Surprise-surpriiiise, it's an EPOV!

Thank you Lara :)

MASEN
Chapter 7.

Something feels off. About her, about this job, about this house that doesn't have a soul.

Mrs. Anderson is nothing if not beautiful but she seems…off. She's got that vacant expression in her eyes as if she's miles away, a smile that seems etched into place. It falls when she thinks you're not looking, like now. She looks…beautifully broken.

This job isn't what I'm used to. Even though I haven't been doing this for a very long time. I let Carl talk me into it when I came back, said he had a lot of ex-military guys, ex-cops working for him. I guess I like it in the end.

I like the anonymity, the level of safety I'm in and the fact that most people don't get shot in the head in this life while you're standing right next to them.

The first two clients I was set up with after I got out were so different than this. Worlds apart.

My first one was a fucking party girl—a socialite wannabe with a rich daddy who wanted daughter dearest to be accompanied when she went out. At least then he wouldn't feel as bad about leaving his eighteen-year-old in a foreign big city while he wined, dined and probably sixty-nine'd his secretary.

I'm glad I didn't grow up rich. It used to be different for me but now, not having grown up with the burden of money is the best thing that's ever happened to me. Of course it led to me skipping college because we couldn't afford it. But I wouldn't be the same man I am today if I hadn't.

I couldn't keep working for that family after Miss Underage Drinking peeled her clothes off in the middle of her building's foyer and demanded I fuck her.

No.

Just no.

The second job Carl set me up with was incredibly satisfying. I was assigned to an elderly gentleman, a guy worth millions upon millions, his private bank listed as one of the most prestigious in the whole world. We flew all over the world, and his second home was in the Cayman Islands. While he was inside of his house—compound really, I was free to roam the island, free to do as I pleased as the armed guards and house staff took over. It was the best place work ever took me. Vibrant ocean, fresh seafood, getting away from my head, my memories. But all good things end far too soon. I know that. Life's final destination, death, forced me to part ways with that man.

Unfortunately.

This time around, I get saddled up with the cryptic Mayor of San Jose and his wife.

I thought the man himself would be my client, but no. He wants me to 'keep an eye on Mrs. Anderson' and keep her safe. I wonder what that's about. I have her schedule synchronized on my phone, and that hardly seems risky enough to hire a security guard. There's nothing special except for charities, volunteering and high-society events . Then again, he hasn't told me much about his reasons to hire me, hasn't said much at all, so I'm to shut up and do what I'm paid for.

Serve and protect.

A shiver runs down my spine at that thought, the smell of sweat and dirt filling my headspace. I see nothing but flashes of beige and the hot yellow sun that's so strong it could give you blisters. It's like I can feel the sand in my boots, the friction between leather and thick socks horrifyingly irritating. It's sent me to the infirmary more than once, as if I was running the Marathon des Sables and torturing myself by choice.

"A—are you okay?" Her voice is small, swallowed by insecurity as she fumbles with the sleeves of her dress, eyes ridiculously big and a rich brown that reminds me of acorns, yet when the sun hits her gaze, they shimmer in the shade of my mother's homemade iced tea she used to make in Texas summers. The perfect way to cool down. I can almost taste the lemon and sugar on my tongue, can almost smell my mom's perfume, jasmine, and ripe berries.

I realize we've been sitting in the car for a little too long, engine running, parked in between a Subaru and a brand-new Nissan.

Those damn flashbacks will be the end of my sanity.

I scratch my neck, the collar of this black shirt ridiculously stiff, making me feel claustrophobic. The fact that I can't even wear my regular uniform, provided by Carl, makes me wonder what else is up with this Alistair Anderson. Of course, I've had to wear a suit for formal functions, but most clients like you in casual clothing. Blending in while you're in plain sight. This suit didn't make me blend in, not in the slightest. It's black, with designer tags that make me wonder just how loaded Mr. Mayor is and why he wants to dress his security detail in decadent designers. It came with a jacket, the entire outfit in a garment bag on my door handle, a note taped onto the shiny, cream shoebox.

Your attire, Mr. Masen. —Alistair

It made me want to roll my eyes.

I look over at my client again, the corners of her mouth tipped down slightly, her eyes losing that life a little. I don't know why, but I feel like she's hiding something. The skin underneath her eyes is powdered heavily, and it looks like she's been crying, red rims violently screaming against her pale complexion and thick black lashes.

She doesn't talk much, so I bet I won't even find out what's bothering her.

I've learned not to care too much about those who don't bother to ask for help.

"You can't save everyone, Masen." The General's words continue to dance inside my head like a rogue ballerina.

"You better not stall any longer, Mrs. Anderson. Or you'll lose your appointment," I state.

I turn off the car and get out, patting my pockets only to find out I left my cigarettes in my room.

Fuck.

"Something wrong?" Her timid voice strikes again and I realize I must've said that out loud.

She's by the trunk of the black Jeep—the car I was told to use, head tilted to the side, eyes of caramel and honey staring up at me, questioning.

I haven't answered her earlier, so I might as well give her some words in response.

Politeness and all.

"Left my smokes at the manor by accident."

Mrs. Anderson chuckles, her mood changing like the weather. If it was heavily overcast before, the clouds have shifted and made way for a rainbow, her smile shining through watery eyes.

"You're in luck. Rosalie is a smoker. I'm sure she'll let you have, borrow, bum, whatever you call it, one of hers," she says, fingertips curling around the strap of her bag as if she's choking the leather.

"Great," I mutter. Now I'll have to go inside the salon.

I follow the black fabric that flutters around her legs across the street.

The sun beats down on my back, my head, and fuck, it's incredibly hot in this ridiculous get-up. I've had worse, for sure, but I'm not in the desert anymore with an over forty-pounds backpack.

No, I'm in downtown San Jose with baggage no one can even see.