Quiet Protector: Brandon's Story Page 2

  I’m still lost as to why Joey smelled like Brandon the night of his summer party. We hung out only minutes earlier. The drinks he’d been downing before I arrived were clear on his breath, yet, I didn’t detect an ounce of alcohol in the air when he slid into Brandon’s bed. All I could smell was Brandon’s aftershave. That’s why I wrongly believed I was safe.

  I guess Joey could have put it on to deceive me. In all honesty, that makes his switch in personality even more confronting. If he went to the effort to make himself appear to be Brandon, that means his assault was premeditated. That’s so much worse than believing he had read my friendliness in the wrong manner. It breaks my heart believing he purposely set out to hurt me. We were close. He was my friend. I loved him even before he was given my daddy’s heart, so why did he do what he did?

  When tears prick in my eyes, I shift my head high and to the right to ensure Julian doesn’t see the sheen threatening to spill down my cheeks. My sudden shift in visual has me stumbling onto Katarina being ushered into the backseat of a pimped-out SUV. Her protective detail isn’t surprising. Not even Henry’s suffocating presence stopped men eyeballing her with desire, however, the man guiding her into the four-wheel drive most certainly raises suspicion. I can’t see his face, but not even his tall height, bald head, and massive biceps are behind the massive spike in my heart rate. It’s his unique neck tattoo. I’ve seen it twice in my life. Both times it was on dead men.

  2

  Brandon

  My heart thuds against my chest as I stare down at a tiny slip of paper sitting solemnly on my dining room table. Half of me wants to snatch it up in an instant, whereas the other half wants to throw it into the fireplace with the hope the still-warm ash will ignite it as well as it set ablaze my panic. My fireplace usually gives my home a welcoming vibe, but all it’s doing today is making the conditions extra muggy. I’m so hot, I am five seconds from ripping off my shirt, and we’re tiptoeing toward December.

  My eyes dart to Phillipa when she asks, “Shall I, or would you like the honor?”

  I snatch up the paper, answering her question without words. Melody isn’t technically mine anymore, but her safety is most certainly my responsibility, and I don’t give a fuck if her fiancé believes otherwise.

  My hands shake like I’m in the middle of a snowfield without gloves when I unfold the thin slip of paper. Even only being partially opened can’t hide the single string of text scrawled across the middle. The handwritten black ink is similar to the script on the note Tobias handed me over a year ago, but it’s a fourteen-digit number instead of the filing code I didn’t want to discover.

  I flop back my head and lock my eyes to the ceiling, relieved it’s nothing close to the coding system Tobias used for his private files. Although I could swear on Joey’s grave, I’ve seen a set of similar numbers before.

  Mere days ago.

  When recollection dawns on its familiarity, I head to my soft leather briefcase I dumped on the entryway table when I arrived home twenty minutes ago like I had a rocket strapped to my back. Phillipa watches me with wide, curious eyes when I tug out a similar-size scrap of paper from my briefcase. The handwriting is different, and this sequence of numbers was written with a blue pen, but the similarities between the numbers reveal a pattern, and it has my stomach twisted up in knots.

  “For every check written, two check digits, a bank identifier, a branch identifier, and part of an account number is imprinted on the bottom. Is it the same with wire transfer payments?”

  Phillipa looks lost to where I’m going, but she nods her head, nonetheless. “If they used the same bank and branch, you’d have similar digits on the transfer receipt, but the account number would be different.” She gasps in a sharp breath when I place down the two sheets of paper side by side. “They’re almost identical.” Her eyes lift to mine. “Is that the number Alex pried out of Albert Thursday afternoon?” Her eyes widen when my chin balances on my chest. “But there are decades between transfers. The date on Albert’s transfer reveals it only occurred this week. It was a down payment for something no amount of grappling had him disclosing, but the code on the Greggs’ file is from twenty-two years ago.”

  The shock on her face slips away for annoyance when I mutter, “It isn’t just legitimate businesses that have return customers, Phillipa.”

