Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Brendan had an ear for the subtle click of a camera flash, as he moved by. He’d caught a few tonight, tuned them out. This was why they were out together, although Cillian seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself, swinging their hands a little between them and smiling up at the cloud-murked sky as if it was filled with brightest stars. Now and then Cillian murmured lines from Heart of Snow to himself, reciting everything from his own lines to Sophie’s to Brendan’s, lost in his own little world.
He really was an odd one.
That fresh, open smile on his face was even more arresting than his broody stares, and yet he seemed completely oblivious to the number of times Brendan caught himself just watching him, lingering on the curve of his mouth.
But odder still was the feeling running down Brendan’s spine. Something different from the usual scrutiny of the vultures feeding off whatever rotten things they could find; something with purpose. He kept one eye on Cillian, the other scanning the street as they covered block after block, moving beneath the golden haze of street lamps. No one stood out in particular; no one who seemed to be attempting to follow them without being noticed, but when he glanced over his shoulder he always seemed to catch just a glimpse of something just out of his line of sight.
He didn’t like this.
And he liked it even less when he quickened his stride, and that sense of being followed kept pace.
Had Newcomb sent someone to tail Cillian? Or something worse, to force his silence?
Or was this a stalker, an overzealous fan, or…?
He tightened his hand in Cillian’s. “Walk faster,” he muttered.
Cillian stumbled a little, but then tilted his head down, blinking owlishly. “Wha…?”
“Just trust me.” Tense, jaw clenching, Brendan strode faster still, slowing only to let Cillian keep up in a quick skip-trot. “This way.”
He ducked quickly at the next narrow side lane leading between buildings, pulling Cillian into the shadows between white stucco walls. Cillian started to say something—but Brendan held his finger to his lips and shook his head. Shh.
When Brendan flattened himself against the wall, Cillian mimicked him, his eyes wide and their whites gleaming in the shadows, sharp-edged features taut with confusion. Brendan angled himself subtly to keep himself between Cillian and the mouth of the alleyway. He held himself taut, ready, heartbeat thudding firmly, as he listened to the sounds of a few more casually chatting people walking past with their shopping bags swinging. And then—
There.
Glancing stealthily over its shoulder, a shadow slipped into the alley. Brendan barely registered tall, thin, male before he thrust himself away from the wall and at the man, slamming his full weight into him and pushing him back against the wall. The man grunted, letting out a rather loud “Oof!” as they hit the stucco together, before Brendan pushed an arm up under the man’s chin.
“You’d better hope you’re paparazzi and just a clumsy fuck who can’t keep his distance,” Brendan snarled. “Who are you?”
The man let out a wheezing sound. “How am I supposed to answer that when you’re collapsing my windpipe, sir?”
It was the accent that made Brendan stop and really focus, taking in what was in front of him instead of just the sharp awareness of a possible danger. Older man, sagging face, possibly in his mid-sixties, his hair a short, backswept bristle of silver and white, his face dominated by a rather long and drooping moustache. And that accent…
It was the same as Cillian’s.
Not quite British, but not quite any other dialect Brendan had ever heard, either.
He eased his arm up a bit, narrowing his eyes at the man. “…who are you?”
“Maxwell?” Cillian spluttered, and Brendan groaned, dropping his arm and stepping back to let the man free.
“You know him?” he demanded, and gestured at this…this…Maxwell. Who, he realized, was dressed in something almost like livery, a waistcoat and slacks with a cropped coat and gloves. Brendan frowned at Cillian. “Explain.”
“He’s, um…” Cillian blanched, his face shifting into a frozen grimace; he rubbed the back of his head. “He’s my…bodyguard. Maxwell Albright.”
“Bodyguard. Where the hell was he when that guy roughed your face up the other night?”
Cringing, Cillian dropped his head. “I…snuck out. He didn’t know where I was.”
“And you did the same tonight, your…” Maxwell started off sharp, then faltered, darted a strange look at Brendan, then continued, “…ah, sir. What if something happened to you? Why didn’t you tell me you were going out?”
“I told you I was going to Brendan’s,” Cillian mumbled sheepishly. “You were the one who drove me.”
“You did not tell me Mr. Lau was taking you anywhere. What if someone in particular saw this as an opportunity?” Maxwell snapped.
Brendan stilled. “…he knows?”
“About…what happened in the dressing room…yeah. And about the guy who started a fight with me in the club.”