ADAM

I bolt awake on the couch, drenched in sweat.

My breaths are labored, the images of the nightmare still running in front of my eyes. Gunshots. Screaming. Blood. The sickening sound of a human skull splitting on gravel.

I peel my damp shirt over my head and toss it on the coffee table stained with water rings. It's also cluttered with last night's empty beer cans and gas station food wrappers. Geez. No wonder my stomach feels like garbage.

From the kitchen, I hear crackling of butter on a hot pan. Soon, the smell of eggs hits my nose.

Again? I'm going to kill her.

"Is this supposed to be you resting?" I snap at my sister, storming into the kitchen.

She shrieks, flinching out of her skin. The rubber spatula she was using flies out of her hand and lands by my feet. "Oh my God, Adam!"

"What did the doctors say?" I bend to pick it up and smack it against my palm, pacing towards her. "Hm? What did the doctors say, Leah?"

"They said your brother needs professional help!" She giggles at my acting, slapping my arm. "Stop being so dramatic, I'm just making breakfast."

I notice the open mail over her shoulder. "Is that the new bill?"

"No." She snatches it behind her back, lying to my face.

Shit. That can't be good.

"Let me see..." I open my hand, not moving it until she brings the paper forward. My eyes scan the letter, dropping down to the right corner where the six-figure debt is boldly printed.

Holy fuck. It's worse than I expected. Way worse.

"Honestly, I don't even need the surgery." Leah hurriedly pours the eggs onto paper plates. "I think they're just trying to rip us off."

"You need it." I sit around the table wrapped with a plastic sheet. It's an old, hideous table I took from an abandoned restaurant ten years ago. I've had the chance to buy something better since then, but it holds a sentimental value for us. Plus, it's not broken.

"It doesn't really matter. It's not like we can afford it." She shrugs, placing my plate in front of me.

Roxy, my manager, and also Leah's friend, calls me while I eat. I flip my screen on the table, ignoring her like I've done for the last two years.

"She still offering you jobs?" Leah asks over the rim of her mug like she doesn't already know.

"Mhm."

"She's sweet," she says randomly, making me scowl. "Come on. Not everyone cares enough to still reach out. I think she worries about you."

"If that was true, she'd leave me alone." I bite a piece of toast. "She also wouldn't drag you into it."

Guilt etches her heart-shaped face, framed with curly baby hair. For an eighteen-year-old, she still looked like she was two, with little chubby cheeks.

Downtown LA smells like ass. It's past noon as I'm walking down the street, where the grease of food vendors and cigarette stench crawls into my pores. The working class is huddled at the bus stop, the gravel littered with plastic bags, cans, dog shit. Probably human shit too.

The glass doors of the fitness center slide open. The cheap AC whines as it blasts overhead.

"Hi Adam..." The front-desk brunette brightens up, her voice unnecessarily seductive. I give an obligatory nod, cringing when her gaze lowers over my body.

The married women who usually occupy the warm-up zone to stretch on their yoga mats, throw more flirtatious glances as I make my way to the treadmills. There's an older, but undoubtedly attractive woman jogging to my left, and she pushes her chest out when she sees me, sticking her ass out a little bit.

If I didn't have to worry about Leah's medical debt, I'd probably try to get her number. But all I can think about is how in the world I'm going to pay for another surgery. It's the fifth one this year. We've been in and out of the hospitals so many times, everyone there knows us already.

And she's still not getting better. It's one blood clot after another, and all of them around her heart. It's always bigger and more dangerous. The doctors say if she doesn't have a surgery in the next two weeks, she might end up in a coma.

Roxie calls again while I'm in lifting weights, my back pressed against an upright bench. My muscles burn, shaking under the stress. Shedding every tasty toxin with every drop of sweat.

My phone buzzes again. I ignore it. It buzzes again. I ignore it. And again. And—

I groan, setting the bar back up and sit forward. I rest my forearms on my knees and bring the phone to my ear, scowling in the mirror. "What do you want?"

"Do I have to show up at your house for you to answer my calls?"

I tear through my wet hair, pulling at the roots. "What do you want, Roxie? I'm not having the best morning."

"That's why I'm calling."

"You know."

"I also know that you don't have that kind of money. Not even a little bit."

"I'm not ready to go back to being a bodyguard."

"Yes, you are, Adam. I know you. You've been through hell before and look at everything you've accomplished. Look at how far you've come. You just don't give yourself enough credit, which is also why I think this job will be good for you. Okay? It's time you move on."

I flex my fingers around my phone, on the verge of throwing it against a wall.

"Think about Leah," she says more softly. "She needs you. She needs the money. You and I both know she's not going to have this surgery any other way. She can't go without it."

"I know that." I swallow with a dry throat. My little baby sister. I've taken care of her since we were kids. She'd always sneak into my bed every time our drunk piece of shit dad took his anger out on our mom. She's all I have left, which is why I'd do anything for her.

"Trust me, it pays a lot. Like, you guys can move into a better apartment. You can cover all the medical bills and put the rest in your savings."

"Who the hell am I working for, the President?"

Selena

"Another cold brew, Miss?" The French waiter with a styled mustache smiles at me. He's wearing a crisp-white collared shirt with a black vest, a towel neatly folded over one arm.

"Please." I smile back, watching him pour the gorgeous darkness over the half-melted ice cubes in my glass. "Thank you."

