Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(53)

“Actually…” She frowns, taking a dainty bite of ice cream. “There’s a third possibility. I think that guy’s job is half protection, half spying.”

The older man’s eyes brighten. I can’t tell if it’s because he has the same theory, or because he just likes a good story. “Spying for whom?”

“My record label, and more specifically, my ex who runs it. I am trying to detangle my life from his, but it’s not like I can fire my bodyguards before I find someone new.” She makes a face. “Actually, it’s tempting. But they come in handy about once a week. And I’ve been getting some creepy mail, so…”

“What kind of creepy mail?” Carl barks.

She shakes her head. “Just some guy who likes to send cocktail napkins from every place I’ve gone. Telling me how good we’d be together. It’s eerie, but they don’t come to my actual home. They go to my PO box.”

I hate this. But I bite my lip, just like I did the last time she told me about this. Delilah’s security choices are none of my business. Even if I wish they were.

“If there’s any chance that you know people at security firms in California,” Delilah says to Carl. “I would love to hear about them.”

He clicks his pen absently. “Let me think about who I could send you to. I assume you have security 24/7? One man or two?”

“One. There are three guys in rotation, unless I’m going to a big event and then they beef it up. It’s…” She sighs. “To be honest, I haven’t paid enough attention to the details, because it was done for me.”

“Don’t worry.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “California is full of companies that can help you. We’ll find you someone who knows what they’re doing and won’t pad the bill.” He pulls a charming little notebook out and offers the pen again. “Put your number right here, missy, and I’ll call you next week.”

“Thank you,” she says, scribbling on the page. “I use exactly the same notebooks. Great paper, right?”

He snorts, takes his book from her, and closes it. “The paper is fine. But I liked the cover.” It reads: I’m surrounded by complete fucking assholes.

“Are you?” she teases.

“Well…” He tucks the book away. “I have two sons who haven’t listened to a thing I say since 1999. That’s when Eric became a mouthy teen. And Max was born mouthy. So it depends on the day.”

“What do your sons do?” she asks.

“That one over there—” He gestures toward my retired teammate. “—is a hockey player. Thirty-four years old and still playing games. My other son does something with technology.”

I burst out laughing at this description, because something with technology is a bit of an understatement. His other son is a tech genius who made a fortune in cyber security. Nobody has any idea how much Max Bayer is worth because his company—and his entire life—are private.

“You kids enjoy your night,” Carl says. “I’m around if you need me. And I’ll help you find someone new after the wedding.”

“Thank you!” Delilah calls after him. “God, could it be that easy? I just want people to tell me what to do.”

“I have a few ideas,” I mutter.

She gives me a smile over the edge of her ice cream cone. “Do you, now?”

“More than a few,” I whisper.

She licks her lips. “Well, I have a few ideas of my own.”

“I can’t wait to hear them.”





Maybe I could have waited to hear her ideas. Because now I’m sitting on a plank suspended over a tank of water, while Georgia warms up her throwing arm.

I watch her wind up and throw. Then I hear—but can’t see—the smack of the ball near the target. And just as I’m wondering whether that “oooooh” from the audience means a hit or a miss, I shoot downwards at a surprising rate, splashing into the water.

I come up snorting, water in my nose. And this isn’t even for charity. Fuck. I’m a good sport, so amid the laughter, I climb back onto the bench.

It’s Delilah’s turn. “I don’t know if I can throw,” she says.

“That’s okay, baby,” I call. “I like you better if you can’t.”

Everyone laughs.

She tries an underhand throw. I hear a swish and a soft plop. The bench beneath me doesn’t move.

“Bummer, honey!” I call. “Can I get out of here now?”

“Everybody gets three tries,” Georgia says cheerfully, passing Delilah another ball.

I grit my teeth as she throws again—harder this time. But the audience’s “OH!” clearly sounds like a miss.

“Last one, honey. More ice cream?”

“What you need is a spotter,” Jason says, stepping forward. “Let me help.”

“Nope! No spotter necessary!” I argue.

Jason stands behind my girl and captures her hand in his. “On a count of three. One, two, thr—”

THUNK!

I hit the water again.

Only for Delilah.





Delilah





Can you live a lifetime in three days? I feel as though I have.