Codename: Kryptonite

Chapter Twenty-one

Agent Mission Log Entry:

I'm aware there is a big gap in my reports. I haven't provided a report because there hasn't been anything 'report worthy' going on.

POTUS and I have fallen into a routine. For a little over two weeks now, we've been doing the same thing everyday. He does his thing, and I do mine.

His thing mostly consists of gym in the morning, then on to phone calls and/or meetings. His afternoons and early evenings are spent with Richie, whether in a studio or kicked back in the den, both with guitars across their laps, working on their latest project. POTUS is very excited about this one, even pulling a couple all-nighters when they were on a roll.

My thing is guarding him. I've spent the last five years of my life guarding this man's, and I've learned how to be unobtrusive and out of the way while doing it. But this is different.

I'm bored out of my mind!

At this point, I'd be willing to pay the assassin to make a move - just to add some excitement to my life.

"Why don't you just fuck her and get it over with?"

Jon's head snapped around, taking his eyes off the door Gabriella had just exited through to stare blankly at Richie. "I don't know what you're talking about."

A little 'huh' escaped Richie's mouth as he shook his shaggy head. "Really? You haven't tried that shit in years." At Jon's raised eyebrow, he answered the unspoken question. "Lying to me." He stressed the last word.

Jon pretended to ignore his friend, turning to scratch out something in the little notebook that lay open next to him on the sofa.

Richie waited until Jon put the pencil back down and started strumming the opening notes of Lay Your Hands on Me, at least the re-vamped version they'd been working on. "Kidd, I've watched this thing," he stressed the word thing to indicate he wasn't sure what else to call it, "go on for 17 days now." He paused meaningfully, then repeated, "17 days, Jon." His only answer was more strumming. "Studio, here, where-the-fuck-ever, you can't take your eyes off her. You watch her leave the room, every damn time she goes to do a 'perimeter check'," he made air quotes around the words. "And, you don't get shit done til she's back in the room."

More strumming.

"So, you're either showing off," he paused, waiting on the expected glacial glare. There it was. "Or, you want to fuck her."

Jon's strumming continued, but he did shrug one shoulder.

"And, she's sleeping in your room," Richie knew he was pushing too hard, but sometimes you had to with Jon. The lead singer's head snapped up so that he could glare at him again. "What?" Richie shrugged. "It's my home too. I notice things." His fingers started to dance across the guitar in his lap, picking out the same tune as Jon. Several seconds passed by with just the gentle sounds of acoustic guitars in the room.

"So, is she sleeping in your bed, or not?"

Jon's strumming stopped, as he flopped back against the sofa. He ran one hand through his hair. Sometimes Rich was like a fucking Doberman with a bone. "On the love seat. If she was sleeping in my bed, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"You call this a conversation?" Richie grinned devilishly.

"Fuck off, asshole," Jon growled, just as Gabriella came back into the room. Richie watched as an immediate change washed over his friend. He sat back up, the frown around his eyes softened, and the growl left his voice when he asked, "Everything okay?"

Gabriella nodded and began to idly pace the perimeter of the room. It never failed; she always felt like she was walking in on some sort of top secret con-fab whenever these two men were left alone in a room together. For 17 days, she'd seen how well they worked together, how well they got along, how close they were. They were brothers. She got that now.

Now, she understood.

Richie's muttered words drew her gaze to him. "17 fucking days, Jon."

"Shut the fuck up, Rich," Jon growled.

Gabriella continued to pace. Maybe if she remained silent, they'd forget she was there and continue their conversation. She wasn't stupid; she knew what happened 17 days ago, and that they had been talking about her.

Jon started strumming his guitar. Strange that she could tell it was him even with her back to the two of them. She moved to stand to the side of one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows in the room. Both of them were great guitarists, but with Jon there was a certain amount of technical expertise, and Richie's playing was all heart and soul.

A full minute went by before Richie's bluesy guitar joined Jon's. She was still scanning the rooftops of the building across the street when Jon began to sing, but it was really more of a growl. She was trying to ignore her body's reaction to the huskily growled phrase 'Your satisfaction is guaranteed', when out of the corner of her eye she saw movement on the roof at her ten o'clock. Her head swiveled back in time to catch a man running hunched over. He was moving quickly toward the outer edge of the rooftop. With lightening fast speed, Gabriella dropped the curtain, and pulled her gun in one smooth move, even as she headed for the door. As she crossed the room, she ordered in a no-nonsense tone, "Don't answer the door, stay in the apartment, and for fuck's sake," her eyes met Jon's as she paused at the door, "stay away from the fucking windows."

Before walking out the door, she chambered a round in her Sig. The rasp and click filled the now silent room, before the door slammed behind her.

"God, that's fucking hot," Jon groaned.

"17 fucking days, Jon," Richie replied with a smirk.

"Why don't you go have a look out that window, Asshole?"