25 Hour Watch

Pt. 1: “Nameless”

Pt. 2: “Nightmares”

            The apartment door closed behind them with a sense of finality and Merrimac turned the lock in place. Further down the hall, inside an old storage room recently outfitted with a couple of cots, the other three would be getting ready for some shut eye. As the most rested of the security team, and the only one not present for the afternoon’s near-disaster, he had opted to take on the more arduous task of keeping track of Laine.

            At the moment, the singer moved about the room, switching on light after light until ever shadowy corner lay exposed. She paused from the kitchen doorway and looked back at him. “Do you want a cup of tea or something? There’s coffee too.”

            “Tea’s fine, thanks.” With Laine out of the room, he strode straight to the big bay window that looked out over the city toward the Pacific. Four levels below, a few cars slid along the narrow avenue and a rhinestone harnessed Chihuahua dragged his aging owner down the sidewalk. It was eerie, this one-way glass, and he wished for curtains that could block out the night, but the walls on either side of the enormous window remained bare.

            Reluctant to show discontent over what felt like a giant hole in the security of Laine’s sole sanctuary, he moved back toward the couch when he heard soft footsteps announce her return.

            Neither had said a word on the drive here; he felt hesitant about letting that extend much further. Laine looked a mess—emotionally-speaking, of course, because not a single strand of hair dared make an independent move—and she needed sleep in a bad way. From the tension in her eyes, though, he sincerely doubted she would get it tonight without a little pharmaceutical help. That option, she’d refuse point blank.

            “Thanks,” he said again as he shifted a blue-glazed mug from her grasp. Tiny finger marks suggested the stoneware was handmade, and he searched for the tell-tale initials: a stylized “LM” below the braided handle. “You made this?” he asked with some surprise.

            A faint blush raced across her cheeks, vanishing when she nodded. She switched the subject before he could say anything further. “If you don’t need anything, I’m going to get changed. Gladys should have washed the sheets on the guest bed—Kevin’s been using it the last couple of nights. Oh, but you know that. I’ll be up for a bit longer; there’s a movie on TCM that I want to catch.”

            No, she plainly did not plan on sleeping tonight. And from the uncharacteristic way she was babbling on, she really, really needed to.

            “I might join you, if that’s alright.”

            Laine actually looked relieved. “Sure. Be back in a bit.”

            Frowning, Merrimac sandwiched a coaster between the mug and coffee table, and pulled his cell phone from its belt clip. He punched in speed dial three. Briggs answered on the second ring.

            “Miss my voice already?”

            He chose to ignore that comment. “What’s the schedule look like for the morning?”

            “Thought you’d memorized the schedule. Hang on a sec.” Papers shuffled in the background. “Huh. Just breakfast with the evil manager at nine. She’s also got an appointment with her personal trainer at two, but that’s the whole shebang.”

            “Seriously?”

            “If I were gonna make something up, it’d be a helluva lot more creative.”

            Merrimac sighed. “Do me a favor and call Jensen. Cancel breakfast and if he throws a fit, give him my number and I’ll take care of it.”

            Clicking off, he clipped the phone back into place and hefted the duffle he’d dropped by the door earlier. A few steps took him inside the guest room. He set his baggage on the bed’s end. Jeans and a black tee came with him into the bathroom, where he changed and splashed lukewarm water on his face. Then he picked up his laptop and moved back into the main room. Settling himself down on the couch’s rightmost end, he sipped at his tea—something with large amounts of cinnamon—cross-checked references on every charity named in the will, and waited for Laine.

***

            Dressed down in over-sized black yoga pants and a clingy pale blue cotton tee, Jacy paused at the door, hesitant about venturing out in her equivalent of pajamas. Not that she thought Kyle would care, and she did want him to think she meant for sleep at some point—she’d hate if he felt obliged to stay up all night just because the thought of sleep scared her beyond anything she’d openly admit. She couldn’t place exactly what she thought might happen if she closed her eyes and passed out for a while, but had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with fear of not waking up again, or of another attack occurring while she wasn’t conscious enough to protect herself.

