Booty Call (Forbidden Bodyguards Book 2) (9 page)

He puts me down on the bed and climbs over me, tugging me against him.

We’re cuddling.

I just came all over his hands and probably need to clean up or something, and his erection is hard and throbbing against my hip, and he’s just…cuddling me.

“We should—”

“Nope,” he says roughly. “You should go to sleep, study-girl.”

“I want to make you come, too.” I wiggle closer, reaching for him. “Don’t you want to…”

But it doesn’t take much for him to divert my wiggling fingers and tug my hands up to his chest. “Shhhh.”

We go back and forth like that a few more times, my words getting more sluggish as his warmth gets under my skin and lulls me into dreamland.

—twelve—
 

Scott

The next morning Ali sends me a text first thing.

A: I had the best dream last night.

S: Tell me about it.

A: This hot guy I’ve been trying to hook up with for like, forever, came over…

S: Lucky guy

A: I was the lucky one

S: Tell me about it

A: Maybe you should come over again tonight

Maybe I should. I don’t have a great reason to say no. But the next time we hook-up, it won’t just be my fingers that feel her coming apart. Next time, I won’t be able to keep my dick out of her, I’m afraid, and while I know she’s fine with that…I’m still wrapping my head around it.

She’s twenty.

An adult.

But just barely.

When I first went to war, she was in elementary school.

My phone chirps again.

A: Stop thinking so hard about it

S: Oh, I’m hard all right

A: That’s better. Just a booty call. Don’t worry, k?

But I am worried, in a way I’ve never been about a woman before. I need to blow something up to clear my mind. I swing by The Horus Group offices to see if anyone wants to hit a range with me. Cole and Jason are out, but their receptionist points me toward Wilson’s office.

“It would be good to get him out, he’s been locked in there for like thirty hours,” she whispers.

“I have not,” he calls out, and I’m still laughing when I prop myself against the door frame of his office.

I stop when I see what he’s doing. On the six monitors in front of me are different camera angles inside a home. The occupants are home, and…busy. “Wow, man.”

He glances over his shoulder. “Ah. Sorry. You can wait out there if you want.”

“What the hell…who are you watching?” On the screen there were four people having sex. And one person was watching, curled up on a couch against the wall. There was something about her that was familiar. Long red hair, pale skin… “Is that…?”

He jams his finger against the keyboard and all the windows flip to his desktop. “Never mind.”

“I don’t want to know, do I?”

He shrugs. “We do crazy things for love, man.”

“Speaking of crazy, I’m in the mood to shoot, you interested?”

“Sure.”

We’re all members of an indoor range below an office building on K Street. Officially, there aren’t any indoor ranges in the District of Columbia. Unofficially, this one is close and convenient and very protective of its members’ privacy.

Only the Secret Service has a better deal, and that’s because their ammo is free.

Sometimes we get creative, but today I just want to unload my Browning High-Power a few hundred times. Wilson surprises me by pulling out a light Ruger SR22.

“Doing some plinking?” I ask as he shoots me the finger.

“It’s a gift,” he mutters.

“For the redhead?” It’s still bugging me how familiar she looked.

“Forget you saw her.”

“Deal.” I don’t need to worry about his woman problems. I’ve got my own. “You wrapped up in her?”

“Yeah. It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?”

He blinks at me. “Is it?”

“Has been for me.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never…done this before.”

I don’t think he’s talking about stalking a woman and sending her a gun. For Wilson Carter, that’s probably a textbook definition of romance right there.

“I have. Fucked up my entire life. I’m pretty adamant about not doing it again.”

“That why we’re shooting today?”

I shrug. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Who is she?”

I could tell him.

“Nobody needs to know, right?”
 

“This is our secret.”

No, I couldn’t. “Someone I met at Georgetown.”

“A student?”

“Yeah.”

He gives me a look that says everything I’ve been thinking. I’m fifteen years past the point of dating co-eds. But one in particular has dragged me back into the land of flirting and teasing and hook-ups just for fun.

No drama, no worries.

