Hunter Sloane is a no nonsense ex-mercenary with his own security firm.
The last thing he wants to do is shadow another Hollywood starlet with more looks than brains. When the call comes in, his guys are all out on assignment, and he’s left holding the bag, so he bites the bullet and takes the job. The first few weeks are so smooth he starts to relax. For someone who’s touted as America’s latest hot topic, Tara A turned out to be anything but the high rolling ass shaker he’d read about. She did as she was told and kept the hell out of his way. But then something changed…
“Look this way Tara. Over here Tara.” She turned this way and that like a puppet on a string as flashbulbs went crazy with each turn. The dress she wore didn’t leave much to the imagination, but I guess that’s all part of the image.
She wore an engaging smile but I could see the strain on her face and the barely hidden tension in her body. She moved almost as if she were following a script, like someone who counted the steps while learning a new dance. I’m guessing she wasn’t too fond of this part of her job.
I walked a few paces back as usual and let her do her thing, my eyes peeled to the crowd, my senses on full alert. This was the most dangerous aspect of the job, her out in the open like this with so many unknowns in the vicinity; at least it had been until a day or two ago.
That my friend is when I lost my damn mind; when the man I’d always thought myself to be, morphed into this stranger whose skin I now find myself walking around in. Days later I still can’t make sense of this shit, but it is what it is. I’m nothing if not flexible.
I’m not in the habit of being taken by surprise though. My life is too structured for that. But I have to say that for the first time since early childhood, something has been able to get under my skin, and I’m fucked if I like it. A man’s life shouldn’t be changed when he least expects it for fuck sake.
I feel listless and out of control, like something else is at the helm. For a man like me, a former marine accustomed to discipline and order, this bullshit is fucking with my head. I’m not even going to get into the number it’s doing on my heart.
I never give that shit a second thought, except when it comes to its health. So you can imagine when the shit sparked for no fucking reason, like someone took an electric shock to it, the fuckery damn near stopped me in my tracks.
I knew down to the fucking minute it happened, and why. And had I been a damn female, I would’ve written the shit down somewhere for posterity’s sake. It’s one of those things they tend to want to remember, down to the date and time. Somehow I don’t think I’ll be forgetting, memo or not.