Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
I’m much older now and some of the bodyguards around our age have become as close as friends. Farrow is about to become family now that he’s newly-engaged to Moffy.
It’s natural that I’d want to understand their world in security as much as they understand the famous parts of mine.
I keep talking. “Most bodyguards have martial arts backgrounds, from what I’ve seen.” I motion to his chest. “Like how you’re trained in boxing, and then you all met bodyguards at Akara’s gym who then referred you to security.”
Studio 9 Boxing & MMA Gym has even become a sort of headquarters for the security team.
Thatcher lowers his hand from his mouth. “That’s only the recent wave of bodyguards.”
The recent wave. “How recent?” I prop my elbow on a fabric roll, enthralled in the clearer picture. “How many waves are there?” I’m not even sure who referred him yet, and I already have a million more inquiries.
I wonder if he can tell how badly I want to explore all of him.
Thatcher touches his earpiece. “It’s—sorry.” He expels a rougher breath, apologizing for having to deal with malfunctioning comms. While he fiddles with the radio, he continues talking. “Guys come in and out if it’s not the right fit, but I’d say there’ve only been about three waves. First, when you and your siblings and cousins were born.” His eyes flit up to me. “Hold on.”
I watch him click his mic.
“Thatcher to SFO, am I coming in clear?” He pauses for a full two seconds. “Is no one rogering up on the fucking comms?” Another pause. He spies movement down the aisle and turns his head an inch.
A stocky gray-haired man peeks sheepishly at us and then drifts toward the register.
With my elbow perched on a fabric roll, I rest my chin on my knuckles. “I’m guessing the second wave of bodyguards were the ones who spent my preteen and teenage years with me?”
Thatcher nods. “Back then, all the new hires were military, so the background of security became nearly one-hundred percent military. ”
My lips part. “No martial arts at all?” I thought there’d be some at least. It seems like most bodyguards are martial arts now.
“Not until Akara.” Thatcher studies our surroundings before eyeing me. “The makeup of security today is about half military, half martial arts.” He messes with a knob on his radio but keeps sight of everything, even me. “Akara drew in the most recent wave of men. Boxers, MMA fighters. You’ve been around a lot of them just on SFO. There’s the Oliveira brothers, Farrow, Donnelly.”
“You?” I question because he hasn’t lumped himself in that category.
He’s quiet.
“I’m confused.” I tilt my head and frown. “I thought Akara joined the security team before you and Banks. So he’d have to usher you two in like the other boxers. I assume…” I’m wrong. I can see clearly that I’m wrong.
His brown eyes are narrowed at me like he’s staring straight at the blazing sun and refuses to look away from the scorching heat. “Akara did join security first. About a year and a half before Banks and me. But he didn’t give us a referral. No one at the gym did.”
My mind races, and I make sense of his words quickly. “You must’ve known an older bodyguard. From the first or second wave?”
“Second,” he says. “Bruno Bandoni recommended us to the Tri-Force.”
Uncle Loren’s current bodyguard. Moffy even had Bruno on his detail for a short period this year.
“We’d known Bruno since we were kids,” Thatcher explains. “He served with our dad.”
Of course. “Bruno was in the Navy too.”
Thatcher leaves his radio alone to focus entirely on me. “All the current military bodyguards are Navy…” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Except two bodyguards. But no one has a fucking clue that we served.”
My mouth keeps dropping. “Wait…are you saying you and Banks are…” I frown deeper. “Your background isn’t in martial arts?”
“I box.” He nods to me. “But Banks and I learned to box in the military. You asked what I was doing when I was eighteen to twenty-two. I was in the Marines, Jane.”
I shift my weight in shock and whack a fabric roll with my elbow. “Fuck,” I curse and hold my throbbing funny bone.
I freeze as the old wooden shelf lets out a long, threatening creak and sways unnaturally. “Do not fall.” I brace my hands at the shelf.
Thatcher is suddenly a foot away. Right beside me.
I look up as he stabilizes the shelf high above my head, his large hand on top of the dusty surface. Just like that, the creaking wood goes silent, and now we’re much, much closer.
His arm nearly brushes my shoulder, and his utility boot is only six or so inches from my ballet flat. He’s a size 15 shoe. An unhelpful fact that I learned after my big mouth asked.