“She’s good for me,” I finally say, loading my pistol. “Now let’s see how many paper bad guys we can kill.”

—thirteen—
 

Alison

Scott didn’t come over last night.

That should be fine, because I promised him—and myself—that we were just having fun. No expectations.

But I’m still bummed.

So when my phone vibrates at my feet, ten minutes into my Research Methods class, I try to ignore it.

I try
hard
.

I last twenty seconds, tops, before I drop my pen and lean over to “pick it up,” sneaking a glance at my phone in the process.

S: Sorry I went radio silent yesterday. Something came up. Heading to New York for a few days.

I stare at the screen, considering my options for responding. Really, there’s only one thing to say.

A: No prob. Travel safe. Text when back.

My instructor’s voice jerks me back to the class. “Ms. Reid, does whoever you’re texting have something to share on this subject matter?”

I shove my phone in my bag, my cheeks flaming red as I straighten up. “I’m sorry, Professor. It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t. And what assessment issues do you see in this particular example?”

I blink at the white board.
Shit
. In front of me, Corey clears his throat and taps on his notebook. In big, block letters, he’s written
objectives=measurement=assessment
. A wave of relief rolls over me.

“They could correlate more closely to the objectives. It’s not necessarily a fair measurement tool.”

The instructor narrows her eyes at me, but then nods and moves on. I ignore my bag for the remainder of the class, and sag in relief when we’re released.

“Thank you,” I whisper, leaning over Corey’s shoulder. “You just saved my butt.”

“It’s a butt worth saving,” he teases, turning his head to look at me. I give him a reproachful look. “I know, and it’s not a butt that’s interested in me at all.”

“And we don’t talk about that, right?” It’s too weird, how Corey brings that up from time to time. I lust after Scott incessantly, painfully, and I almost never bring it up with him.

Okay, maybe I’m being too hard on Corey.

So when he laughs and stands up, I stand up, too. We’re friends.

And when he says, “You can make it up to me by coming to the casual mixer on Friday night,” I say yes, because we’re friends.

I’m not going to sleep with Corey, but I can hang out with him.

I sling my arm around his waist. “We’ll find you a nice girl on Friday night. Okay?”

He shrugs. “Okay.”

If only Scott were this easy to handle.

— —

No more texts from Scott the rest of the week means that come Friday, I’m ready to party—as hard as senior level poli sci nerds go, which isn’t that hard.

I get to McAllister Lounge shortly after eight, armed with bourbon and Coke and a jumbo bag of party mix. The social space on the top floor is unofficially reserved for upper years, and tonight someone has paid for a bouncer who is checking ID.

That’s a problem.

I linger toward the back of the line, waiting for a glimpse of Corey. I might be the only senior who’s not legal yet, and I don’t want to put the bouncer in the awkward position of kicking me out if it can be avoided.

A girl three people ahead of me in line doesn’t have her wallet. “Seriously?” she protests, hands on her hips. Tits out. Not a bad plan. “I walked over from my dorm.” She waved her lanyard at him. “Anyone here can vouch for me. I take Modern International Relations with Saxon. Sax! Bud!”

It totally works. Saxon comes over and flashes his “my daddy’s a senator” smile, and the girl is in. Anabeth? Anabelle? Whatever, she’s in, it worked for her, I’m totally trying it. I shove my wallet deep into a skinny pocket inside my backpack, beneath the package of tampons I keep there, and hope that if Bouncer Guy decides to look inside my bag he doesn’t want to dig past the lady supplies.

Before I get to the head of the line, Corey bounces into my side. “You made it!”

“Of course I did.”

“You usually don’t.”

“But I owed you.” I winked at him.

“You wound me. That’s the only reason you’re here, isn’t it?”

Since I’m hoping Scott might be back tonight…yeah. “I promise, this is as exciting as my social life gets.”

He snickers, slinging his arm around my shoulders. “You didn’t get the party gene that your sister got?”

I stiffen and shrug off his arm. “Leave that alone.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Just…not funny.”

“Too soon?”

