why on earth was he thanking me?
Then he shouted at the clouds. “You’re hired!”
But I refused to be amazed with him about something I’d done a thousand times. It wasn’t amazing. It was just training. “I was already hired,” I said.
“You’re hired again! You’re double hired! You’re hired with great fanfare!”
I shook my head and walked back inside to get him some ice.
WHEN HE MADE it to the kitchen minutes later, still panting, still aglow with appreciation, he looked, shall we say, like he’d just learned a vital life lesson.
I secured an ice pack to his shoulder with tied-together dish towels, refusing to be flustered, now, in a slower moment, by the proximity of his body to mine.
“Your shoulder’s really going to hurt for a few days,” I said.
“Worth it,” he said.
“Take some ibuprofen before bed.”
“Okay, doc.”
“And next time I tell you I’m good at something,” I said, “don’t make me hurt you to prove it.”
“Roger that.”
I gathered up my stuff and then turned to say goodbye, clutching my folder of paperwork to my chest like I had before—but feeling like a whole new version of the girl who’d walked in here.
Nothing like flipping a man on his back to bolster your self-esteem.
Recommend.
“So it looks like we start in earnest tomorrow,” I said, checking the tentative schedule Glenn had given me. “You want to drive out to your parents’ place in the morning, right?”
Jack nodded.
“We’ve got a team assessing the route right now,” I said. “This is much more rushed than our normal prep time, but we’re just going to fake it till we make it.”
Jack was looking down. He didn’t answer.
“We can bring a remote team with us tomorrow, and they can assess the ranch property while we’re out there—get some cameras installed, evaluate the layout.” That felt like a good plan.
But then Jack said, “Actually, that can’t happen.”
I shook my head. “What can’t happen?”
“We can’t take a security team out to my parents’ place.”
“Why not?” I asked.
He took a deep breath. “Because my parents can’t know anything about this.”
“Anything about what?”
He gestured around, like All of it. “Threats, stalkers, personal security.”
“How is that supposed to work?”
He shook his head. “My mom’s sick, you know? She’s sick. And if she knows about this, she’ll worry. Even though there’s really nothing to worry about. I’ve had stalkers for years—I’m totally immune to all that by now. But I’ve never told her about anything scary—and I’m sure as hell not starting the week she has surgery for cancer.”
“But…” I said. Then I wasn’t sure what to say.
“She’s a worrier,” Jack said. “Like, a world-champion worrier. And she’s facing some test results that are … not great. And ever since my brother died…” Jack stared at his hands like he didn’t know how to finish that sentence. “For me, I admit—a bodyguard is a good thing. I get it. But for my mom? Not good. I was reading up on treatments online, and stress can really impact people’s outcomes. I can’t make things harder than they already are on her. The only way to do this is to make sure my parents never know who you are.”
“But … how?”
“Your website says ‘Outside-the-box solutions for every scenario.’” He turned his phone toward me to show me the website for proof.
“That’s what you’ve been doing on your phone?” I demanded.
Jack shrugged. “It’s one of the things I’ve been doing on my phone.”
I gave him a look. “The web designer wrote that.”
“Your boss—what’s his name? Frank Johnson?”
“Not even close. Glenn Schultz.”
“He says much of the surveillance can be done remotely.”
Did Glenn already know about this and not tell me?
Jack went on. “He says you can stay close to me and a second group can monitor from afar.”
“But if you’re toting an agent along everywhere you go, won’t that kind of tip your family off?”
“Not at all.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Why not?”
“First,” Jack said, “my parents are sweet and impossibly gullible. And my big brother barely speaks to me. Second, you don’t look anything like a bodyguard.” He tilted his head a little and gave me his most heart-melting smile. “And last but not least?” he said. “We’re going to tell them you’re my girlfriend.”
BACK AT THE office, Glenn was still in the conference room, and half the team was there with him. It was all-hands-on-deck to get this Jack Stapleton project going.
I didn’t care.
“Nope,” I said to Glenn, charging right up to the head of the conference table. “That’s a hundred percent nope.”
Glenn didn’t even look up. “Are we talking about the ‘girlfriend’ thing?”
“Is there anything else to talk about?”
“It’s not a dealbreaker. We’ve done weirder things for clients.”
“You’ve done weirder things for clients,” I said.
“You’ve seen the man. Would it really be so awful?”
“I can’t believe you knew, and you didn’t tell me.”
“I thought it might be better coming from his own famously handsome mouth.”
“Well, it wasn’t better. It was worse. I was totally unprepared. I have never walked out of a client’s house like that.”
“That’s on you.”
“No, it’s on you. You didn’t warn me.”
He kept his voice reasonable. “I didn’t warn you because it’s not nearly as big a deal as you’re acting like it is. His threat level is mild. He’s been off the radar. The press doesn’t know he’s here. The money’s good. This is the definition of easy.”
“You be his girlfriend then!” I said.
Glenn flared his nostrils.
“Or anybody else here.”
Kelly’s hand shot up. “I volunteer as tribute.”
