I sit back in my chair, glaring at the file in front of me. “No. No way in Hell. Absolutely not. I’m never doing another celebrity case again.”
Our boss, a petite blonde woman named Colette, glares at me. “You haven’t even met the girl,” she points out.
“Don’t need to,” I say simply. “I’m not doing it.”
My partner Kenta pushes his cup of coffee across the desk. “Drink that and stop complaining,” he mutters, reaching for the cafetière to pour a new mug. He looks half-asleep, his white shirt crumpled and his long, dark hair falling around his face. As I watch, he scoops the loose strands back, tying them into a neat ponytail. I bite back a rude comment and pick up the coffee.
To be honest, I really need the caffeine. It’s five in the morning, and the rest of London’s Angel Security headquarters is silent and empty. I should still be in bed, but instead, our deranged boss called us all in for an emergency meeting.
A massive hand stretches over my shoulder and nabs the coffee cup right before it touches my lips. My other partner, Glen, heaves his huge body down into the chair on my other side. At six foot six, he can barely fit his legs under the table.
Colette glares at him. “You’re late.”
“Aye,” he agrees, taking a leisurely sip and smacking his lips. “That I am.” He runs a large-knuckled hand through his thick hair and stretches. The pink dawn light filtering through the large windows catches on his face, lighting up the mangled scar cutting down the side of his cheek.
Colette sighs and pulls out a company-issue briefing file: a black folder with the Angel Security logo embossed in gold. She flips it open, showing us an A4-sized photograph. It’s a paparazzi shot of a woman getting out of a car. Glen stiffens next to me.
“This is Briar Saint,” she says. “Twenty-eight years old. Former child star, rose to fame when she was thirteen and starred in the TV sitcom Hollywood House. Now she does blockbuster movies.”
Kenta leans forward, examining the picture. “She looks familiar.”
I nod. She does. I could swear I’ve seen her before, but I can’t put my finger on where.
I certainly doubt I’d forget her face. She’s stunning. Honey-coloured hair, soft, tight body, tanned skin. In the picture, she’s dressed in an icy white fur dress like Cruella De Ville, and her lips are painted shocking red. She’s pouting at the camera like a fashion model.
“You’ve probably seen her before,” Colette says. “She’s got a very impressive IMDb page. She’s been in ads, music videos, TV shows. Plus, the posters for her new movie are plastered all over the tube.” She flips the page, showing us a close-up headshot. I take in her high cheekbones and perfectly sculpted lips. She has the most striking eyes I’ve ever seen, a bright turquoise colour, framed with long, fluttery lashes.
The picture has probably been edited in post, I remind myself. I doubt she actually looks this good in real life. No human could.
Glen tugs the photograph closer. “What’s wrong wi’ the lass?” He asks, his Scottish accent thickened by tiredness. “Someone hasslin’ her?”
Colette shrugs, reaching into her purse for her compact. “I got a call from her PR manager an hour ago, begging for us to come and protect her client. She said it was an emergency.” She flips the mirror open and checks her lipstick.
Even though it’s the crack-ass of dawn, our boss is still perfectly turned out, in a full face of makeup and a pale pink dress that matches her nails. Just looking at her, you’d never guess this pretty, doll-sized woman has spent half of her life defusing landmines in Mozambique.
“What kind of emergency?” Kenta prods, when she doesn’t expand.
Colette sighs, snapping the mirror shut again. “She wouldn’t say. Said that it’s ‘confidential information’. She wants to meet so she can have you sign an NDA and tell you in person.”
I groan. I hate celebrities. What, does she think we’re going to sell her private details to the press? We’re a security company, for God’s sake.
Colette purses her lips. “If I had to guess, I’d say Miss Saint has found herself an enemy. Her behaviour is… controversial.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
Colette flips to a new tab full of media cuttings. My eyes widen as I take in the headlines.
Briar Saint Leaves ‘Emma’ Cast Mid-Way Through Shooting, Calls Director an ‘Absolute C*nt’.
Star Actress Briar Saint Told This Enthusiastic Fan to ‘F*ck Himself.’
Mean Girl: Ex-Friend Describes Briar Saint as a ‘Reincarnated Regina George’
Bratty Diva Briar Saint Called ‘Ungrateful, Rude, and Condescending’ By Ex-Manager.
I look up at Colette, incredulous. “You want us to work with her? She looks like a nightmare.”
“Who’s Regina George?” Glen asks. “Is she famous?”
Colette rolls her eyes.
I flip through some more press clippings, scanning over the photographs of Briar scowling at the camera. Yes, she might be beautiful, but in most of these photos, she’s sneering at the camera like she’s just smelled something bad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so openly snobby.
I glance over another article. “Hey, there’s one about her previous security guard. Apparently, she fired him a few days ago for using the bathroom whilst he was on shift,” I read. “Wow. She sounds delightful.”
Colette gives me a flat look and pulls the file back. “Matt, this is tabloid trash. There’s a good chance it’s all just made up so magazines can make money off the girl.”
“And if her security guard sold a story to a gossip rag, he was clearly shit at his job anyway,” Kenta points out.
I shake my head. “I don’t care. I told you. I’m not working for another celebrity. Especially not one with a reputation of acting like a spoiled child.”
Our last celebrity gig was a total nightmare. The girl was a seventeen-year-old Instagram model who spent all day snorting drugs and trying to stick her hands down my pants. When we finally dumped her in rehab, I swore I’d never touch another celebrity case again.
I don’t know why Colette is wasting our time with this. Glen, Kenta and I are the best-trained guys in the company. We’ve been working here for five years, ever since we got discharged from the SAS. Last month, we recovered the daughter of a British billionaire who’d been taken for ransom. The month before that, we were protecting an American presidential candidate after she got shot at a rally. We don’t work for young, spoiled celebrities, shoving back overzealous paparazzi and carrying their shopping bags through the mall.
“I think we should at least check it out,” Kenta says. “It’s only fair.”
“Me too,” Glen chips in. “It’s shitty to refuse to protect someone who’s in danger, just because of their reputation.”
I frown. “But—”
“C’mon,” Glen rumbles. “Just a preliminary meeting. Face it, you owe me.” He shoots me a crooked grin. The thick scar slashing down his cheek stretches, and guilt slams into me like a freight truck. Without meaning to, my eyes drop to his arms, taking in the matching scars around his wrists. They’re a few inches thick, raised and red. Even though we retired half a decade ago, they never really healed right. Spending months in shackles will do that.
Kenta shifts on my other side, and I can’t help but envision the scars that I know are slashed into his back. My fingernails grip hard into the wooden table as memories flood through me.
“Matt. Matt.” Glen claps a hand on my shoulder, and I blink, snapping out of it. I don’t even realise how hard I’m breathing until Colette passes me a bottle of water with a sympathetic look. I stare at it in my hands.
“I didn’t mean it like that, mate,” Glen says roughly. “I just meant, you’ve put me on the night shift for the last three jobs in a row. Not…” He pauses, redness climbing up his neck. “You know I don’t blame you for what happened.” He gestures vaguely at his face. “Neither of us do.”
I shrug him off and rub my eyes. He’s right. I owe him and Kenta. I owe them both a Hell of a lot more than this. If they want to meet the girl, we’ll meet with her.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But she better have a real damn problem.”
