The Client (18+ Only)

1: In Which She Discovers That Size Matters

1: In Which She Discovers That Size Matters

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I had just snapped my bra on when Reed Lancaster barged into my room unannounced. I was pretty sure there was a rule against a client seeing their bodyguard in a bra and thong, yet he just stood there, jade-green eyes lasciviously raking my body.

I felt violated.

“Mr. Lancaster!” I growled, quickly reaching for my old nightgown and pulling it on. “Is everything OK?”

My gun was right beneath my pillow and I dived for it, already on red alert. He had never stepped into my room before so this had to be an emergency. I mentally told myself not to look too gleeful about a potential security breach. Reed let out a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine,” he let me know. “I just need you to get me a box of Trojans. Magnum. I ran out.”

I stifled the curse words that threatened to stream out my mouth and get me fired. Week two with this guy and I shouldn’t have been surprised. He fúcked like a stallion and not a single serious thing left his mouth.

“Mr. Lancaster,” I slowly began, “I’m supposed to be around you at all times. I can’t go out on a condom run.”

He rolled his eyes at me. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Personal safety and all that shít.” He heaved out a sigh. “But I have a girl coming in after breakfast – my masseuse, so don’t worry, no threat there. It would be awesome if you’d do me this solid, Lena.”

This was a guy whose IQ was supposed to be higher than his dick’s. I was done ignoring my suspicions.

“Can I ask you a question first?” I asked, careful to keep my gun behind my back so as not to scare him off.

“What?” His eyes were darkening as I approached him.
I thought about a simple test. Baby-simple. Embryo-simple. “What was Picasso’s first name?”

Reed’s eyes widened momentarily. “Excuse me?”

“Picasso. What was his first name?”

His beautiful face scrunched up. “Isn’t it Picasso? One word, like Bono or Cher?” He gave me a weak laugh. “Need help with your homework or something?”

“You’re not Reed Lancaster, are you?” I surmised, and the way his face heated up gave me a definite answer. “Even I know who Pablo Picasso is and I’m not an aficionado.”

Before he could run, I was upon him, holding my gun to his chest. Reed – no, whoever the hell he was – made a squawk of surprise, wisely remaining rooted to the spot.

“Who the hell are you?” I snarled at him, pushing the gun further into his chest.

He groaned and instantly began to spill his guts. “Cameron Ellis. Please, I’m just the delivery guy. This wasn’t my idea, I swear.”

He had Nathan’s eyes, even his wavy blonde hair. They could have been brothers. Except now that I really looked at him, Cameron was missing the spark in his eyes that said he had something between his ears.

“Where’s the real Reed? What did you do to him?”

Panic was beginning to seep into my voice. God, if this really wasn’t Reed, what had happened to the real one? And how the hell was I going to tell my father and brothers that I’d been the personal bodyguard of some random shít called Cameron Ellis for two weeks? That I’d lost Reed Lancaster, lost him like a careless child?