Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
I suck in a deep breath.
Kids begin arriving in a noisy trickle—backpacks, lunch sacks, excitement ricocheting off concrete. Becca’s here, hair in a high neon scrunchie, arms loaded with dollar-store aprons she insisted she buy when she saw my nicer ones. Principal Nguyen hugs me and introduces parents, all of whom take obvious comfort from the Terminators bracketing the site.
Sawyer crouches to eye level with a trio of second graders. “Rule one: paint the wall, not your friends. Rule two: stay inside the cones unless a grown-up says okay. Rule three: if you need the bathroom, you tell me or Miss Cam.” He taps his earpiece. “I can hear everything. Even sneezes.”
One kid—Miguel—gasps. “Even burps?”
Sawyer pretends to think. “Especially burps.”
The kids lose it, delighted. Becca nudges me. “He has layers. Like lasagna.”
“Stop ogling my security,” I whisper-laugh.
“Can’t. Won’t.” She winks at me.
We grid the wall in light chalk, then let chaos bloom. Sky blues swish; citrus yellows explode; small hands press stencils; bigger hands roll primer; someone sneezes hot pink. I circulate like a traffic cop with glitter authority, redirecting drips and mediating color disputes (“Yes, the fish can be magenta; no, that doesn’t make it less of a fish”).
Every time I turn, Sawyer is there—not hovering (okay, hovering), but in that elliptical orbit where he can intercept anything headed toward me. When paint water spills, he’s got towels. When a gust threatens to flip our supply table, he clamps it with one giant palm. When Miguel’s little sister wobbles on a step stool, Sawyer just appears and steadies it, unruffled.
“Captain Serious saved me,” she sings to her friends.
“Serious?” Riggs snorts. “Kid, that man once ate a ghost pepper MRE and barely blinked.”
“Because my tongue died,” Sawyer mutters.
I laugh so hard I bend over, smearing cobalt on my knee.
Riggs soon has a fan club. He teaches the older kids how to mask off sharp lines with painter’s tape. “Crisp edges make your colors pop,” he says. “Same as keeping your muzzle clean.” Blank stares. He amends: “Same as sharpening your colored pencils.” Ahh, comprehension.
Lunchtime. The air smells like food truck tacos we bribed a vendor to park nearby. I sit on an upturned milk crate, chewing guac-stuffed something while Sawyer stands, scanning, one hand resting near his hip holster under a loose overshirt. His eyes sweep, sweep, then snag on mine. Heat detonates in my chest. I hold the gaze, and slow-blink once. He exhales, and gives me a lopsided smile.
This man is a walking restraint system, I think. And every time he locks down, I want to undo a buckle.
Afternoon light turns syrupy. The mural starts to look like a thing—river bursting, fish flowing, paper planes carrying ideas toward a skyline that is, frankly, better than some of the public art commissions the city’s approved in the last decade. Kids pose for pics, faces streaked in primary colors. Parents clap. We’re down to touch-ups when Principal Nguyen asks if I’ll say a few words on camera for the Foundation socials.
“Give me five to de-smurf,” I tell her, handing my brush to Becca.
The rec center bathrooms are through a short interior hallway that cuts under the building. Sawyer clocks my trajectory instantly. “Riggs stays here. I’ll escort.”
I lift a brow. “I can pee without a tactical convoy.”
“Humor me.”
He walks me to the rec center door, scans inside, then—because kids are lined up at the sinks painting themselves whiskers for TikTok—backs out. “You good?”
“Always.”
“Two minutes,” he says into his mic. “Eyes on hallway.”
I duck inside. The smell hits first: bleach, damp tile, a faint undertone of whatever chemical cocktail public restrooms never fully remove. I pick the last stall, splatter a paper towel with water and dab at my face, elbow, jeans. Someone in the front giggles; faucet runs; door swings; kids chatter; then silence. The sinks clear.
I step out to toss my towel—and slam into a chest.
Not Sawyer.
Tall. Hoodie zipped. Disposable painter’s coveralls on top, the cheap kind we hand out for splatter. N95 mask. Ball cap pulled low. Sunglasses even though we’re indoors. For a split, stupid second I assume volunteer dad. “Sorry—”
He grips my elbow hard enough to pinch a nerve. Cold shoots up my arm.
“Keep smiling, princess,” he says, voice filtered through the mask, pitched low. “Don’t make me ruin your pretty wall.”
Every cell in my body goes high voltage. “Let go.”
He shoves something into my palm—a small rectangle, thick cardstock. Familiar dread spikes. It’s the same stock as the envelope at the house. I try to twist free, but he clamps harder. My self-defense training kicks belatedly. I pitch forward like I’m collapsing, free hand snapping up with the wet paper towel I’m still holding, and I mash it into his face, and drive my knee toward his thigh. I miss his groin (damn) but connect with muscle hard enough to jolt him.