Bulletproof - Xavier Neal Page 0,23
had nothing to do with Brandon, and everything to do with me.
Guess that’s my twin doing the “big brother” thing I secretly love that he does.
Who knew sixty seconds would make such a big difference?
All of a sudden, one word is coldly spoken, “Compromised.”
I swing my attention to Bronx who is exiting the interstate I don’t recall us pulling on to.
Just as my mouth twitches to less than politely question why he announced the obvious, a familiar voice booms through the speakers. “And the target?”
“How about you refer to me by name like I’m a real girl, Geppetto.”
My bodyguard battles an obvious urge to smirk. “Alive.”
Brandon grunts out a small chortle. “And well it seems.”
“Debatable,” I swiftly insert at the same time we take the nearby farm to market road.
“Find a hot spring where it’s big and bright and get a good scrub.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Aware that he’s speaking in code yet not aware of how it translates exactly prompts my mind to begin the process of pulling apart the configuration.
I may have a less you know the better policy when it comes to working for Haworth; however, having more information in a situation completely out of my control will provide a level of comfort I doubt I’ll be given elsewhere.
Plus, I love cracking codes.
It’s like playing with a newly discovered formula.
“Call me again once you’re dry.”
“Roger.”
“And Bradford?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Remember that she’s worth more dead than you could ever imagine being worth alive.”
His harsh phrasing hits me harder than it has any right to.
“Continue to behave accordingly.”
Bronx nods despite the fact my brother can’t see him. “Roger.”
The line abruptly goes dead, but Brandon’s haunting words continue to linger, stirring more and more disdain with each passing moment.
I know I don’t know Bronx.
Fuck, the only thing I really know about him – aside from how drop-dead, spread my legs gorgeous he is – is the fact he has a knack for accidentally pressing my defense button, something that usually isn’t so sensitive. Between being this shapely, this tall, this socially awkward, and this scientifically driven I’ve faced my fair share of judgmental assholes in just about every race, gender, and size imaginable. After all, you can’t climb this high without a steel backbone or stay here without a busted give a fuck meter. However, for some unstudied reason, his comments feel like accusations I find myself needing to defend.
And explain.
And justify.
It’s like I unconsciously need – not want – him to understand who Blake really is in comparison to Dr. Rothwell.
That Blake likes the taste of blueberries, but Dr. Rothwell is the one who insists we eat them for their vitamin C and antioxidant benefits.
That Blake wants to have fresh breath so she can kiss someone when they unexpectedly confess their undying love for her, which is why she chews mint-flavored gum, yet it’s Dr. Rothwell who makes the choice due to peppermints having known perks when it comes to headaches.
Perhaps the reason why Brandon’s artic words regarding Bronx anger me beyond logical understanding is that the unbalanced part of my Dr. Jekyll, Ms. Hyde situation realizes that the man sitting beside me recognizes the side of myself no one else besides me seems to care exists.
And maybe it’s that…feeling…that foreign feeling of his caring that sparks my caring about him.
You know, so what if on paper who I am and what I create is valued more than the man protecting me?
That doesn’t make him less loved or adored by those that know him better than we do.
It damn sure doesn’t make him less human.
Guess this is one of those rare times where Brandon and I switch places.
He understands how to operate with and among people, yet misses their worth outside the scope of their relevance to a certain situation.
I practically always fuck up when it comes to simply talking to individuals outside of the workplace yet never fail to overlook the unpredictably powerful variable they can be.
Which is exactly what Bronx Bradford is.
An underrated source of unadulterated strength.
And I have this unshakable stirring in my system, it’s that very strength that’s somehow going to save my life.
Chapter 5
Bronx
Nothing about this one-story house in the middle of an average suburban neighborhood stands out.
Not the tan brick color.
Not the washed-out white trim.
Not even the budding potted plant near the pale cream-colored door.
Of course, that’s the fucking point.
Escondido a plena vista.
It’s one of the many ways Scrub Hubs differ from safehouses.
You make yourself so actively mundane that the people around you believe you to be too