  Her face screws up. She appears utterly confused. “What do you mean? You need to spell it out for me, Brandon. I’m hormonal and five seconds from chewing off my arm in hunger, so my brain is beyond fried right now.”

  Trust isn’t something I give easily, and tonight isn’t any different. My next set of words don’t just come out garbled, they’re also brimming with distrust. “Did you make copies of the files I requested?” When Phillipa jerks up her chin, I ask, “Even Ophelia Petretti’s?”

  Her chest rises and falls four times before she pulls a third file out of her leather briefcase. This one is thicker than the Greggs’ file. It’s even bulgier than Isabelle’s.

  “Did you comb through it?” The instant I voice my question, I realize how stupid it was for me to ask. Phillipa’s rant only minutes ago exposes she read Ophelia’s file, otherwise, how would she know about Ophelia’s bogus claims I used my position to instigate a sexual favor. “Did you find a wire transfer receipt inside?”

  Phillipa’s brows furrow before she shakes her head. “But that doesn’t surprise you, does it? She wasn’t sold, more removed from her situation, so her file wouldn’t have a receipt for us to source similarities from.”

  With her honesty feeding my trust, I pace to an oil painting hanging above my fireplace. Phillipa groans when the removal of the painting from the wall reveals a hidden safe. “That’s the first place thieves look.”

  My laugh comes out super breathy since I tried to hold it in. “That’s the point. As soon as light is captured by the digital retina in the touchpad, an inbuilt camera commences recording. The footage is uploaded to both the security company’s servers and is streamed live to my phone.”

  Phillipa joins me at the wall that divides my dining room from my living space. “There’s a camera in there?” When I nod, she asks, “Where? That’s got to be the world’s smallest lens.” After stepping back, she waves her hand across her body then strays her eyes to my phone that commenced streaming a live feed the instant the painting was inched away from the wall. “It’s tiny but effective. I can see my crow’s feet from here.” She’s clearly joking. Although she is a handful of years older than me, she doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.

  While Phillipa lady-boners over my state-of-the-art security system, I punch a six-digit code into the digital touchpad, push aside my personal weapon, bundles of emergency cash, and a shoebox full of photos and memorabilia I can’t give up no matter how hard I try so I can grab a bright pink envelope from the very back. The greeting on the front of the envelope reveals it doesn’t belong to me, much less the tiny slip of paper inside it.

  I didn’t buy Isabelle, but Tobias most certainly did, and he kept a record of his purchase.

  I’m reasonably sure I won’t eat for a week when I dig out the slip of paper from the envelope. The number sequence scrawled across it is a sixty percent match to the one Alex handed me. The only difference is the numbers that most likely correspond with the account the money was being withdrawn from. It abundantly proves Isaac is purchasing something significant from the Popovs. I just need to determine whether it’s upstanding like the purchase Tobias made or something much more sinister.

  Many hours later, I fan a bedspread over Phillipa before heading to my room. We worked through both lunch and dinner, yet we’ve barely made a dent in the stack of wire transfer receipts Phillipa returned from Tiburon with. The angle Tobias was working is clear, each transfer appears to be an exchange of money between the Popovs, Bobrovs, and Petrettis. We just have no clue exactly what they purchased.

  If it were children like Isabelle, this is worse than anyone could have imagined. Several o
f the receipts have the same transfer identity imprint as the wire transfer receipt in Isabelle’s file, but without knowing the name of the child who could have been sold, we have no clue what their files are coded with.

  We could scrounge through the thousands upon thousands of files in Tobias’s personal collection, but that would take months.

  We don’t have months.

  Phillipa disclosed Isaac’s payment was a down payment. That means there’s more to come. Furthermore, I can’t live like this for months on end. I love cheese pizza and tomato soup, second only to peanut butter licked off Melody’s skin, it’s my favorite combination, but I barely touched it when it was delivered fresh. I didn’t even reheat a slice when Phillipa’s hungry stomach got the better of her four hours ago, meaning I’m once again going to bed with a tablespoon of peanut butter hanging out of my mouth.

