The Bodyguard: A BWWM Bad Body Romance(62)

“Juliet.” Simmons’ voice was low and carefully neutral. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do!” Why the hell couldn’t she stop crying? This was all on her. She had no right to cry. “Send me back! I should never have run. I should have let him-”

“Juliet.” Simmons’ answer was swift and sharp, his gaze intense. “You think Hank would want you saying this bull? You think he wants you back under Solomon’s influence?”

Juliet’s eyes squeezed closed as she exhaled a shuddering breath. She had to try and see through the panic that threatened to envelop her. Juliet had spent most of her adulthood cowering in fear. She had seen things that would be forever burned into her memory. Things that still gave her nightmares. There were things that scared her so much she forgot how to breathe and wished she were dead...but she’d never been this terrified. There was absolutely no contest. “He can’t die.” She finally managed, her nails digging so deeply into her palms that they drew blood. “I won’t let him.”

“Juliet, listen to me.” Simmons’ hand curled around her shoulder, forcing her attention to him. “No one’s going to die if I can help it. But we have to think this through. We can’t make any rash decisions.”

She nodded slowly, taking a few deep breaths. Slowly, her fingers uncurled from her palms and she reached up to wipe the moisture from her cheeks. Hank had spent the past few months teaching her about her own self-worth - reminding her that she was much more than Solomon Aguiler’s personal chew toy. He’d shown her how to defend herself. Been the inspiration for the first song she’d written in years.

If she lost her head now, she wouldn’t be able to help him. As much as it hurt - as scared as she was - she had to listen to Simmons. It was the only way Hank was going to come out of this alive.

Once again, she’d have to place her trust in a man she barely knew.

Juliet straightened, running a hand through her mussed curls, before she faced Simmons’ squarely, her face set in determination. “Alright. So, what’s the plan?”

**

It had been a long while since things had gone Solomon’s way. Since the manor was attacked, it had been one disaster after the other. First his father had seized all the good corners and all but monopolized the city’s drug trade and he had been forced underground. Then he found out the FBI had Juliet and she was most likely spilling every single detail she’d heard over the years. Then he lost Blackjack.

But now, all that grief was finally coming to fruition. Fate had dumped his salvation into his lap, and soon Juliet would be his again. In the meantime, the FBI douchebag was serving as a punching bag for Solomon’s frustrations - and he had a lot built up.

Every time he imagined the fucker with his hands on Juliet, he punched him - and Solomon could think of nothing else. He’d been her first. For years, he made sure that any other man that touched her went through him first, and that sweet little cunt of hers belonged to him and him alone. But this fucker? If what Crowley had spewed was right, he had been balls deep in Juliet his fair share of times.

And Solomon couldn’t stand for that. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” By now, his fists were bloodied and Compton’s face was a mess, but Solomon hardly cared. “Thought you’d swoop in and save her? That you’d get inside her and then she’d be all yours? Don’t fucking underestimate me, pendejo. I don’t give my shit away.”

He massaged his slick knuckles as Hank’s head lolled backward. His muscular form shifted in the chair, even though his bonds were so tight they had to be chaffing. He spat out a mouthful of blood, grimacing a moment before he spoke, his voice slurred and heavy. “She doesn’t belong to you.”

Solomon’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. He had to be mishearing this motherfucker. He’d been beating him for almost five days straight and he still had the balls to talk back to him. “The fuck you say?”

Solomon couldn’t tell if the sound Hank made was a cough or a laugh. “I said she doesn’t belong to you, idiot.”

“Who the fuck does she belong to then?” Solomon grabbed his collar, all but screaming the words into his ruined face. “You!? What a fucking joke!”

“No one,” Hank spat with surprising vehemence. “She’s not an object, she’s a goddamned person. Her own person. And you’re never getting her back.”

Solomon punched him in the stomach so hard that Hank wheezed, his words stolen from him. It was the only thing he could think of to shut the fucker up. Whirling to his desk, Solomon snatched up his loaded revolver and pointed it at Hank’s somehow smug face. All he had to do was put a bullet in his skull and it would all be over. He wouldn’t have to hear his fucking gloating anymore, and he could stop playing nice with the Feds.

But then he wouldn’t get Juliet - and that was the whole point of this insane venture.

Solomon hadn’t spoken to his father in weeks, but even Caesar had called to tell him how moronic it was to mess with the US government over a single piece of pussy. Especially considering that piece had the power to bring down both of their operations. But Solomon had long grown tired of listening to the old ass. He would get her back on his own, and then things would go back to the way they used to be.

He just needed Juliet.

They had moved since the fiasco with Blackjack and now he ran his operation out of an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town. After putting not one, but two perimeters around the building and hiring every fucker he could find with an inclination towards violence that sought a paycheck, Solomon felt stronger than he had in a long while. The Feds had fucked with him and now he was fucking them right back. He would go down in history as the city’s only man to escape the FBI unscathed. His father could never match that shit.