“Perfect. Send Kelly!” I said. “Or send Taylor.”
“You’re the best I’ve got,” Glenn said. “And it’s gonna be a tricky one.”
“You just said it was ‘the definition of easy.’”
“It’s both! It’s easy and tricky! And I need a top person. And that’s you.”
“Don’t flatter me,” I said.
Glenn leaned in closer. “Look,” he said. “He’s estranged from his family. He’ll barely see them. So what if you have to do a little bit of covering when they’re nearby. From the looks of things, that shouldn’t be too often.”
“Glenn. His family’s the whole reason he’s here.”
But Glenn shook his head. “From what we’ve gathered, his relationship with his older brother is completely nonexistent.”
“What about the parents?”
“That’s less clear. Either way, he doesn’t spend much time with any of them.”
I didn’t know how else to protest. “Everything about this feels wrong.”
Glenn kept his eyes on me. “You’ve been incognito before.”
“To the outside world. Not to the client.”
“The family’s not the client. Jack Stapleton’s the client.”
“Same thing,” I said.
“You won’t be bored anymore, that’s for sure,” Glenn said.
“Hello?” Kelly said, waving to the room. “I said I’ll do it. I’m volunteering. You don’t even have to pay me. I’ll pay you.”
“It’s unethical,” I said, turning to her.
But Kelly flung her arm toward the photo of Jack Stapleton still lingering on the whiteboard. “Who cares?”
Was it unethical? Ethics were a little hard to gauge in this business. The thing about private security was, it had exploded in recent years—partly because the world was more dangerous for rich people and partly because those same people were more paranoid. Agents came from all backgrounds with different kinds of training—ex-military, ex-police, even ex-firefighters, like Doghouse. Most agents freelanced. Nothing was standardized. It was like the Wild West, really—with people doing anything they thought they could get away with. It meant more freedom, but also more risk—and a lot more shenanigans.
Ultimately, we were only accountable to the clients. We had to keep them happy, and for the most part, we did whatever they asked. I once had a client ask me to cover his $7,000 bar bill. I once went skydiving with a Belgian princess. I once spent a night keeping an eye on a client’s panther.
Was this Jack Stapleton thing that much weirder?
You served at the pleasure of the client, is what I’m saying. At least, if you wanted to get paid.
It’s likely everybody in that conference room saw the situation clearly except for me. If Jack Stapleton wanted a pretend girlfriend, he got a pretend girlfriend. And if I wanted to work for Jack Stapleton, then that’s what I had to be.
“The point is,” Glenn went on, “it’s such a great opportunity for you.”
“And it’s money for you.”
“It’s money for all of us.”
I was still shaking my head. “We can’t do a proper job under these parameters.”
“It’ll be harder, yes.” Glenn conceded. “But keep in mind: His threat level is almost white.”
I gave him a look. “It’s yellow.”
Kelly jumped in. “But a very light yellow. Almost like a lemon sorbet.”
Glenn pointed at Kelly. “Stop naming cutesy shades of threat levels.”
Glenn wasn’t taking me seriously. So I said, “I think you’ve got dollar signs in your eyes.”
It was a test. To see how he’d react.
I told you I could read faces, right? By the way his jaw tightened, I could read that Glenn was insulted. That’s when I started to cave.
He genuinely thought we could handle this.
“Do you think I’m just going to throw us all into the fire?” Glenn said. “Everybody’s reputation’s riding on this—especially mine. I’m saying it’s doable. I’m saying there are strategies for making it work.”
I sighed. “Like what, exactly?”
“A remote backup team, for one. Cutting-edge surveillance tech. Placing you as the eyes and ears on the inside with full twenty-four-hour backup teams on the outside.”
I guess I could kind of see his point.
Then Glenn upped the ante.
“The point is,” he said, “if you want any chance of getting the London position, you’re going to get on board.”
“So I’m doing this whether I like it or not.”
“Pretty much. But it would be nicer if you’d like it.”
I looked around the room. Everyone was watching me. Why was I making such a fuss?
“How about this,” Glenn said next, both of us aware that he had all the power. “Do this without complaining, and I’ll send you wherever you want for your next assignment. You can take your pick. The Korea thing’s back on. You want it? It’s yours.”
I’d been waiting for another Korea assignment ever since the last one got canceled. “I do want Korea,” I said.
“Done,” Glenn said. “Six weeks in Seoul. Endless bowls of black bean noodles.”
I tried that idea on for size.
“Is that a yes?” Glenn asked. “Are we settled? No more whining and foot-dragging?”
I was just about to say yes, and we were just about to have a deal … when I heard Robby’s voice behind me.
“Are you serious?” Robby said. “This is never going to work.”
Everybody turned to stare at him. Timing had never been Robby’s thing.
Robby was looking around the group like the whole room was crazy. “Is everyone kidding? This has to be a joke.”
Was he worried about my safety? Was he protesting the way that Glenn was strong-arming me? Was he—maybe—jealous?
I studied the layers of outrage on his face.
