Courage is doing what you're afraid to do. There can be no courage unless you're scared.

Eddie Rickenbacker

JENNIE

It's quiet when Mino and I get home.

Home.

I tremble at the word.

Mino helps me carry my things into the master bedroom. We work silently, hanging my clothes in a corner of the closet that I cleared of Lalisa's clothes. Other than my laptop, chargers and school stuff, I don't have much else. I left my bedding behind for Doyeon, because she's always liked my bed better. We both know it's because hers is a mess. In a week's time, my old bed will be the same way.

My stomach grumbles. The sound of it is the only familiar thing about this place. I sigh and go downstairs to make dinner. The kitchen is stocked, which is a nice surprise. Vaserley Hall doesn't have kitchens. All of the residents eat in a communal dining room that serves food buffet style. Having food whenever I want was nice at first, but I eventually got sick of the limited choices. It's nice to be able to prepare food for myself for a change.

I pull out the ingredients for a lasagna, along with a knife, a wooden cutting board and a large pot. I mince some garlic and fennel seeds, dice an onion, and chop some parsley, oregano and rosemary. I sauté the onions in olive oil and add the garlic, fennel seeds and some ground chicken. After adding the rest of the ingredients, some spices and a shit ton of red wine, I turn the stove to a simmer and wash the tomatoes out of my hands.

Mino follows me upstairs as I grab my textbook. By the time the sauce is done, I have finished most of my homework for the week at the kitchen table. I beat an egg into the ricotta cheese and add some parsley. Then, I grab a large baking dish, shredded mozzarella and some gourmet no boil lasagna noodles I find in the hidden butler's pantry. I layer the lasagna and put it into the preheated oven.

I try to finish my stats homework, the only homework I have left for the week, but fiduciary inference is kicking my ass. I push it aside, giving up, and turn my attention to Mino. He's sitting next to me at the dining room table, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes focused on the front door.

Periodically, he has been getting up to scan the room and walk around the house, probably searching for threats. It's a pointless effort, though. This place is like Fort Knox. The Secret Service can probably learn a thing or two from Lalisa and her security team.

Earlier, I passed by the security room and saw four security guards sitting in there, looking at more than a dozen flat screens filled with live, HD video of the building. There are cameras positioned at the hallways for all floors of the entire building, all around the exterior of the building, in the parking garages, and in all the public areas inside the building. I even saw some camera angles that had to be taken from the buildings across from ours.

Looking at the footage, I learned that there's a communal theater room and gym in the first floor of the building, too, but judging by how crowded the tower's gym is, I don't fault Lalisa for wanting her own. Plus, for security reasons, the only entrance into the penthouse is from the elevator in Lalisa's private garage and the emergency stairwell next to it. Both of these can only be accessed from the penthouse and from the garage.

It would be annoying to take the elevator downstairs, walk through the private garage to the residents' garage, take an elevator into the lobby, and then walk to the gym from there every time I want to work out. The walk there is enough of a workout for my lazy ass.

"How are you not bored?" I finally ask Mino after watching him scan the room with his eyes for the millionth time.

"Bored?" His brows are drawn together. "Why would I be bored?"

"Because you've been sitting there, doing nothing."

"I'm doing my job."

I sigh. "What's up with the security? I understand the heavy security at the club, but here, too?"

"The security guards at the club belong to the Romano family. Ms. Manoban never fired them when she got full ownership of Rogue. It would take too long to train new guys, and she already trusts the ones working there. Plus, the guys like it. It's much safer than a security detail at one of the other clubs would be.

"Only Ms. Manoban's personal security team has access to the VIP level of the club, this penthouse, and personal security details anyway. You can tell us apart by our ear pieces. Theirs are coiled and visible, whereas ours are skin-toned to be covert."

"Oh," I say. "Why are there so many of you?"

"There's usually not so many of us. There's about twenty-six of us in total that rotate from shift to shift. You have a night guard for when I'm not here. His name is Wilson, but if you keep regular sleeping hours and nothing bad happens, you'll probably never meet him. The guards stay in the security room at night, only leaving when they do their rounds. They never go into the bedroom, though."

"Rounds," I repeat. "Is that when you press those button things?"

I noticed that when Mino does his "rounds," he presses little buttons in each room. They're super small and the color of the walls. I wouldn't even know they're there if I didn't see him press them.

