Run To You

have thoughts of his fingers tangled in her hair.
    He scowled and moved his head from side to side to get the kinks out. How had this happened? How had things gone bat-shit sideways so fast? He’d agreed to do Vince a simple favor. Vince was a good guy. A friend of Blake’s. Beau was just supposed to give Stella the message that her sister wanted to contact her. Easy. Nothing to it, and he’d had business in Miami and Tampa anyway. He’d provided security a few nights before at the wedding of a rock star in Key Biscayne. Except for the helos buzzing overhead, drunken guests, and partiers having sex in the bushes, the event had been blessedly uneventful. No breach in security or punches thrown.
    He couldn’t say the same for the favor he’d agreed to do for Vince. He’d known within minutes of arriving at Ricky’s Rock ’N’ Roll that he was walking into a goat screw. His first clue had been the drag queen in tight leather cracking a whip on stage. He should have turned around and walked out, but he’d never been a guy to give up. To call it quits. Not even when the queen with the green lips had called him Joe and wanted to see his “weapon.” But being propositioned by a queen hadn’t annoyed him as much as the men groping each other around him. He’d bugged out to escape all the writhing and dry humping. He’d grabbed a bite to eat at a Cuban café and then he’d waited it out in the parking lot behind the bar. Hanging out in the lot, making calls and catching up on business, had been preferable to hanging with queens and horny gay men.
    He could understand a guy being born gay. He wasn’t into other men, but understood the biology of it. What he didn’t understand was why a guy would put on a dress and heels and purposely tape his junk to his ass. Nor did he understand dry humping in public. Gay or straight, he’d never been into public displays of affection. He wasn’t a prude, far from it. He just didn’t understand why anyone would get himself all worked up in public. Get busy at a party or on a dance floor when there was probably a perfectly good bedroom or hotel or closet nearby.
    Beau adjusted the vent beneath the steering column and glanced at his passenger out of the corners of his eyes before returning his gaze to the road. Her face was turned away from his, her head resting back against the seat. She was blessedly quiet for once. She was asleep, but she’d had to wonder what the hell she going to do with herself now. Now that she’d been fired, pissed off a couple of mobsters, and couldn’t go home. He was wondering the same thing. What in the hell was he going to do with Estella Immaculata Leon-Hollowell? It wasn’t like she was his responsibility. He’d done the favor for Vince. He’d given her the message. His job was finished.
    Why did he feel responsible?
    Maybe because he’d played a part in her present situation. He was in security and knew how to talk to unpredictable people. To handle drunks and deescalate volatile situations without the use of physical force, but he’d wanted to hit Ricky De Luca. The second the man had grabbed her and refused to let her go, he’d wanted to knock him out. Hell, he thought he’d been fairly reasonable, giving the guy three seconds and two chances, but Ricky had told him to fuck off. Twice, and that had been one time too many.
    Beau passed a semi loaded with produce, then moved back into the right lane. But if he hadn’t clocked Ricky, the man wouldn’t have sicced the Gallo boys on Stella and Beau wouldn’t feel responsible for her now.
    He could have left her at the airport. She’d even told him to leave and that she’d be okay.
    So why hadn’t he?
    Maybe because in the light of day, sitting on a bench with her backpack and duffel, she’d looked so young. So much younger and more innocent than her full red lips and leopard bustier had implied the night before. To say nothing of her little leather shorts. Jesus, her ass had been amazing and— He stopped his mental wandering. He didn’t want to think of her little butt in those little shorts. Or her red lips and what she could do to him. Not even the old Beau would have gone there. The old Beau who woke up in strange beds with nameless women. Even that Beau had a few standards. Admittedly very few, but one unbreakable rule was never have sex with a client. Another was never knock boots with a buddy’s sister. He’d learned that one the hard way, and Stella Leon was both.