Thorne Princess(7)

“Couldn’t he pull a few strings to get her someone from D.C.?” I frowned.

Technically, only living former presidents and their spouses were entitled to a lifetime of security from the government. But ways around it existed. For instance, if this Thorne chick lived at home, which she must, since she looked seventeen, she could “borrow” her parents’ security while they were in their premises.

Also, showing your tits in public did not put you at security risk, which told me that Daddy Thorne mainly needed someone to nanny his troubled child.

I wasn’t in the diaper-changing business.

“He seems hell-bent on going the private sector route. He wants to be real discreet about it,” Tom explained.

“Good luck with making this woman do anything discreetly.” I ran a hand over my hair. It was growing out too long. I probably should’ve already cut it.

“McAfee is still the chief security officer at the White House.” Tom stroked his chin.

“His medal’s on its way.” I popped two mint gums into my mouth.

“They’re serious, Ran. This is an immediate post. For the princely sum of 250k a month.”

“It’s a babysitting gig,” I retorted.

“Exactly. Zero work. All the glory.”

I understood why Tom had a hard-on for this assignment. If we played our cards right with Anthony Thorne and Robert McAfee, it could earn us D.C. clientele, and that was an interesting prospect.

Though both Tom and I were former counterintelligence officers, it was near impossible to get a foot in the federal door. Washington didn’t like to outsource security. They preferred to train their own, then put them on a government payroll, the cheap bastards. But once you found your way in, you were looking at fat salaries, ongoing contracts, and a lot of prestige, all from the comfort of running your own business.

Not to mention, Tom and I were about to launch a cybersecurity department next year. We could use governmental ties.

“She in Texas?” I remembered President Thorne’s Dallas drawl, which had won him the suburban housewife vote and flipped a few purple states during his reelection.

Tom shook his head. “Los Angeles.”

The place I loathed the most. How fitting.

“Fine. Process it.” I shrugged. “Put Max on the case. His family’s from Oceanside. The pale fucker could use a tan.”

Max looked like every designated emo kid in coming-of-age shows. I was also fairly sure a guy like him wouldn’t touch this pile of designer skirts and Daddy issues with a ten-foot pole. He would be a good influence on her.

Tom rubbed the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably.

“Max is good, but he’s a rookie. He can be the standby officer. He’ll need to be paired with someone with more flight time hours. This is our big breakthrough. Make this girl presentable and get all the connections. It’s only for six months.”

“Get Jose on the day shift.”

“Jose is still in Scotland, remember?”

Of course I hadn’t remembered. What was I, his mother?

“What about Kent?” I growled.

Tom shook his head. “Paternity leave.”

“They let him father something?” I scowled. Kent had a sadistic streak a mile long and five kilometers wide. He’d once punched a paparazzi photographer in the face for asking him for the time.

“Not something, someone. We went to his son’s bris together.”

I saw where this was going, and I didn’t like it. Three weeks ago I’d finished my last job in the field—a British royal—and told Tom I wasn’t going back to tailing famous ass.

I would probably miss the international pussy—certainly the private jets—but nothing was worth putting up with someone else’s bullshit twenty-four seven. Especially the young women.

They were always the worst.

Plus, I was the one in charge of vetting our cybersecurity staff, and that was two jobs and a half.

Plus, what the fuck was Tom thinking, sending me to Los Angeles? Last time I was there, some nasty shit went down. Stuff even I couldn’t stomach.

But then you never told Tom the whole story. How could he possibly know what drove you to quit and go private?

By the puppy dog eyes Tom was giving me, my guess was he wanted me to be the one to personally ensure Titty McFlash wasn’t going to show the world any more of her privates.

“You’re high,” I said decisively.

“You mean practical.” Tom stood up, ready for an argument.

I sniffed the air. “Smell that?”

“Smell what?”

“That fart scent all your gaslighting is causing.”

He chuckled. “Look, I know it’s not what we discussed—”

“What about the cybersecurity unit?” I darted up to my feet, ready to wring his neck. “Who’s going to open it? We made verbal commitments to clients. You can’t even make a PowerPoint presentation.”

I’d seen this guy wrestling with his phone to find the poop emoji.

“It can wait until we’re done with this job. We need clients on the Hill when we launch,” Tom argued.

“Putting the cart before the horse, are we?” I unbuttoned my cufflinks, rolling my sleeves up my elbows. “We didn’t get the job yet, not to mention the connections.”