            Today’s incident was mostly her own fault; she recognized that. But she also understood that no kind of security was completely infallible, especially when pitted against a determined antagonist. She couldn’t count on anyone to protect her. Not Kevin Briggs, not Hancock, and not Kyle Merrimac.

            One deep yoga breath prepared her enough to push through the door, and she drifted down the hall and into her kitchen. Slipping a tea bag into another glazed mug, she filled it with water from the instant-boil tap. While it seeped, she threw a bag of lightly buttered popcorn into the microwave and retrieved a large ceramic bowl. Seeds sizzled and popped behind the glass barrier, the larger cracks horribly reminiscent of gunfire. Annoyed at herself, she stubbornly pushed that thought to the back of her mind, where it belonged.

            Her fleece-lined slippers crossed the hardwood floor slabs with soft tuptuptups. Kyle glanced over his shoulder as she nestled among coal-black pillows at the couch’s opposite end. She set her bowl on the cushion between them and reached for the controller.

            Classic movie marathon with the security guard. Her life was so very enviable.

            Or not.

            A local news station appeared on the HD flat screen and she paused to catch a few stories. On a practical note, it glitzed up her image whenever reporters threw out a couple of current event questions and she could answer back semi-knowledgably. When the sportscaster launched into highlights from the Kings’ game, Kyle’s gaze jerked up from his computer. She stifled a smile. That obvious interest softened his on-edge demeanor. Very few of the guys she hung around cared much about sports, other than to be seen at an occasional game.

            She tucked her now bare feet beneath her and began to change the channel—and froze. There she was on the screen, a still-frame smile with Bobashank’s arm draped around her waist. The entertainment reporter gushed on for a few seconds about how singer Jacy refused to let a little thing like attempted murder get her down, and had attended a star-studded get together at her friend’s L.A. penthouse. There was even a short video clip of Marshall, who emphasized her alleged reluctance to allow the threat of these crazed fanatics to dictate her life.

            Laine snorted softly and hit the numbers for TCM. She was more than ready for a vacation, maybe some little town in Scandinavia where no one would recognize her, and where she could escape this suffocating So-Cal heat. Both kinds.

            The opening scene of Charade had just begun, and she settled back to watch a little French boy douse Audrey Hepburn with his water gun on the ski lodge deck. Not the most exciting opening sequence, but Audrey sure could deliver those zingers. By the funeral scene, she could tell Kyle was paying more attention to the movie than his laptop. With his quick-thinking mind and attention to detail, he’d easily solve at least a few of the plot’s intricacies before the characters did.

            Since she’d seen this movie once before, Laine expected no problems with taking the plight of a widow caught in the danger-ridden whirlwind of her husband’s sudden death at pure entertainment value. Until a goon cornered Audrey in the restaurant phone booth. Laine’s body began to shake as if it were her trapped inside that small space instead of the actress.

            “Want to watch something else?” Kyle’s voice broke the spell. He didn’t bother asking if she was okay; it was obvious that she wasn’t.

            Unable to speak, she shook her head no while Cary Grant appeared onscreen to check on the heroine. Audrey’s reply would have summed up her response if Kyle had voiced the question after all: “I’m having a nervous breakdown!”

            This was too pathetic. Against every fiber of her will, she burst into tears.

            An arm wrapped around her shoulders as Kyle traded places with the popcorn bowl. Dammit, she couldn’t believe she was losing it so fast, but the sobs refused to stop. Someone freaking wanted to kill her. She was sick of pretending she didn’t care.

            Kyle kept silent, holding her steady while she soaked his shirt with tear drops. She would have felt embarrassed, except she was so damned tired. The movie droned on in the background as she fell asleep, his hand gently stroking her hair.

***

            This was maybe the most awkward position Merrimac had ever found himself in. He switched off the movie around 2 a.m., when the credits began to roll—it had been way too obvious that the Interpol agent was posing, although the stamps had thrown him a bit. Now, with his laptop discarded on the coffee table just out of reach and Laine snuggled close against his left side, he felt the dangerous tug between professionalism and making this job personal.

