Finding Lyla: Book Ten In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series Read online

  “Thanks.” Collin took a sip and let loose an appreciative groan as he savored the yeasty flavor. “Beer. American beer.”

  “It’s good to be home.”

  Collin tapped his glass against Chase’s and sipped again, grunting his response, not sure that he entirely agreed. It was good to be back from one of the Middle East’s most dangerous provinces. He and Chase had completed a successful assignment. Their principals were in one piece and the insurgents had been off wreaking havoc farther north, leaving them alone. They couldn’t have asked for a better outcome, but he sure as hell wasn’t returning with the same enthusiasm as Chase. No one was eagerly waiting for him to walk through his front door.

  Chase set down his glass. “So have you heard from Sydney?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sure I won’t. We’re through.”

  Chase nodded. “I wish I could say I’m sorry, man.”

  Collin’s gaze whipped to Chase’s in surprise. “Thanks.” He laughed humorlessly. “Jesus.”

  “You can do better.”

  He took another drink, staring out the window and checking the urge to tell one of his best buddies to fuck off. “We don’t all get the fairytale,” he muttered, trying to ignore the rush of resentment. He was happy for Chase and Julie—and the rest of his friends who were living their happily ever afters, but finding “the one” wasn’t in the cards for everyone.

  He and Sydney had a good run in the beginning. For the first six months of their relationship, life had been pretty damn close to perfect, but then everything changed—Sydney had changed—and they spent their final seven months together making each other miserable. Eventually they ended it—and tried more than a few times to patch things up, but the on-again/off-again had been too much.

  “You deserve better,” Chase said again.

  “I guess I never realized you didn’t like her.”

  “It wasn’t my place to say one way or the other.” He drank again. “If you would’ve started talking wedding rings and long-term commitments, I would’ve spoken up.”

  He traced a pattern with his thumb in the condensation on his glass. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why didn’t you like her?”

  “I’m not a big fan of the high-maintenance, bitchy type.”

  Sydney could certainly be both.

  “It was easier to shrug her off when I knew you were happy,” Chase continued, “but the day she gave you shit for helping me when Jules disappeared—”

  “She’d booked us a long weekend away. I left her hanging.”

  “Julie’s life was in danger.” Chase held up his cupped hands as if he were weighing the two options.

  “Bros before hoes?”

  “Yeah, something like that. But I was thinking more about how you were there for your friend. I can’t imagine Jules ever punishing me for doing the right thing. I needed you, and you had my back. You were by my side during one of the worst moments of my life.”

  Chase was absolutely right. And that’s why saying his final goodbye to Sydney after Julie’s ordeal had been more of a relief than heartbreaking.

  Chase drained the last of his beer. “Are you sure you don’t want to come over to the house?”

  He shook his head. “I’m good. I’m going to nurse this for a few more minutes.” He gestured to his glass.

  Chase nodded as he stood. “Invitation’s open if you change your mind.” Chase extended his hand.

  He returned his friend’s knuckle bump. “I appreciate it.”

  “See you around.”

  “See ya.” He picked up his beer, watching the seven-thirty-seven backing away from the Jetway, and pulled bills from his wallet. He set them on the bar by his half-empty glass. “Thanks,” he said to the older woman.

  “Safe travels, Honey.”

