Page 8 of Protecting Peyton

“Shit,” she swore before sending a sneer my way. It had now become my fault that she wasn’t a hundred dollars richer. “Shit, shit, shit.”

I stayed quiet, smart enough not to tangle with an enraged woman.

“You did great,” Serena congratulated her. “On my first time, I lasted like one buck and then splat.” She made a motion with her hands.

“Thanks.”

They hugged, and I wished it was me.

She checked the expensive Rolex on her wrist. “I’ve gotta get going.”

Stepping forward, I made the offer. “I’ll drive you.”

“No. It’s not far, and I have my bike.”

“It’ll fit in the back.” That argument hadn’t worked the first time, but it was worth a try.

She shook her head and backed away to retrieve her purse from Lucas, who had been the keeper of the purses while the women rode.

Remembering my promise not to proposition her tonight, I stayed back.

She found Grace and Terry. “I’ve got to call it a night.” She took Grace’s hand. “I’m so happy for you guys.”

“Thanks for coming,” Grace answered, hugging her. “And thank you for the lovely candlesticks.”

Peyton hugged Terry as well before walking out the door.

I was the only one not getting those hugs. Fuck it. At night, on a bike, in city traffic was not safe. I walked out the door after her. I hadn’t promised not to be a gentleman and follow to see that she made it home safely.

CHAPTER 2

Peyton

I said my goodbyes.With the feel of my breasts pressed up against March’s hot, muscular back still imprinted on my brain—not to mention the feel of me on top of him after I’d fallen off the last time—I was very close to making a big mistake with the former SEAL turned bodyguard.

He’d offered to drive me home. “I’ll guard your body anytime.” He hadn’t actually said that corny line, but that was the vibe he gave off.

I couldn’t go there, so I declined.

Distance. I needed distance from him. Breaking myno manrule was not in the cards. I’d gotten too friendly with someone in Atlanta, and I didn’t intend to repeat the mistake.

Outside, I noticed the bank across the street and wished I could use an ATM, but that was out of the question. I didn’t trust that my simple fake ID was enough to open an account, and the risk of being tracked was too high.

That stupid second game of pool with Pete had cost me some of the lunch money that was supposed to last me until my next paycheck. I’d have to raid my depleted safety stash or not eat for a few days. I hated cheating on my budget.

My money had been so depleted after my move from Atlanta that I’d given myself a strict budget to replenish my reserve. My rent was substantial,and the remainder of my paychecks got cashed and stashed away in the bottom of my backpack until I could take it to my stash box.

The mailbox store where my stash box was located wasn’t close, and I’d been putting off moving my money from the backpack to the box longer than I should have. The mailbox strategy had been what had saved me in Atlanta.

I started across the street to where I’d locked up my bike. This wasn’t a well-lit section of town, and the lamppost down the street on that side was the most secure thing around to lock up to.

A pair of guys stood at the end of the block, drinking beer and arguing about the Lakers game. Looking both ways, I crossed the street.

When I reached my bike, I squatted down to spin the combination lock. The guys arguing about the Lakers game were louder now. When I looked that direction, I realized why. They were walking toward me. I nervously worked the lock. But it was dark here so I had to go slow.

I pulled on the lock.

Shit.It didn’t open.