  It’s the only thing that didn’t make my stomach churn when placed within an inch of my nose. It had quite the opposite effect, actually. I told Melody I’d never make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without getting hard. I should have said I’d never eat peanut butter again without testing the durability of the zipper in my pants. Just the smell of peanut butter mingling in the air gets me hard.

  Eager to stop my zipper’s nasty bite on my cock, I suck off the remainder of the peanut butter from the spoon, dump it and the jar of peanut butter onto my bedside table before making my way to my walk-in closet to change into something more suitable for sleeping.

  When I catch sight of my white face, black-rimmed eyes, and cracked lips while standing in front of the full-length mirror, I’m tempted to snap a selfie and send it to Alex. He wouldn’t need to demand a doctor’s certificate if he could see what I’m seeing. The black rims circling my eyes give my skin a ghost-like appearance, and we won’t mention my slouching shoulders, or we’ll be here all night.

  Once I’m dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a plain white shirt, I head to bed. My steps slow when I notice my iPhone screen is lit up with a text message. It’s so late, Agent Phillipa crashed on me like Isabelle did weeks ago, but not nearly early enough for my mom to remind me that the best days begin when the sun is rising.

  Curious, I check who the message is from before crawling into bed. I’m tired, but I can’t take an ounce more curiosity.

  My pulse spikes when I speed-read the message.

  Unknown number: Hey, BJ. Are you awake?

  I cross my room at the speed of lightning to check Phillipa is still asleep on the couch. Her faint snores are authentic, but she’s the only female in a very long time who has called me BJ at this hour.

  When I find Phillipa snuggled under my bedspread, I type out a reply to my mystery caller while pacing back to my semi-naked bed. I only have one blanket, and that’s keeping Phillipa warm.

  Me: I am. Who’s this?

  It feels like the planet circles the sun a million times while waiting for the three-dash message sequence to be replaced with a text.

  For how long it takes, I expected more than a five-word response.

  Unknown number: It’s Melody. Can we talk?

  As my eyes stray to my partially cracked opened door, my heart beats out a tune I haven’t heard in years. Don’t ask me why I’m checking if the coast is clear. Your guess on my weirdness of late would be as good as mine. I’ve barely felt myself the past seven years.

  Me: Okay.

  What? I’m on the verge of coronary failure, so it was either send a one-word text or collapse. I chose the one that wouldn’t have the coroner snapping off my cock when he loads me into the back of his van. I have peanut butter on my lips, and the girl who turned my love into an obsession is asking if we can talk at three in the morning. A monster dick is understandable.

  The situation in my pants grows worse when the message screen on my phone is replaced with an incoming FaceTime call. I tilt my head to the side to check Phillipa is still snoring before hitting the connect button. With my room bare of another place to sit, I rest my back on the wall my mattress is pushed up against before dragging across a second pillow to cover my crotch. I’m wearing sweatpants. The imprint of my dick is very noticeable.

  Have you ever had a moment where you can neither speak nor move? That’s what happens to me the instant my dodgy internet finally connects. Excluding the newspaper articles I regularly scanned for her pictures and the ones Phillipa gave me late last week, I haven’t seen Melody’s face in years. She’s even more beautiful than I remembered. Her looks have matured, but just like her jump from adolescence to womanhood benefited her, so has the past seven years of adulthood.

  From the way the screen of her phone illuminates her face, it’s obvious she’s sitting in a dark room. Not even the dingiest conditions could hide her gorgeous face, tulip-shaped nose, and bright brown eyes that are twinkling despite a small bout of wetness flooding them, though.

  “Hi, BJ,” Melody signs through watering eyes.

  “Hi.” I want to say more, but I’m truly and utterly speechless. Usually, I speak while signing, but I can’t even manage that this time around.

  “I am sorry for the late hour—”

  “It is fine. I was awake,” I interrupt. “Are you okay?”

  The quick bob of her chin lowers my heart rate miraculously fast. “I need a favor?”