  He gave her a nod and grabbed his bag, then started down the hall toward his car, hating the idea of heading home.

  ~~~~

  Collin opened his eyes to the bright light pouring in through the window and groaned. He slammed them closed again as he pressed his fingers to his temples, waiting for his head to explode. “Son of a bitch.” He rolled to his back and slowly sat up, cautiously opening one eye and glancing down at the blue jeans and white t-shirt he still wore from yesterday.

  “Morning, Sunshine.”

  He turned his head when he heard Chase’s voice and immediately regretted the movement. “Damn it.”

  “I imagine you’ll want this.” Chase walked to where he sat, wearing a pair of black basketball shorts, and handed over a cup of coffee and a couple of pills.

  “Thanks.” He slid the Advil past his lips and chased the capsules down with the perfectly prepared brew, caring little that he was scalding his tongue. His mouth felt like he’d chewed on a wad of cotton balls, and the pounding in his head couldn’t vanish fast enough. “Thanks,” he said again, gesturing to the mug as he studied the framed photographs of Julie and Chase hanging in their cozy living room.

  “You’re welcome.” Chase sat in the plush chair across from him.

  “What the hell am I doing here?”

  “Smitty called me at two—found my number in your phone. He told me to come get your stupid, drunk ass so he could close up. That’s a direct quote, by the way.”

  He sighed as he rested his head against the cushion.

  “Jules and I drove over to the bar. She grabbed your car, and I had the pleasure of bringing you back here to tuck you in.”

  He set his cup on the coffee table and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Sorry.”

  “You’re up.”

  He looked up as Julie walked in wearing yoga pants and a snug purple top, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail. She smiled at him, the concern in her big green eyes apparent. “I am.”

  “How about some breakfast?” She handed him a plate of scrambled eggs and toast.

  “You didn’t have to make me anything.” He moved over a cushion so she could sit down.

  She shook her head at his gesture to make room for her. “You need something in your stomach. Chase got you to drink a couple glasses of water before you fell asleep, but breakfast should help too.”

  “I’m sorry.” He looked from her to Chase. “I really am.”

  She wrapped her arms around him, surrounding him with her pretty scent. “I’m worried about you.” She kissed the top of his head.

  He returned her embrace, absorbing the comfort his friend offered. “I’m fine—an idiot, but I’m fine.”

  “Eat up.” She gave him another squeeze. “And maybe think about how you’re a really great guy.” She gave his shoulder a gentle rub. “I’ll leave you guys alone.”

  He took her hand before she could walk off. “Thanks for the couch and for breakfast. Truly.”

  “You’re welcome.” She smiled at him, winked at Chase, and disappeared down the hall to the bedroom.

  Chase tipped the recliner and crossed his ankles on the footrest as he drank from his own cup. “You should’ve taken me up on my offer to come over for dinner last night.”

  He picked up the fork and sampled a small bite of the fluffy, golden eggs, hoping his stomach would behave. “I told you I didn’t want to get in your way.”

  “Jules and I had sex just fine, but we could have fed your dumbass first. I told you I was flexible about that.”

  He gave a small, brief smile, then stared at the plate in front of him. “What the hell am I doing, man?”

  “Is she really worth all this?”

  “No.” He took a bite of the lightly buttered toast. “No, she’s not.”

  “So what’s up?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know why the whole empty apartment thing is bothering me so much.”

  “She came and got her stuff?”

  He shrugged again as he met his friend’s intense stare. “I couldn’t tell you. I got in my car and headed over to Smitty’s. I thought a game of pool and another round might help.” He ate more of his breakfast, finding the simple food soothing. “Clearly it didn’t since I’m waking up here.” He sighed and set the remainder of the bread back on his plate. “This is fucking pathetic. I’m fucking pathetic. I’m crying in my beer over a relationship that was over months ago. We’ve been using each other for sex for the last few weeks, hooking up whenever one of us gets itchy—fuck buddies.” He laughed humorlessly. “Jesus, that’s pitiful.”

  “You’re just down on your luck. You’ll bounce back.”

  He shook his head. “I’m finished with this, with her. I need to get my head on straight.”

  “It’s hard to see things for what they are when your dick’s involved.”

  “She meant more than that—for a long time. I thought we were moving in the right direction.”

  “Nothing about that woman was right for you, Collin. Just give things some time.”

  He glanced toward the pictures of the happy, gorgeous couple again and looked away. “I’ve got plenty of it.”

  “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

  “Maybe it’s not.” His cell phone started ringing.

  “I’ll let you answer that.” Chase collapsed the footrest and stood, giving Collin a solid slap on the back on his way by.

  As Chase disappeared down the hall toward his soon-to-be wife, Collin glanced at the readout and answered. “Dad.”

  “You must be back in The States.”

  “We landed last night.”

  “Jet lagged?”

  He grimaced. “Not quite. I’m sure tomorrow will suck.” Although he wasn’t exactly enjoying himself right now. “How’s Hawaii?”

  “Paradise.”

  “And Luna?”

  “As beautiful as ever. She told me to tell you she’s sending posi
tive energy your way.”

  He grinned, always amused by his stepmother’s metaphysical jargon. “Tell her thanks.”

  “Will do. So how’s the empty apartment?”

  He sat back against the cushion. “I haven’t been home yet. I crashed at Chase and Julie’s.”

  “It’s nice to have good friends.”

  “I have the best.” He leaned forward and picked up his coffee, settling again as he drank, realizing he was steadying out.

  “Is that girl gone from your life for good this time?”

  And Dad cut right to the chase for once. “Looks like it.”

  “Good.”

  He winged up his eyebrows. Did no one like Sydney? “I’m glad you think so.”

  “She has a black aura—muddy with it—or Luna says so, anyway.”

  “Huh.” He smoothed down his hair when he saw that it was sticking up in short, messy spikes as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass across the room. He looked like hell. His brown eyes were bloodshot and his normally clean-shaven jaw was covered with two days’ worth of black, scruffy beard. “What’s up, Dad?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s for a friend, really—Ambassador Jonathan Avery, an old fraternity buddy of mine. I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before.”

  Collin shrugged, not recognizing the name. “Maybe.”

