Page 6 of Brown Sugar
That tends to happen when you work yourself to the bone. A nasty habit of mine considering it keeps my mind off the dumpster fire that’s my personal life. If I stay busy working security contracts, I don’t have to face the void Jax has left behind.
I damn sure don’t have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with his room full of things…
“Depends,” I say. “How much does it pay?”
“Trust me, my friend, money is bountiful in this case.Jerry McGuireshow-me-the-money kinda mula!”
“Hal…” I warn.
He clears his throat. “Ahem.What I mean is, Bison, it’s a very high profile client. Maybe the biggest one you’ve ever worked for.”
“I’ve done security for the President.”
“Think evenbiggerthan POTUS, Bison! World’s biggest superstar big. Modern day Michael Jackson big. Which is why I thought of you. This job has Tyson the Bison written all over it.”
I roll my eyes at the ass kissing, my head pounding. “How long?”
“Contract is for the rest of the year. Did I mention the client is verrrry high profile?”
“Since when do I care about high profile? You know that’s never meant squat to me. I’m about the job. If it’s not the right one, then I’m not interested. It could be security for JesusFucking Christ and I still wouldn’t be up for it if the job wasn’t right.”
His laugh turns shaky and nervous. “Well… you know what I mean, Bison. Just that… just that this client is very valuable. A hot commodity. It’s a tall order, but you’re the guy who can do it. If anybody can, it’s you.”
“Send me the info.”
It’s my sign off as I hang up on him.
A concession in a way that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. The last time I worked a gig Hal got me, it was security for some debutante heiress who couldn’t have been a bigger bitch. She spent the entire time ordering me around like I was her personal assistant, not the security guarding her life. I put my foot down when she tried to get me to go fetch her a pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks.
But Hal was right about one thing: I am one of the best in the private security business. Skills I’ve spent over a decade honing. First in the military when I joined the Marines straight out of high school at the age of seventeen, then years later once I separated and went into civilian contract work.
My size helps. At six-foot-four, two-fifty, I’m nothing to sneeze at. Nobody to fuck with. Not only will I protect my assets with utmost attention to detail, I will haveyourass flat on the ground the second you try something.
There’s no denying I’m good at what I do. I’m aware I am.
And that’s what’s made losing Jax even more tortuous than it would be for anybody else.
The fact that I protect people for a living, yet I couldn’t protect him…
My phone pings with an email notification. Hal’s sent through the contract for the job he called about.
I take a few minutes to sort myself out before having a look. Five minutes of taking a piss, brewing some much-neededcoffee, and cleaning up the bits of popcorn on the couch later, I grab my phone and read through it.
My left brow cocks higher as I scroll over the text. The fine print of the contract reads like some parody. A joke of a contract with so many stipulations that it can’t possibly be real.
Thisis the job Hal thought I’d be a good fit for?
Who the hell am I guarding? The Queen of England?
“She’s dead,” I mumble under my breath. I scroll back up toward the top to read the name printed on the first page.
Kiana Baduza.
The name Kiana sounds vaguely familiar. But I’m not one to keep up with pop culture or what’s the latest big thing.
I stopped paying attention when garbage like Instagram and the Kardashians became a thing.
Why would Hal think I’d be interested in guarding some spoiled, entitled celebrity that makes appearances on red carpets and at nightclubs? I’m supposed to follow her around like a fucking puppy while she jet sets to Paris for a shopping spree?