"They're another security precaution. I have a ten minute window to press them during each of my scheduled rounds. If I don't press them in time, an alert goes out to the entire team, all twenty-six of us. There are protocols for when that happens, but it never has before. It's not always me doing the rounds either. When I'm not here because I'm off shift or out with you, there's always three people in the security room. One of them does it then."

"Wow," I gasp.

I've never heard of such heavy security for one person, especially one that can take care of herself. Is all of this really necessary? She says she's not in the mob anymore, but how can I believe her when she has more security than the mayor?

I eye Mino, wondering what detail I pulled him from. "What did you do before you were assigned to me?"

"I got pulled from my old rounds in the security room to work your personal detail, so they're training a newbie right now. That's why there's four guys in the security room instead of only three."

"Only?"

"Ms. Manoban has a lot of enemies, Ms. Kim."

"Jennie," I correct, absently.

His words chill me to the core. They're yet another reminder of the dangers of knowing Lalisa. I suspect that whenever I look at Mino, I'll always be reminded of the danger I'm exposing myself to.

A part of me can't wrap my mind around the idea of a threat large enough to necessitate the existence of such heavy security. I have to assure myself that it's just a precaution for a wealthy man. That it's for her corporate enemies not the criminal ones.

I remind myself that the deal I have with Lalisa is a good one. I'll gain financial security for as long as this charade lasts, and after I graduate, I'll have my job of choice with Lalisa's letter of recommendation and connections. My thoughts flash to the rumors of Lalisa's company acquiring IllumaGen. Working there would be a dream come true.

If I'm being honest, the benefits far outweigh the cons. Lalisa has no reason to hurt me now that she knows I'm not a threat. In fact, I have a security guard to protect me! There's no way Lalisa's "enemies" can get through this insane security.

Bulletproof glass and walls? Panic buttons? Panic rooms? An armory? Twenty-six guards? Rounds every half hour? This is security suitable for the president. Plus, Lalisa is no longer involved in the Romano family business.

… Or is she?

When the lasagna is finished, I divide it into eight large pieces and plate them. I give one to each of the guards in the security room, much to their amazement, and hand a plate to Mino. By the time Lalisa gets home, I've just finished off the last of my lasagna and Mino has already nabbed one of the extra pieces. He finished that one, too.

"Damn, girl," Mino says at the same time Lalisa enters our line of sight. "You can cook."

"What'd you make?" Lalisa asks.

"Lasagna." I get up and heat the remaining piece for her, because it's technically her food anyway.

When I'm done, I set it on the place mat next to my seat. She loosens her tie and puts it on the kitchen counter before sitting down beside me. She looks exhausted, yet she still manages to appear alert. I avert my eyes as she undoes the top few buttons of her button down. Even the slightest sliver of skin is enough to tease me, so I don't let myself look.

"You never told me you can cook." She moans when she takes a bite.

I force away the dirty images her moan elicits and shrug. "One of my foster dads was a chef, and I loved to eat enough to want to learn how to make food. He ended up teaching me a lot."

I also learned how to make a lot of different cuisines from all the families I've lived with, from Peruvian to Irish food. My Vietnamese dishes are ridiculously good, too. My Bo Luc Lac is melt-in-your-mouth delicious.

Jumping from foster home to foster home is like traveling the world in so many ways. You're exposed to such a diverse group of people and get to learn from the experiences they give you. I'm not sure if I would have traded it all for a stable childhood and family, though I could certainly have done without some of the creeps.

Lalisa nods and takes another bite. The sensual way she closes her eyes and bites down sends dirty thoughts through my mind.

She swallows and turns to Mino, who takes my dish and his to the dishwasher. "You can go for the day."

Mino nods, says his goodbyes to us and the rest of the security team and leaves. When he's gone, it's just Lalisa and I in the room. After the questionnaires from this morning, I'm more comfortable around her, but she still has me on edge. So, I distract myself with my stats homework, opening up my overpriced textbook and getting to work.

I've bitten off a chunk of my No. 2 pencil by the time Lalisa asks, "What's wrong?"

I exhale deeply, reluctant to admit my failure. "I don't understand this."

She leans over, skims my work, and shrugs. "Don't beat yourself up over it. Fiduciary inference is outdated anyways. You probably won't ever use it."

"That may be, but it doesn't change the fact that I'll still be tested on it."