  “Jonathan’s in a tough spot.”

  He took another sip, enjoying the rich flavor of good coffee as his headache began to ease. “How so?”

  “His daughter’s heading over to Russia for a few weeks, and he would like someone with her—times are rough over there.”

  “If he’s an ambassador, he’ll have DSS protection.”

  “He does, but she doesn’t. Initially she canceled her plans to travel, but they appear to be back on for some dance at a fancy theater.”

  “She’s a dancer?”

  “Ballerina, I guess—like her mother was.”

  Collin rubbed at the back of his neck as he tried to piece together the details of their conversation, which were usually all over the place. “So she needs a bodyguard?”

  “Jonathan’s insisting that she needs you. He and I keep in touch. He knows your background.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Have him contact Ethan—” His phone beeped with another call. He peeked at the screen. “Ethan’s calling me now.”

  “I imagine he might be. The Averys are good people.”

  “Let me talk to Ethan, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, son.”

  “Of course.”

  “Call soon. Luna wants to speak to you. She says the ballerina has good colors—lots of reds and yellows, but some pastels too.”

  He rolled his eyes skyward. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Something about needing serenity.”

  “Dad, I have to go.”

  “There’s more—”

  “I’ll have Ethan fill me in. Bye, Dad.” He and Luna could talk metaphysics later. Disconnecting, he switched over to the other line. “Hey.”

  “Welcome back.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How do you feel about another assignment?”

  “Let me guess: Russia and a ballerina.”

  “You talked to your dad.”

  “Mostly we talked about auras, but I cut him off before he brought up chakras.”

  “What?”

  He grinned. “You don’t want to know. Trust me. So, give me the deets.”

  “Ambassador Jonathan Avery is formally requesting your presence in Russia for three weeks.”

  “What about DSS?”

  “Lyla’s not big on security. She prefers to keep things discreet.”

  “Okay.”

  “Her mother was Mina Markovik, so she’s a pretty big draw when she’s overseas.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know who that is.”

  “World-famous prima ballerina—maybe the best ever, according to Jonathan.”

  “Huh. I’m not really up on my who’s who in the ballet world.”

  “Sounds like you’re about to be. Things are hostile over there right now—lots of political tensions and anti-American sentiment, not to mention bomb threats after the detonation in Saint Petersburg a few weeks ago. Avery wants someone on his daughter unofficially.”

  “Unofficially?”

  There was a long pause.

  “How am I supposed to run close protection unofficially?”

  Ethan cleared his throat. “Jonathan thought it might be best if the public believes you and Lyla are involved.”

  Collin choked on his coffee. “Excuse me?”

  “Of course it’s just a front. Who you are and what you do needs to stay under wraps. We would take you off payroll and you would have no ties to Ethan Cooke Security until you get back.”

  “Are you firing me?”

  “Looks like it. Lyla likes to do her own thing. She’s never brought security with her before, and in her interview with Roman Akolov last week, she insisted she would carry on with her life as usual despite the issues in Russia.”

  “How does she feel about me tagging along?”

  “Jonathan says she’s agreeable.”

  “So you’re setting me up with a ballerina and paying me too. Is this legal?”

  “I’m sure somewhere it’s not.”

  He smiled. “When do I leave?”

  “You and Lyla will head over to Russia Wednesday evening, but she’s in Manhattan now. It wouldn’t hurt if you spent a couple of days getting to know each other.”

  “I’m ready to go whenever.”

  “I’ll book you another flight. For this afternoon?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Text me the information and I’ll head out.”

  “Do svidaniya.”

  “Huh?”

  “It means ‘goodbye’ in Russian.”

  “Right. Back at ya.” He hung up, slightly relieved that he’d already been reassigned. He needed to get out of here for a while and start over. He’d never been to Russia before—it would be a good way to shake things up. The whole fake relationship was a new twist. He’d seen a lot in this business, done a lot, but he’d never pretended to date a client. He shrugged. At least it would keep things interesting while he got his life back on track.

  Chapter Four

  Lyla leaped high, scissoring her legs and arching her back with the punch of dramatic flair the dance demanded of her. She soared through the air, making certain her fingers were posed perfectly, and clenched her jaw, bracing for the pain that would surely accompany her landing. Her foot made contact with the floor, and she grit her teeth, ignoring the discomfort radiating through her lower right leg as she kept moving in a series of pirouettes across the dimly lit space. She followed her sequence of energetic twirls with a smooth arabesque penchee, then raised herself up on pointe in a basic sous-sus before executing the final grand jete of the intricately choreographed piece she was determined to get right. She kicked out her legs, flying high once again, and readied herself for the agony of impact. Her toes hit the sprung floor panel and she gasped, losing control of her movement and rolling her ankle. Her momentum took her down hard, and she caught herself on her hands and knees, gasping again when small chunks of rosin cut into her palms.

  “Ow. Ow,” she panted out as she plunked herself down on her butt and closed her eyes, gripping her foot. Her chest heaved as each unsteady breath echoed in the room while the music she’d listened to a dozen times played through the speakers. Sweat trailed down her face and neck, dripping into the front of her snug, black unitard. For the last three hours she’d rehearsed, taking advantage of the mostly empty building. Her technique was still flawed, her movements too jerky, but her battered body couldn’t take anymore.

  She swiped at the drops of perspiration tickling her skin and stared at herself in the mirror, tracking her gaze down her long, muscled frame and locking on her right ankle, which was throbbing in time with the rapid beat of her heart. Her Achilles tendonitis was definitely rearing its ugly head again, and today Doctor Chu diagnosed her with a minor ankle sprain, adding yet another injury to her growing list of body woes. Doctor Chu was strongly recommending a six- to eight-week hiatus from dance to allow her leg the opportunity to heal, which was absurd and precisely why she’d sought out a diagnosis from her personal physician instead of seeing someone here on staff at the theater. Legally and ethically Doctor Chu couldn’t say anything about her current conditions—and that was exactly the way she wanted it.