“Yep.” We’re at the head of the line and I give the bouncer my student card. He looks me up and down. “Driver’s license?”

“Don’t have one,” I say with a warm, apologetic shrug. “But I promise I’m in my final year. I’ve got the study lines to prove it.” I point at my eyes and squint.

He snorts and turns to Corey. “ID?”

Corey hands over his license and we’re waved in. I add my drinks to the communal table and rip open the bag of party mix. Anabeth or Anabelle squeals about how much better pretzels are when they’re mixed in with the other stuff—“‘cause they get the powder on them! Ohmygod!”—and I’m reminded why I don’t usually party hard.

Or at all.

I pour a big drink and find a seat in the middle of the room. Trick learned from being raised in a family of extroverts heavily involved in politics: it’s easier to hide in plain sight and let the conversations swirl around you. If you hug the wall, someone well-meaning and totally clueless will try to drag you into a conversation you don’t want to participate in. Or even worse—introduce you to someone they think will be your new bestie.

Always super awkward. Easier to dive right into the middle and just go to the happy place in your head while people talk at you.

I pull out my phone, but Corey snatches it out of my hand. Where did he come from?

“Seriously? Are you doing some reading?”

“No.” I snatch it back. “And don’t touch my stuff.”

“Don’t be antisocial.”

I glance at my messages. The exchange I got busted for in Research Methods is the last communication I’ve had with Scott. I take a deep breath and put the phone on silent. “Fine. I’ve turned it off for the night, are you happy?”

He grins. “I will be once we start dancing.”

I roll my eyes. That is so not happening. I turn to Saxon. “Hey, do you have your summer research project lined up?”

Corey sighs. I ignore him. It’s a casual mixer, not a rave. We can talk about course work. It’s good practice for the rest of our lives.

—fourteen—
 

Scott

S: Back in the city. Want to hang out later?

I feel like I’ve been gone back to my early twenties sending that message. That makes me shudder, because I was thinking with my dick then. Fuck, I’m thinking with my dick now. But…it’s what Ali wants. And after abandoning her all week to go to New York and go six rounds with the Mayfair legal team and the British Consulate, I could use some chill time with a hot girl who likes me just for me. Maybe I haven’t matured past my twenties after all.

She doesn’t reply to my text right away. I move through my apartment, dropping my keys on the counter, my wallet beside them. I toe off my shoes then undo my tie.

She said she’s only seen me in a suit.

When I pick her up tonight, I want her to see the real me, as much as I can share with her. The me that used to live in cargo pants and black t-shirts when I wasn’t in fatigues.

I put on casual stuff and grab my phone again. No message back.

S: You studying? Want me to do a coffee run?

I fire up my laptop and check my email. Then I prowl into the kitchen. I don’t have shit fuck all to make breakfast with. Maybe I should do a grocery run before inviting Ali back to my place. I grab my keys and wallet, throw on a hoodie, and head out the door.

Two bags of eggs, bread, milk, cheese and OJ later—plus vegetables and fruit, because I’m not actually a twenty-year-old goon—I’m back at my place, and still getting radio silence.

I pull out my phone to text her again, promising myself it’s not needy if I’m concerned about her, when the screen lights up.

A: Sorry. So, so sorry. At a party.

I have zero right to get mad about that. She’s an adult. A college student. And for the year that I’ve known her, totally responsible.

I’m still thinking “what fucking party” when she texts again.

A: Should be home by eleven. Midnight at the latest. Will text when I’m back.

S: I can pick you up.

A: It’s cool. I’m with a friend. He’ll walk me home.

And now I’m officially wondering who
he
is. The back of my neck heats up and I have to force myself to put the phone down before I crack it from gripping it too hard.

I count to fifty before replying.

S: You okay? Just say the word, and I can come get you.

A: Seriously, I’m good. It’s a mixer.

I’m not sure I know what that means. In my world, it would mean cocktails with officers and NGO officials. And I wouldn’t call it a party. I don’t reply, because anything that would come out of my fingers would be inappropriate right now. I put away the groceries. When the phone chimes again, I take my time reaching for it.