Page 11 of Unseen Danger
Jazz’s words plunged into Nevaeh’s stomach. She’d kept track? Of course she had. If things had been the other way around, Nevaeh would know the date, too.
“That’s when he got out, right?”
Nevaeh slowly turned her head and met her friend’s gaze.
The green orbs were filled with hurt. For Nevaeh.
“Yeah.” Nevaeh whispered the word, fighting desperately not to let her memory conjure his face. His horrible, angry, brutal face.
“Do you think we should tell Phoenix?”
Nevaeh looked down at her hands in her lap, clenched into a ball. How long had they been like that? She took in a breath. “She’s gotta know already. The boss always knows.”
“You don’t think he’ll—”
“No.” Nevaeh’s rational mind suddenly kicked in, probably a survival mechanism to save her imagination from exploring the most terrifying possibility. “The judge gave him a lifetime restraining order. She made it clear he’d go back to prison if he came within fifty yards of me.”
“Right. That’s good.” Jazz nodded as she stared out the windshield. “He’d have to be stupid to come near you.”
“Yeah.” Nevaeh’s heart rate sped up despite their words.
She was all too relieved a few minutes later when Jazz said she’d spend the night at Nevaeh’s house.
Because their arguments for why he wouldn’t come close were only giving lip service to what they both hoped would be true.
The man of her nightmares would do whatever he wanted. And maybe, like before, no one could stop him.
As Branson pushed open one of the double doors, the squeaks, buzzers, and commentators of a basketball game blared from the twenty-foot screen of D-Chop’s home theater. Not the kind with tiered seating, but simply a giant screen that stretched along one end of a big room populated with sofas and recliners.
Branson navigated his way past the pool table, bar, and arcade games that filled the space behind the seating area.
Darren stood to the right of the inset wall that held the big screen, his back to the basketball game as he watched the room.
Branson gave the personal protection specialist a nod as he approached behind the sofa where D-Chop sat. He rounded the end so the rapper could see him.
Slumped into sofa cushions, beer can in one hand and wearing a sports team’s hooded sweatshirt instead of the bling and flashy vest he’d worn onstage, D-Chop looked like any ordinary Joe relaxing at home after a hard day’s work. Redness rimmed his eyes—whether from fatigue, worry, or too much of some substance, Branson wouldn’t guess.
He’d learned a long time ago that it wasn’t his place to be the moral compass or conscience for his clients. His job was to keep them safe from outside forces. He couldn’t keep them safe from themselves.
But the fact D-Chop’s frequent grin was nowhere in sight was a sign he’d taken the night’s events to heart more than he did most things. How much had he heard?
“How’s Kicker?”
“I haven’t received any recent updates.” Branson met D-Chop’s gaze. “B-Puff said he’d call.”
The door opened at the far end of the room, drawing Branson’s attention.
Peter Volrath entered, his glasses reflecting the recessed lighting as he headed their direction, carrying the smart tablet he almost always had in his hand.
“Maybe he texted me.” D-Chop reached in the pocket of his low-slung jeans. “I don’t know where I left my—Hey, Petey, my man.”
Peter leaned past Branson to hand D-Chop his smartphone.
“You my main man, Petey.” D-Chop threw out his traditional praises absently as he thumb-scrolled on his phone’s screen. “Here it is. They gave him something for the pain. He’s feelin’ better. Gonna need a skin graft, though.”
D-Chop tossed his phone on the cushion beside him and let out a long, beer-scented breath. He covered his eyes with his hands, then drew them down across the thin side sections of beard that bordered his jawline and attached to his goatee. His gaze locked on Branson. “What happened, man?”
“The fire investigator said it was deliberate. Someone sabotaged the pyrotechnics and painted accelerant onto the set pieces so they’d be sure to catch fire.”