            He’d always taken work seriously; that was part of what made police dive work difficult for him, its success too often defined by the mere act of finding whoever had gone into the water, dead or alive. Dead never felt like success. Oh, there was a fair share of mechanic-based investigation, and water rescues always left him feeling like he’d made a difference in the world, but for him, body retrieval and worse—failed rescues—tainted the rest irrevocably.

            Still, the number one rule of any security job was to keep it impersonal. The moment emotions got involved was the moment that compromised the bottom line. If he was smart, he’d pull himself off this contract right now; get Chief to send someone else in as a replacement. The problem was he didn’t think anyone else could handle the job better.

            Not that Briggs or Mercier did inferior work—but how the hell had they let an armed man get in that close? And that wouldn’t even have been an issue if they’d insisted on the town car. Hancock had an excuse. He was the kind of muscle that kept people in line and rarely thought more than one step ahead. Maybe if Hendricks or MacMullan were available… He kind of doubted it though. First thing in the morning, he’d call Chief anyway, just to check. It was the right thing to do.

            Except Laine trusted him. None of the other security operatives had taken the initiative to get beyond her outer shell. Granted, they also hadn’t seen her drag herself up from a heap at the foot of the stage, heard her detail the safest route out of there and to take it on their own since she couldn’t do more than crawl. Celebrity status aside, most people wouldn’t have tried sending potential help to safety. Self-preservation would have held their total focus.

             Laine was different, and very much alone. She had few close friends from what he’d seen and virtually no support system. She desperately needed someone to turn to. On top of that, she was the first client he’d met since signing on with the security group that he actually liked. And she was so freaking scared. At the first glint of tears, he hadn’t stopped to think, just reacted. Instead of retreating to her room like he’d half-expected, she’d pushed closer and cried herself to sleep.

            Quitting now felt like betrayal, but how long before he crossed the line completely and upped his risk of mistake?

            With a sigh, he settled his head on the back of the couch and let his eyelids fall shut. There was no help for it, emotions be damned. He was in too deep to back out now.

***

            Laine woke to the smell of cinnamon and sugar. The sun’s rays had just barely crept far enough inside the room to strike at her pupils, and a light cream afghan covered her body. She felt better than she had in weeks, probably since before the tour began. Her motion idle, she glanced at the quartz slab clock that hung adjacent the television.

            Almost nine o’clock?!

            She tore free of the afghan and made a dash for the kitchen, where her cell phone rested in its charger. She hadn’t set an alarm, hadn’t expected to sleep. Marshall usually kept to a precise schedule, but there was a chance she could catch him before he arrived at the restaurant.

            At the arched doorway, she slammed to a halt. Kyle stood in front of the stove, dressed in jeans and a navy tee and flipping pancakes. The previous night’s events suddenly materialized in her mind. Unless she was very much mistaken, she’d fallen asleep after bawling her eyes out on his chest. If he hadn’t already thought her a certifiable nutcase, he certainly would now.

            “Morning,” he flashed a casual smile as he took in her chaotic appearance. “We went ahead and cancelled your breakfast appointment. Jansen agreed you needed the extra sleep.”

            She blinked back, her mortified blush fading away as confusion took its place. “He did?”

            “Sure,” he answered in a tone that hinted at tactics of forced persuasion. That was okay by her. A whole recovery day would get her ready for tomorrow’s charity luncheon and fashion show. The event guaranteed a packed full crowd, and every bit of mental prep time helped.

            Tentatively, she allowed a touch of relief to show through the slump of her shoulders. “Well thanks. The sleep helped and also, last night…what I mean is…you didn’t have to…and well, thanks,” she finished lamely, then looked away. She sounded like such an idiot.

            “Don’t sweat it, Laine. Now how many do you want?”

            She glanced up sharply, still surprised each time he used her name. He was the only one who ever did. But that didn’t help her understand the question. “Pardon?”

            “Pancakes. How many?”

            “Oh. Two’s fine.”

            He gave her three and slid the remaining four onto his own plate. As they sat down at the little glass breakfast table, it finally occurred to her that he had cooked her breakfast in her own kitchen.

            “You didn’t need to do this, you know.” She planted a forkful in her mouth. The morsel dissolved in a perfect twist of cinnamon, sugar, and strawberries, no syrup required.