And that’s when Robby cleared everything up. He held his hands out toward me in a Behold! gesture and said, “Just look! Nobody in a million years will ever possibly believe that this person, right here, bested the legendary Kennedy Monroe to become Jack Stapleton’s girlfriend.”
FIRST THINGS FIRST. We could settle the Jack Stapleton thing later.
I flew the ten steps to where Robby was standing, grabbed him by the knot of his necktie so tight that it choked all the pompous, judgmental asshattery off his face, and I dragged him by the neck out to the reception area.
Hoping to yell at him alone.
But of course everybody followed us.
I was too mad to care.
“What is your problem, man?” I demanded, letting go as he coughed and sputtered. “The last time I saw you, you were dumping me. It’s been radio silence from you for a full month, and now you show back up here and act like you’re the one who was wronged? Is this how you compete for London? With insults and name-calling like a grade-school bully? What is happening”—and here I pressed my pointer finger to his forehead—“in that testosterone-soaked, raisin-sized brain of yours that you cannot stop pelting insults at me? In front of everybody! What! Is! Wrong with you?!”
Our entire audience, semihidden behind the ficus plants, waited for Robby’s answer.
But before Robby could say anything, the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.
And out stepped Jack Stapleton.
You really can’t overstate the drama of the collective indrawn breath at the sight of The Destroyer himself, in the flesh, stepping into our office. Of all places.
I, of course, had already met The Destroyer. I’d rolled his fingers around on an ink pad. I’d forced him to copy the lyrics of the Aretha Franklin song “Respect” for his handwriting sample. I’d stuck him with a needle. And I may or may not have dislocated his shoulder.
So I wasn’t quite as shocked to see him as everybody else.
But even I was shocked.
Same T-shirt, same jeans—but now wearing a baseball cap and sneakers, too. He looked just ordinary enough to put ordinary people to shame. I looked around at my coworkers, staring: Amadi, the valedictorian of his high school and now a kindhearted dad of three; Kelly, the stress-knitter who had made scarves for every person in the office; Doghouse, the ex-firefighter who’d gotten his nickname not because he was in everyone’s doghouse—but because he compulsively fostered homeless puppies.
Jack Stapleton’s presence in our office made them all seem more real. And they made him seem … unreal.
We waited for him to do something.
So he took in the sight of my finger on Robby’s forehead and said, “Are you bullying that poor coworker?”
I dropped my hand. “What are you doing here?”
He aimed his gaze right at mine, lit up those legendary gray-blue eyes, and said, “Hannah Brooks. I really need you.”
Back by the copy machine, Kelly released a burble of vicarious delight.
Jack took a couple of steps closer to me. “I need to apologize for not giving you the whole picture sooner. And I need to say that I understand your hesitations. And”—here, he dropped to his knees on the industrial carpet—“I need to ask you to be my girlfriend.”
Every single person in the room was frozen still.
“Get up,” I said, trying to grab Jack by the shoulders and—What? Somehow hoist all two-hundred-plus pounds of his solid muscle back up? “You don’t have to do this.”
But he was unbudgeable. Duh.
“I really need your help,” he went on. “I have to be here for my mom, and I can’t show up here and bring danger, or risk, or—you know—assassinations with me. And I can’t make this moment any harder on her than it has to be. Please, please take the assignment. And please help me protect her by concealing who you really are.”
“What are you doing?” was all I could think of to say.
He pulled my hands into his. “I’m begging,” Jack answered. “I’m begging you.”
His expression was so earnest, so plaintive, so intense … for a second, I thought he might cry.
And I was dumbfounded. Again. For the second time that day. Because nobody cries like Jack Stapleton.
Do you remember how he cried in The Destroyers? Most people remember the moment when he blows up the mineshaft. And of course the scene where he gives himself surgery with no anesthesia. And the catchphrase, “Never say goodbye.” But what actually made that movie great was the sight of an action hero, at his darkest moment, thinking he’d lost everyone he loved and failed them beyond recognition, weeping tears of grief. You never see that, ever. That’s what made that movie a classic. That’s what made it better than all the hundreds of others just like it—that raw, human moment of vulnerability coming from the last guy you’d ever expect. It made us all want to be better people. It made us all love him—and humanity—just a little bit more.
Anyway. This scene in the reception area was a little like that.
But with ficus plants.
He didn’t wind up crying, in the end. But just the suggestion of it was enough.
Jack Stapleton—the Jack Stapleton—was on his knees.
Begging.
And here’s the truth. This should have been the epiphany when I realized that Jack Stapleton deserved all his fame and more. Everything he did right then held me, and everyone else, spellbound.
The man could act.
He leaned his kneeling body forward and looked up at me with his hands clasped. “I’m begging you to help my sick mom,” he said.
I mean, come on.
I’m not made of stone.
“Fine,” I said, summoning a rather Oscar-worthy fake nonchalance. “Stop begging. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
And then I went ahead and snuck one peek at the slack-jawed expression on my terrible ex-boyfriend’s lousy, ratty, deplorable face.
Which, to be honest, felt like a win for the good guys.
And for humanity.
And especially, at last, for me.