Our Bodyguard|18+

Fifty-nine

Red

"Are you sure you wanna stay here?" I ask Mia for the third time because it's me who doesn't want to leave her here.

She nods softly, her warm hands covering mine over her cheeks.

"I am," she says. "I can't face Eliot. Not yet."

"It's alright," I tell her. "Silver will stay with you and I won't take long. It's just a café across the block; you need me, just call and I'll run back to you."

She chuckles. "Just go, Red! I'll be fine," she utters with confidence, and I think I believe her now.

"Okay," I breathe. "We're leaving tonight so get some rest while at it."

"Aye, aye, Captain. Just give me this"—she manages to steal my gun from the pocket of my jeans—"and I'll be good."

"Mia—"

"I know how the safety works now," she interrupts.

A small frown flits on my face. "And you're Gal Gadot? I only taught you about it an hour ago, Mia." I can't help but laugh.

"Gal Gadot is sexy. Why not?" she replies in a coquettish tone of voice, her eyes devouring my manly patience so intently. I nearly go hard until he says, "I need it for precaution, Mr. Hunter. Now go!" She pulls the ammo almost expertly as she's checking the rounds left in the cartridge, her eyes on me.

"Okay." I pull myself together by expelling a long breath. "Anything I can bring for you? Anything but the pie only your Abuela can make?" I take caution because that's exactly what she said she wanted to eat today.

She burst into laughter.

"Something sour, please. Pickles with olive potato chips will do." She jabs the magazine back, pinches her one eye shut, and then points the gun at me. "Boom," she whispers.

My eyebrows harden but all I manage to say is "Okay stop being crazy," and walk over to kiss her temple before taking my leave.

Kenna and I find Eliot at a small speakeasy café not farther from our logging. Incased with warmth, probably from the burning woods on the fireplace, the inside is the opposite of the snow-capped rooftop outside. A few folks are having the usual, picking and ordering their coffees and bread while adjusting their winter gear—scarves, fur coats, and gloves.

A booth with an entrance view is where the young Kingston is. He waves and we waltz over, the emotions between us anything but joyous. I get why Mia didn't want to meet him; he doesn't look well even at first glance. He smiles, however, and gives us a gladdened gesture as though we somehow share part of his pain or whatever the hell he is feeling right now.

"How is Mia?" he asks.

"Hanging on. She's traumatized," I reply matter-of-factly. He nods gently, assessing the answer with calmness. "Did you see him?" I ask about his father's body.

He nods again, sadly. "We're doing arrangements to transport him back to Portland. We'll cremate him. The sooner the better," he answers, his hands resting around his steamed coffee mug like a scared little boy.

Dread and sadness seem to eat him alive deep within, but he's still strong-willed, I imagine. He's hurt but barely remorseful. I'm slightly amazed but I understand him too well to dwell. He was fully aware of the retribution his actions or reactions toward his father's legacy were to be, and that's why he is who he is right now.

"My mother is a mess. I told her it was an accident but she thinks you killed him," he says with a laugh full of pity, but I'm sure it's anyone but me. "She was sick. Her obsession over my father was sick and maybe now she'll get better, who knows?"