            “Cook breakfast? We cancelled your meal, and all you’ve got around here is cereal and fruit. I hate cereal. Believe me, mixing up a little batter is the least I could do for both our sakes. How is it?”

            She nodded, hurrying to swallow her mouthful. “It’s fantastic. Where did you learn to cook?”

            He laughed. “I guess I’m not exactly a homey looking guy. I moved in with my brother for a while after his divorce, helped him out with my niece. Kids can’t live off Go-gurt and grilled cheese, and Nick’s culinary feats are barely edible at best. It was either learn or let him poison us all. He’s mastered a few of the simpler meals since then, or I’d worry more about Haley.”

            “You went back to visit them, right? How was it?”

            Kyle shrugged. If he was surprised she had remembered, it didn’t show. “Same as usual, though Haley must have grown at least an inch since I saw her last. She’s on a dinosaur kick right now. It’s pretty cute, actually.”

            Feeling the first twinges of guilt, Laine glanced down at her half-eaten pancake. She sometimes forgot what it felt like to be part of a family, to eat dinner and do things with people who cared about her—non-industry people. And she’d dragged Kyle away from that.

            “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean for you to have to fly back so soon.”

            He shifted in the brushed aluminum chair, making sure her eyes were on his before framing an answer. “First off, Laine, I didn’t have to—I wanted to. And second, none of this is your fault, you got that? If you were cutting closed door deals, or smuggling drugs or something, then yeah, maybe I’d see reason for you to blame yourself. But then if that were the case, I’d be back in Washington right now, kicking around a soccer ball with a pack of six-year old girls. You’re worth a little extra effort.”

            He talked to her like she was Laine the person, not Jacy the pop-star, and the difference pricked up tears that she swiftly blinked into oblivion. “Well I really appreciate it. Thank you. And I’ll try to be smarter about everything.”

            “What, no more walking through crowds?” he shot her a wry smile.

            Grimly, she nodded. “If I go anywhere, it’ll be well outside walking distance.”

            “I’ll hold you to that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a couple of calls to make about bringing in some extra guys. Don’t look so worried. The police have an unmarked car parked across the street and from the sound of it, they’re hacking into this fiasco with everything they’ve got, but our people will take a peek too on the off chance we pick up on something the official investigation might miss. In the meantime, did you want to keep your appointment this afternoon with that trainer? I’d rather you stay put for today, but it’s up to you.”

            Laine blinked under his scrutiny. “Then I guess I’ll call and cancel.”

            “Seriously?”

            “Well, yeah. I make this job hard enough for your team, and however it looks, I sure as heck don’t have a death wish. Camping out for a day won’t kill me.” She winced at her unintended phraseology. “I do have to attend that luncheon tomorrow, so I hope you or whoever’s coming in with me packed a suit. If not, call Marshall. His assistant will make the arrangements.”

            “Not necessary,” he brushed off the offer while pushing up easily from his seat. “We came prepared for anything your black-tie crowd throws out. And finish your pancakes. I’ll be right outside in the hallway.”

            Filled with unease, Laine watched the guard beat an almost hasty retreat from the kitchen. Something obviously nagged at him, but whether it had to do with her personally or professionally, she couldn’t quite corner it. As instructed, she forked another strawberry-laden section of pancake into her mouth.

            She didn’t want to get involved in the investigation, aside from whatever questions she could answer for the police and her hired security team. Marshall was right when he’d warned her against dwelling on the attacks; that wouldn’t do her any good.

            Leaving town? Not an option, except as a last resort. She refused to even go there right now. Nevertheless, she planned on following the security team’s instructions to the letter from now on whatever Marshall said, unless she found an extremely good reason to do otherwise. No more reckless outings, no more making herself an easy target.

            What she needed was a plan. Something to concentrate on that would keep her mind on her career and the life she’d so painstakingly established. The charity luncheon tomorrow would make a good start. She’d see about stealing a few minutes with Yellow Brick Road’s Vice-chairman Joseph Krimmer, see if the children’s charity had any projects going she could help with. In the meantime, she had that new song to practice and dance training. She’d work in some kickboxing too. Having saved her life yesterday, that was worth keeping up on.