The Bodyguard: A BWWM Bad Body Romance(18)
Of course not.
That wasn’t to say that Hank was out to tell his sob story to every Tom, Dick and Harry he came across. Quite the contrary. He was content to let the past stay in the fucking past.
The fact of the matter was that Bosh and Crowley didn’t like him because they didn’t know him. He didn’t like Juliet because of her affiliation with one of the most evil men in the United States, but after the way she had railed him the previous day, he was willing to admit that he didn’t know her either. Hopefully, they could come to some kind of agreement beneficial to both parties. Hank was supposed to be protecting her, after all. That might be a bit easier if he wasn’t avoiding her like the goddamned plague.
Unsurprisingly, he didn’t sleep very well that night. Hank never slept well when he was working on a case and that particular night had him tossing and turning to memories better left forgotten. He woke around two in the morning in a cold sweat, and immediately stiffened at the sound of someone puttering around the kitchen.
It took a split second for his instincts to kick in. No one out for Juliet Brown’s blood was going to rummage around the kitchen for a fucking snack before slitting her throat...which meant it must be the woman herself.
He didn’t need to get out of bed but Hank found himself sitting up. He’d just peek out of his room to check on her - it was, after all, in his job description. Soundlessly, he made his way from the bed, wincing as the door creaked slightly when he opened it. As they were a good half an hour away from any real civilization, the cabin was pitch black save for the dim light above the stove shining out into the hallway.
In that light, Juliet was silhouetted in her position at the kitchen table. Hank thought she might be making herself a sandwich or grabbing some popcorn, but he was surprised to see the familiar shadow of a liquor bottle. She was drinking.
Before he could stop himself, his feet carried him into the minute kitchen. For a split second, he was struck by the picture before him. Juliet sat at the table, her bad foot propped up in the only extra chair, a mostly full bottle of Jack Daniels on the table before her. Had she asked for Jack? He had imagined her a fancy wine kind of girl - even in her scrubs and messy updos.
Instead, she had a plastic cup of Jack Daniels in front of her and was sipping from it at intermittent intervals, staring off out the kitchen window into the darkness of the forest beyond. She was clad in a plain cotton nightgown - no silk or lace for her. That didn’t, however, make the expanse of leg she was showing off any less appealing, or the mussed curls falling around her face any less mouthwatering. In that moment, much as he hated the bastard, Hank could see full well why Solomon Aguiler kept Juliet around.
It was obvious that she was lost in thought - though what thoughts he wasn’t certain of. What haunted the former mistress of a drug-lord?
“Can’t sleep?” She jumped when he spoke, whirling to look at him. Those brown eyes of hers widened for a moment before her face settled in a neutral expression. Hank relaxed somewhat - he didn’t know if it was the alcohol or her late-night disposition, but it didn’t seem like Juliet was in the mood for confrontation.
“No. I’ve never been a good sleeper.” She swirled the contents of her glass around before downing the entire thing in one gulp. Though the bottle was mostly full, Hank wondered how much she’d drunk - she didn’t seem unsteady at all. He could respect a woman who could hold her liquor, at the very least.
When Juliet pushed the bottle in his direction, he arched a brow. “Not a whiskey man?”
“Whiskey’s fine.” When Juliet made to move her foot from the extra seat, Hank shook his head. “I can stand.”
Juliet made a face. “No reason for that. Just a sprain.” Before she could adjust herself, however, Hank merely lifted her foot slightly, settling his bulk on the rickety chair before resting it on one muscular thigh. When she eyed him warily, he sighed. “Simmons will get on my ass if you’re more injured when he sees you then you were when you left the hospital. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a complete dick.”
Juliet made a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat, waiting for him to pour himself a drink before she commandeered the bottle again to refill her own glass. For the first time, Hank got a good look at one of her injuries. Her ankle was swollen and bruised beneath the wrappings she’d removed. At the hospital, he’d spitefully assumed she was hobbling to be a drama queen but now he could see just how fucked her ankle really was.
It was enough to make him remember the raw images of her Simmons had shown him before he got to the hospital. Her gunshot wounds would leave permanent scars - and atop that, stopping the internal bleeding from the one in her side had been a close thing. Juliet had come close to dying - and all because of her taste in men.
“If you think that’s ugly, you should see the gunshot wounds.” He glanced up, surprised to find that Juliet had caught him staring. She obviously wasn’t that drunk. “But I’m sure that, as a Federal Agent, you have your own collection of scars.”
The comment was enough to bring his guilt roaring back. Hank was man enough to admit that he was calling her bluff during their argument the previous day. Though he’d been fucked up enough in the line of duty that he had a few stories to tell, he didn’t know what Juliet had been through. “Look, Juliet…” He huffed lowly, taking a sip of his own drink to enjoy the slow burn of the whiskey. “What I said yesterday...that was shit of me. I’ve come into this little arrangement with my own preconceptions.” He raked a hand through his choppy, buzzed hair. “You’re right, I don’t know you. And if we’re working together, it’s better if I don’t just make blind assumptions.”