Page 4

A pit forms in my stomach. “This is insane.”

Jen’s lips pressed into a white slash. “I’ll smack anyone who brings my godson into this. That’s crossing a line. What’s wrong with people?”

“You need protection, not just to protect yourself but for Eric as well.”

Jen leans in, taking my hand in hers. “Let me call my dad.”

“Sean?”

“He’s retired and runs his security firm now. Langston Protection Services. He’s the best. He’s… safe.”

I open my mouth to tell her that Sean Langston is a lot of things but safe isn't one. Why? I can’t say out loud and so I clamp my mouth shut.

“I’ll call you,” she says, patting my hand.

I don't say yes. But I don't say no, either.

My pulse races as she places the call. My intuition tells me that my tribulations have only begun. I’m standing at the edge of a cliff of fire, and even if I don't fall in, I’ll get scorched either way.

2

SEAN

Icross my arms, watching the two newest recruits fumble through what should be a basic restraint technique.

“You call that a proper takedown? My eighty-year-old aunt could break that hold.”

The larger recruit—Jones, according to his application—blushes beneath his crew cut. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don't apologize. Do it right.” I step onto the training mat, demonstrating the proper stance. “Solid base. Controlled momentum. Clear communication with your partner. This is precision work, not a bar fight.”

The quality of applicants has gone downhill of late. After twenty-three years in security, I've developed a sixth sense for who has what it takes. These two don’t, but Marcus insisted we need more bodies for the Lopez contract next month.

This job used to be my adrenaline. Now it’s a schedule. Contracts, drills, background checks. The work still matters, but I pick and choose now. No chaos. No mess. No clients who don’t listen.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don't check my phone during training sessions, but when it's Jen calling, I make anexception. The recruits won't mind a five-minute break from me barking orders at them anyway.

I step off the mat where the recruits are practicing takedown techniques.

“Take five. Then I want to see that sequence again, and this time like professionals.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket as I step off the mat. Jen's face lights up my screen. I move to the corner of the training facility.

“Hello.”

“Dad! Thank goodness you answered.” Jen's voice carries that familiar edge of panic that precedes some minor crisis like a broken heel or a fuse that needs changing. “I need you to do something for me.”

I exhale and wipe my hands on my pants.

“Is this about your latest heartbreak or your hairstylist ghosting you again?”

“It’s not about me. It’s about Wren.”

That name stops me.

“Wren?” My mind conjures an image of a woman with flowing dark hair and expressive hands, telling stories in my living room that had Jen in stitches. The two friends met during Jen’s brief stint at acting school and she used to spend weekends at our house, with big brown eyes and bigger dreams.

“Yes, Wren Sinclair. My best friend? Dad, she's in trouble,” Jen says. “And I don’t mean someone said something mean on Instagram. It’s serious.”