  “Anything,” I reply without pause for thought. She helped me when I reached out to her a few months ago, so the least I can do is return the favor.

  Who am I kidding? Even if she hadn’t secured Marjorie’s file for me, I still wouldn’t have said no to her. I was trained to obey, protect, serve, and honor her. Years of silence didn’t change that. It just taught me to ensure the person I’m helping is worthy of my assistance. Melody cheated on me, but Grayson is right. She made a mistake—once—so it’s time to let bygones be bygones.

  “What do you need?” Conscious not to wake Phillipa, I only sign my question instead of speaking it as well. Melody doesn’t seem to mind. Just as much silence is resonating from her side of the conversation as mine. I can’t even hear the annoying tick of the antique clock she keeps on her bedside table. It’s one of those old wind-up styles. It ticked all damn night when I had sleepovers at her house when we were kids, so you can imagine how mortified I was when she packed it when we left for college.

  Mercifully, Melody exhausted me to the point of being near-comatose the weekends we spent at her dorm, so it didn’t keep me awake like it did in our youth.

  The only good thing that could have come out of Melody’s dorm fire was discovering that frustrating time contraption had been destroyed by flames. Alas, nothing ever comes easy for me. The damn thing survived with only a handful of scorch marks.

  Although I can’t testify that Melody packed her clock when she left for Cali all those years ago, but since its annoying tick couldn’t be blamed for my lagging sleep schedule the following six months, I’d say she did.

  After glancing up and to the left, Melody returns her eyes to mine. “I was hoping you could help me identify someone.” When my head bobs, she continues, “I only have a photo to go off. It is grainy, but I figured you would—”

  “Grainy is fine. Grainy works. Can you send it to me?”

  Smiling, she nods. My phone dings two seconds later. This will make me sound like a sucker, but it takes me a good three seconds to log out of my FaceTime app to open up my messages. I don’t want Melody to disappear again, even with this feeling more like a business call than a personal one.

  I’m anticipating for the person in Melody’s photo to match the man from Phillipa’s surveillance images. I’m proven wrong when my eyes drink in a blurry image of a large bald man standing next to a dark four-wheel drive. His biceps are the size of bowling balls, and he is a good two heads taller than the raven-haired woman he’s guiding into the back seat.

  Once I’m confident I’ve taken in the photo with due diligence and wiped the riled expression from my face, I reopen my FaceTime screen. Melody is there, patie
ntly waiting for me with her lower lip caught between her teeth. Even in the tense circumstances, the visual of her chewing on her lip sends blood rushing to my cock. She’s always been undeniably beautiful, and tired, panicked eyes can’t detract from that.

  Recalling the reason for her uneasy gaze, I ask, “Who is this man?”

  Melody’s dirty blonde brow pops up high on her face. “I was hoping you could tell me that. That is why I reached out.”

  I scrub my hand along the scruff on my jaw, hoping it will conceal my lips when they respond to the smugness on her face. “Smart-ass.”

  Guilt for making light of the situation smacks into me when Melody’s playful chew of her bottom lip turns lethal. She bites down hard as she fights with all her might to trap the sob I see in her eyes in her throat.

  “I am sorry. It is late. I am being an ass.”

  She drags a hand across her wet cheeks before assuring me I have nothing to apologize about. “It was not what you said. It was hear—”

  She stops signing when a male voice joins our voiceless conversation. “Mel, what are you doing hiding out in the living room? Come back to bed, baby. It’s cold without you.”

  For the first time in my life, I dislike the taste of peanut butter in my mouth. It isn’t just the guilty expression on Melody’s face that has me regretting my dinner selection, it’s the image of a man wearing nothing but a pair of sleeping pants in the top righthand corner of Melody’s screen. The lamp behind him shows he’s standing in front of a rumpled bed.

  My eyes shoot back to Melody’s face when I spot her signing in the corner of my eye. “I have to go, BJ. Can I call you tomorrow?”

  With how hard sick, morbid jealousy is hitting me, I should say no, but for some fucked-up reason, I dip my chin instead.