He turns back to the kitchen, walking with expert quickness down the long country club dining room. Little round tables with white tablecloth are occupied around me. Silver-haired men with their young wives who all have the same blonde blowout. Who all go to the same plastic surgeon, but pretend like they don't. The type of women who gush over discount sales and whatnot, and gossip about single, successful business women.

I hate this place. But the coffee's good. And the staff is always nice.

"Hellooo!" My mom suddenly yells in front of my face.

I flinch, spilling my coffee all over me. "My God, you scared me!"

"How did you not see me? I looked directly at you when I walked in." She grabs the paper tissues on my table and bends over to wipe my black dress. "It won't stain, don't worry."

"Mom, please stop!" I whisper, grabbing her hands to keep them still. I look around if anyone noticed. "Please, don't treat me like a baby. I can take care of myself."

She sniffles, pressing her lips not to cry.

What the hell?

"Mom? What's wrong?"

She slides into the chair across from me, covering her face with a shaky hand. She breaks out into sobs behind it.

"Okay..." I have no clue what's going on. I feel like a normal person would feel bad to see her stepmother crying. But my brain is wired different. "Is something wrong with dad?"

She shakes her head no.

Okay, good. "Did Marc cancel the wedding?"

I glance at the engagement ring around my finger, wondering if I'd have to return it. What if he wants it back this week? Ugh. Then he'd want to talk, for sure. Maybe give me an explanation.

That would take like, what, at least two hours? I have so much work to do this week...

I'm relieved when Julie shakes her head no. As I watch her emotional body language, I think of all the soap operas I watched when I was little. She's so natural at it. Sometimes I wonder if dad remarried, because my behavior was depressing to him. I don't think I've ever cried like this in front of him. In front of anyone, really.

While I give her a moment to calm herself, my eyes drift at the dining hall doors and I notice someone.

A man.

Holy shit.

My breath stops. He's tall. Taller than everyone here, for sure. He has the most gorgeous, but manly face. It's rugged with an even stubble. With beautiful, but thick and angry eyebrows. His profile is sharp. Angular. With a square-cut jaw and ironically soft, wavy dark brown hair.

I look away quickly when he begins to pace down the hall, each step a calm but clear warning as it meets the marble floor. The women around him blush, they whisper, they secretly gawk.

I do the same over the rim of my coffee glass. My poor stepmom is still crying.

"Mom, check him out." Maybe that'll distract her.

"Hm?" She wipes the smeared mascara under her eyes. "What'd you say?"

Oh my God, he has tattoos?! Black, intricate ink traces the side of his neck, dipping under the black collar of his button-down. My gaze lowers over his bulky forearms, the design spreading over his tan skin and ending around his wrists.

I drool.

"Hi." My dad's big belly blocks my view. I look up to see him smiling ear-to-ear. "I'm here."

"Dad!" I scoff an embarrassed laugh, standing to hug him. His familiar, comforting scent brushes my nose. I close my eyes contently. "Sorry, I didn't see you."

"I'm used to it." He teases me, pulling away. He takes a deep breath and regretfully exhales, breaking eye-contact. "That's actually why I called you here."

"That I don't see you? We see each other every week." Come on, man. I don't even see my friends that often.

"He's not talking about that." My mom stands and loops arms with him, her sad eyes looking at me. "We have something to tell you, and we need you to please be okay with it."

"What? What is it? What's going on?"

"Nothing. We received a small threat letter." My dad shrugs, waving me off. "Your mom is just being dramatic. It's not as bad as she makes it seem."

I glance at her as she's about to break down. "I don't know, it seems pretty bad to me."

"Well, it is. It's serious. But not for you. You don't have to worry about it."

"That doesn't even make sense."

The gorgeous man from before enters our little circle out of nowhere. I flinch.

The hell? Is he...with them? I throw my dad a confused scowl.

"Did you hire a detective?"

"I did, but not him." He cranes his neck up at the man beside him. "He works for you."

"Oh, I get my own detective?" That is so exciting, I've never solved a crime before.

"Even better." My dad grins back wider. "You get a full-time bodyguard."

Hold up. Rewind. "Excuse me?"

"Adam." He extends a large palm, his voice low, deep, and throaty. "It's nice to meet you."

"I wish I could say the same." I apologetically accept his hand before turning to address my delusional father. "What is this, a joke?"

"It's temporary, we're just taking precautions. He's the best of the best. Trust me." He gives me a firm, affectionate nod. "I've done my research. You're in very good hands."

I mean, I have no doubt about the quality of his hands, but not as my bodyguard.

"That's really sweet..." I put my hand on my chest and give him my most sincere expression. "Really, I appreciate your concern. But absolutely not. I don't want anyone risking their lives for me as a business service. That's so weird. And creepy."

"Eh. You'll get used to it." My evil dad smiles like I have no say in the matter.

Really? I raise my eyebrows at him. Does he forget I live on my own? That I pay for my own tuition? That I don't need him or anyone to look after for me?

"I actually won't." I smile back, standing on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Then I do the same with mom. Placing a twenty-dollar bill next to my coffee, I throw my bag over my shoulder.

"You're not eating with us?" Julie's mouth hangs open, stunned.

I refrain from rolling my eyes. "Well, not anymore." Sorry. "I don't want to spend the next hour arguing with dad about this." It would ruin my whole day.

"There's nothing to argue about." Dad carefully bends his knees to lower into a chair, grunting with effort. "It's already decided."

Is that so? I calmly stare at him, at how he acts like he's in charge of my life.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that." I shrug, turning around to leave.

A/N
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