Lalisa stands up and places her dish in the dishwasher along with all the other dishes Mino brought back from the security room before he left. I try not to watch as Lalisa loads the dishwasher with all the kitchen utensils and dishes I used to make the lasagna. She puts soap in the machine and turns it on. It's weird watching her perform domestic acts. It's like watching a wild lion play fetch.

After she returns to the seat next to me, I'm shocked when she starts to explain the math to me. I listen, and half an hour later, I'm a proud pro at fiduciary inference. I almost wish that it's used more often.

"You should've been a teacher," I say, as I pack up my work into my backpack. I follow her up the stairs.

She pauses to think about it before shaking her head. "It never would have worked out. I don't like people, and teachers deal with a lot of them."

"So do you as a business woman."

"That's different. I'm the boss at work. I have control. Teachers don't. They answer to parents and administrators and students and the government. It makes what they do infinitely harder than what I do." She hesitates. "At least for someone like me."

I nod in understanding. I make a horrible teacher. Teaching requires skill sets that I don't possess, like patience and compassion. I have immense respect for those who can do it, mostly because I tried my hand at teaching at one of the orphanages I volunteered at in Africa. I failed miserably.

I find myself telling Lalisa, "I tried to teach once. I was at an orphanage in Djibouti. The head of the place thought it would be a good idea for me to teach English to the kids, since all of the other volunteers either spoke French or Arabic." I chuckle. "It was a disaster. I made half of the kids cry by the end of a one hour class period. They ended up moving me to the kitchens, where my only interactions with a living being were with an elderly woman who never talked to me.

"After a while, I finally had enough of her silence and demanded that she speak to me." I wince. "When she signed something back with her hands, I felt like the biggest bitch in the world. There I was, hating her for not talking to me, and she was mute the whole time. What's worse was I couldn't even understand what she was signing. It was in Somali Sign Language."

Lalisa and I are in our room now. She's taking off her clothes, getting ready to shower, but she pauses to give me a sympathetic look. "What'd you end up doing?"

I avert my eyes as she takes off her boxers and heads into the bathroom. I don't see her package, just a very, very firm backside, but I'm still breathing heavy after.

How can she be so comfortable naked?

I like my body, but I don't have the kind of body confidence she possesses. I wish I did, but I doubt most people do anyway. The world will probably be overrun by nudist colonies if that ever happens.

I clear my throat and raise my voice, so she can hear me in the bathroom. "I left."

I was ashamed of myself then, and I'm ashamed of myself now. Like I said, when things get tough, I usually run away.

"What'd you say?" Lalisa shouts from the shower.

I sigh. She turned the showerhead on and probably can't hear me over the noise. But what does she expect me to do? Go into the bathroom so she can hear? I don't even want to repeat myself, and I don't know what will come out of my mouth if I see her naked, full frontal.

"I said, 'I ran.'" I repeat, louder this time.

"Huh?"

"I ran!" I'm yelling now.

"Come again?"

"Ugh!" I curse under my breath, get up and enter the bathroom, her nudity be damned. When I see her, I don't even bother catching a glimpse of her private parts. I stare her dead in the eye and say, "I. RAN. Is that what you want to hear?! That I'm a runner? That I run from everything?"

What I see in her face staggers me. A look of understanding passes between us, but Lalisa also seems unperturbed by my outburst.

I briefly consider that she pretended not to hear me, so she could see me admit my cowardice face to face. The thought makes me angry.

I'm shaking in fury when she looks me in the eyes and says, "But you didn't run from me."

I reel back from her as if I've been slapped. She's right. I didn't run from her. Is it because I have more to lose now? A degree? A future to think about? A better option? I don't know. All I know is that I'm sick of running. I ran from foster home to foster home. I ran from Steve. I ran from one country to the next. I ran from Rogue.

But I didn't run from her.

I'm not running now. I'm dealing with my problems, acknowledging them and finding solutions. I'm trying to be a better person, and like it or not, she's been a part of that process. Even if she is both the cause of my problems and the solution.

She gives me a knowing look that would have sent me running for the hills had we not just discussed my embarrassing running habits.

"What do you expect me to say to that?" My voice is a whisper, but I'm not surprised that she hears me over the sound of the showerhead.

Her brown eyes pierce my soul. "Why aren't you running now?"

"I don't know."