Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
He grinned. “Or we’ve finally had enough of yours.”
That was probably more likely if I was being honest.
“Right,” I muttered.
Johnson slowed, veering onto a side road behind a hotel. He stopped in front of a security gate, and a young rent-a-cop came strolling out of the guard station. His oversized uniform wore him more than the other way around.
Johnson rolled down his window and propped his tattooed bicep on the door. “Guardian Protection. We’re here to see Ms. Beck.” He dug into his wallet and pulled out a laminated card, thrusting it toward him.
The guard lifted his chin as he peered down at the proffered—hell, I didn’t even know what it was—then said, “Sorry, boys. This entrance is closed. You’ll have to head back to the front and speak with an officer.”
Strike one: He didn’t deny she was there.
Johnson tucked away the plastic card just as quickly as he had produced it. “We already spoke to Captain Smith. LAPD told us to park back here in case we need to make a quick exit.”
I narrowed my eyes, wondering who the hell Captain Smith was and why I hadn’t been involved in that conversation.
The round-faced guard flicked his gaze past Johnson, giving me a once over, before leaning in for a quick glance in the back seat.
Strike two: At a menacing five-foot-seven, he couldn’t have seen more than the rear headrests. We could have been hiding an entire arsenal on the floorboards.
Leo laid on the horn from behind us, and wouldn’t you know it, Sentry-of-the-year nearly jumped out of his oversized uniform.
“Hurry up, Barney Fife, we got places to be!” Leo shouted.
I was reasonably sure the kid had no idea who Barney Fife was, but his brow furrowed all the same. “Excuse me?”
Johnson chuckled, clearly amused.
Leo kept going. “You heard me. Move it, asshole! Let the real men work.”
Johnson hit me with a pointed grin. “You still think the LAPD and hotel security can handle this?”
I watched in horror as the guard, thoroughly affronted, rested his hand on the Taser at his hip and used his best big-boy voice to yell back, “You got a problem?”
And he did it all while prowling toward Leo’s SUV.
Leaving us alone.
The gate unguarded.
And blood roaring in my ears.
Strikes three, four, and infinity.
“Fuck,” I boomed, slamming my fist down on the dashboard. “If that woman is still alive, it’s going to be a damn miracle.”
“See, now, that face suits you better.”
“Fuck off,” I muttered, swinging open the car door.
Leo was embroiled in a heated exchange, reading the kid the riot act about the life and death consequences of abandoning his post.
“Where you going?” Johnson called, humor thick in his voice.
“To make sure we still have a client.” I snapped my fingers. “Give me that card you flashed so I can get upstairs.”
He let out a rich laugh. “I laminated the Guardian logo onto my library card. Probably won’t do you much good. But you’re welcome to try.”
If heads could explode, that would have been when mine detonated. The incompetence was quite literally astounding. And in that moment, as I ducked under the gate, headed toward the hotel, I remembered all the other reasons I hated LA.
3
LOFTON
It had been utter chaos since everything went down the night before.
Brooke thankfully hadn’t returned to the rental until after the cops had arrived and secured the scene. I’d never forget for as long as I lived the fear—or relief—on her face when she spotted Zoey sitting on my lap in the back of an ambulance.
She cried.
Zoey cried.
And I sat there so damn numb I wasn’t sure I was even breathing.
I was transported to the hospital where it took six stitches to close the gash in my forehead. Then I spent hours being questioned by detectives, which honestly was far longer than I would have assumed—or preferred. There were only so many ways I could say, “I didn’t see anyone. I simply heard the gunshots, scooped up Zoey, and ran.”
Once the cops were satisfied that I had nothing to give, they used the cloak of darkness to move me to a hotel.
Beyond my phone, I had nothing. My bloodied clothes had been thrown in the trash. A kind nurse had given me a pair of scrubs, but by the time I got to the hotel, they too had a streak of crimson on them. No matter how many times I washed my hands, I couldn’t get all the blood from under my fingernails. After my fourth shower and an epic meltdown, Brooke produced a pair of children’s nail clippers from her purse and cut my polished French manicure down to nubs.
I wished like hell that she had been able to clip away my memories as well.
It was finally past three in the afternoon. I hadn’t eaten or slept. It seemed the only thing I could do was stare at the wall or fake a smile so Zoey would stop watching me.