best. Too competitive. My last fight was a good win. I was the underdog. Everyone expected me to get my ass handed to me. Instead, I nailed a quick, clean knockout in under thirty seconds. So I figured I’d go out on a high note, you know?”
“Wow.” But because she didn’t know, she asked, “That’s fast, right?”
He laughed. “Yeah. Usually we go three five-minute rounds. Championship fights are five five-minute rounds.” He shifted, popped his neck, then admitted, “Nine times out of ten, he’d have beaten me. But he shot in, I threw a punch and pow, he went down for the count.”
“I’d say there’s luck, and then there’s being ready. Clearly you took advantage of an opportunity. You were prepared and you did what you needed to do, when you needed to do it.”
Grinning, he patted her knee again. “Yeah, that’s how I tell it, too.”
“Do you still train?”
“Sure. Once a gym rat, always a gym rat. But now I can eat burgers when I want.” He patted his flat abdomen. “And drink an occasional beer.”
Absurd for him to pretend he had any fat on his body. From what Fallon could tell, he was muscle layered on muscle. But given it was probably a somewhat new occurrence, she was ridiculously pleased that he’d drunk a beer with her.
“On top of being competitive, I like a challenge. Let me tell you, this gig is real challenging. Hell, every day I learn something new. Another fighter friend, Leese Phelps, was the first to cut out for personal security. He sort of paved the way.” With another cocky grin, Justice added, “I still get to be a badass and have some interesting assignments. As a bonus, I get to carry a gun.”
Startled, she asked, “You’re carrying a gun?”
He gave her a “duh” look. “You thought I wouldn’t?”
“I never thought about it either way.” She looked him over, but didn’t see—
“Want to see for yourself, huh?” He leaned forward a little, lifted his T-shirt and showed her a black automatic in a holster connected to his belt, situated at the small of his back.
It took her a second to find her voice. Justice had just flashed a swath of firm skin and muscle, and the waistband of black boxers riding low on his hips. Temperature rising, Fallon asked in a whisper, “Have you ever shot anyone?”
“Not so far, no.” As he pulled up to a stoplight, he turned to look at her. “But I would if necessary.”
She believed him.
Then he flashed another grin, flexed his arms to make massive muscles pop in his biceps. “But with guns like these, it’s usually not necessary.”
Fallon felt like fanning her face. Good Lord, he looked fine. Needing another switch, she said, “I’m sorry I’m not a more interesting assignment.”
“You fit that ‘challenge’ part, and that keeps it interesting.”
Before she could ask him what he meant, the light changed and he moved his foot off the brake.
“Before you,” he said, “I worked with Mark Stricker.”
Her jaw loosened. “The movie star?”
“Yeah. Let me tell you—that was interesting. Did you know he’s, like, five-two?”
“Really? I thought he was taller.”
“Me, too.”
“In movies, he looks to be at least six feet tall.”
“Yeah, but it’s a trick. They put him on a platform when he’s next to the taller female actors. Crazy, huh?”
“Fascinating.” Curious why he’d been assigned to Stricker, she asked, “Was he in danger?”
“Nah. Mostly I helped him train for a new role as a fighter. But there were also times I had to keep the rabid fans away. I can’t talk about it much. The deets on the film are still hush-hush.”
“Okay, sorry.” When he again checked his mirrors, Fallon huffed a breath. “Is there a problem, Justice?”
“What do you mean?”
“You keep checking behind us like you’re expecting trouble.”
“It’s my job to expect trouble.”
She started to relax...
Until he added, “Especially when we’re being followed.”
FALLON LOOKED SO STARTLED, Justice decided to distract her. “Tell me about your job now.”
She twisted to stare out the rear window. “Justice—”
“Fair’s fair. I answered your questions.”
Glaring at him, she asked, “Who’s following us?”
“Don’t know. I’m willing to bet it’s Marcus, though.”
For a few seconds, she just stared at him—then laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” But she looked again. “Can you see his car?”
“No.”
She relaxed back in her seat. “How do you know we’re being followed?”
“I know.” He took another look in the mirror before leaving the road and pulling into a restaurant lot.
“This is it?” she asked, sounding disappointed by the updated, casual, mom-and-pop diner.
“No.” Justice did a U-turn in the lot to face the road, turned off the headlights and waited.
Fallon appeared to be holding her breath, so without taking his gaze off the road, Justice said, “Relax. You’re fine.”
In reply, she wrapped her arms around herself.
Justice wanted to comfort her but he’d already crossed too many lines. If he kept it up, he’d deserve to be canned.
A car drove past. A few trucks. And then he saw the fancy sports car.
Fallon seemed unaware as she stared through the windshield.
Was she afraid of Marcus? If so, that was reason enough for Justice to confront him. For some reason—crazy as it might be—he was itching to pulverize the guy.
After the slick black car sped past, Justice asked, “Does Marcus have a Corvette?”
“What?” Drawn from her thoughts, she shook her head. “No—or at least I don’t think so. He’s more a BMW or Mercedes type of man.”
“I
