Whiplash: A Sports Romance (32 page)

Stand-alone Romances.

Interconnecting Stories.

One Unforgettable Adventure.

::READING ORDER::

#1: Bodyguard: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance

#2: The Hitman’s Dancer: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

#3: Love and Wargames: A Bad Boy Hacker Romance

BODYGUARD:

A BAD BOY STEPBROTHER ROMANCE

SNAKE EYES | BOOK 1

BY TABATHA KISS

I’d give my life for hers.
And they’re hell-bent on making me.
Everyone has a celebrity they’re head over heels for. Mine is Roxie Roberts. Every man wants to date her and every girl wants to be her best friend. The perfect storm of talent and beauty. But I knew her before the fashion and the fame. Before all of that crap, she was my stepsister, Dani.
Beautiful, off-limits Dani Roberts.
I thought I’d never see her again. I left home with nothing and joined the army to become something she’d be proud of. Instead, I became a killer for the most deadly underground organization in the world, Snake Eyes. They didn’t give me much choice, but I couldn’t live like that. I faked my death and I’ve been in hiding ever since, determined to spend the rest of my days atoning for my sins.
Somehow, Snake Eyes found out I’m still alive. They can’t track me down, so they’re going after the one thing they know I care about to lure me out once and for all.
I won’t let them hurt you, Dani. Even if it kills me.

The SNAKE EYES Series

Standalone Romances.

Interconnecting Stories.

One Unforgettable Adventure.

Chapter 1

Fox

“Did you know you’re the only one of my clients that goes down on me?”

I open my eyes, overcoming the rush of exhaustion. “No,” I say.

Darla’s propped up on her elbow, staring at me from the other side of the hotel bed with narrow, inquisitive eyes. They wander my face and body, once again trying to figure me out. I don’t blame her, though. I’ve been paying her for this for a few months now and all she’s gotten out of me is bodily fluid. “Why do you always request me?” she asks with her high-pitched voice.

I look away from her and slide off the bed. Darla always gets a little chatty after sex and that’s always been my cue to leave. “You don’t have other regulars?” I ask, deflecting her questions.

“Oh, I do…” she says, her wandering gaze skips down my black tank to take in my bare lower half. I bend over to grab my boxers and slide them on. “Most of them request me because I look like
her.
”

“Her?” I ask, snatching my pants off the arm of a chair. I fish my fingers into the pockets to confirm that I still have my wallet and keys. Check and check.

“You know,
her,
” she giggles. “Roxie Roberts.”

I pause. “Never heard of her.”

She slaps the wrinkled bedspread with her palm. “Oh, come on! Roxie Roberts. The actress from the
Night Trials
movies?
Backseat Driver
?
To Take A Look
? You know her. You
have
to know her.”

“I don’t know her,” I say, zipping my fly.

“She looks like… well,
this.
” She makes a gesture up her body and frames her face.

I let my eyes follow her fingers, climbing the length of her from her toes to her forehead. Long, blonde hair. A slight curve to her hip. Thin, cherry-colored lips that stretch out wide when she smiles. Blue eyes. She’s not wrong. She does resemble Roxie Roberts, other than her voice. “Well, if that’s true, I bet you make good money off those suckers.”

“You betcha!” she says. “It’s kind of a pain, though. I have to stalk the tabloids to make sure I stay up-to-date with her looks or else I lose clients. She went red for like a month last year and my boss got so many complaints when I didn’t dye my hair quick enough to match…”

“I guess every job has its drawbacks.”

“So…” She sits up and plants her feet on the floor. “If you have no idea who Roxie Roberts is, then why do you request me every time?”

“I like consistency.”

She stands up and walks over to me, throwing on the most seductive glare she can muster. “Why do you pay for it?”

“You’d prefer it if I
didn’t
pay you?”

“No… I mean,” she chuckles. “Why does an attractive guy like you need to pay for it? There’s no way you can’t just walk into a bar and leave with a beautiful lady on each arm whenever you want.”

I look down at her and she stares back at me with a kind, warm smile, like she’s comforting a lost child at a theme park. I ignore it and throw my shirt over my shoulders. I don’t exactly pay her to pity me if you get my meaning. “Too much effort,” I say.

“Bullshit.” She smirks at me. “I bet you have some narcissistic drive. Like a grandiose sense of self-importance with an extreme inability to recognize the feelings and needs of others.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Not bad.”

“Really?” Her face beams. “I knew I’d figure you out eventually. I’m only one year into my degree and I’m already good at it.”

“Degree?”

“Psychology. University of Iowa.”

“Good for you.”

She takes a step closer and her perky breasts press against my chest. Her fingertip glides between the hairs of my beard, just barely touching the long scar hidden underneath on my left cheek.

I take hold of her shoulders and guide her away from me. “I need to get going.”

“You should stay a little longer…” She bites her wet lips, smiling at me. “I won’t even charge you. It’ll just be our little secret.” She reaches for me again, this time tugging at my tank to try and see beneath it.

I grab her wrist and she lets go. “No, thanks.”

She winces, obviously offended by the rejection. Her hand falls back to her side. “Okay…” She steps away and grabs her little black dress off the floor.

“Nothing personal.”

“No, I get it,” she huffs. “You’re an all business, no pleasure kind of guy.”

“I don’t think it’s too far out of line for me to request that we keep this professional.”

“It’s not. I’m pretty sure it’s me that’s out of line…” She keeps her eyes low and she leans over to slip her black heels on. Her nostrils flare and her cheeks flush red. I blink to clear my head. She really does look just like
her
.

I slide a hand into my back pocket and pull out my wallet. “Sorry if I offended you.”

“You didn’t.” She flips her neck hard to force her hair away from her face and looks up at me. “Thick skin comes with the job.”

“Good.”

“I just… I just find you a little fascinating, is all.”

“Why?”

Her eyes fall to my chest. “Well, you’re obviously in great physical shape, but you’ve never taken your shirt off in front of me. You leave it on during sex, which makes me think that you have something to hide under there — something other than the scar on your cheek you easily conceal with that beard. You’re not like my other clients. You’re gentle—”

“Gentle?”

“Well…” Her cheeks turn pink. “You’re rough, but in the right ways. And you’re nice, thoughtful. Almost
caring
. Sometimes I think,
‘Wow, maybe he really likes me
,’ and yet, you won’t even tell me your name.”

“You know my name.”

“Your
real
name
is
not
Channing Tatum.”

“It could be.”

She rolls her eyes. “Look, I get it. You’re the very definition of the tall, dark, and handsome stranger and you obviously like it that way.” Her shoulders bounce in defeat. “I guess it would be easier to hate you if you were more of an asshole to me.”

I reach into my wallet and pull out a small stack of twenty dollar bills. “Sorry.” I hold out my hand and she takes the money from me. “I’m not that kind of guy.”

She folds the money into a tight rectangle and stuffs it inside her clutch. “And you always pay
cash
, so I can’t trace your payment…”

I breathe a small laugh and walk over to the door for my suit jacket.

“One last question…” she says. “I promise it’ll be the last time I ever ask you.”

“What?”

“Why do you
really
request me every time? Do I remind you of someone?” She chews on her lip. “You know, someone
other
than a beautiful, glamorous movie star?”

“No.” I push one arm into the jacket and slide it onto my back. “Like I said. Consistency.”

Her eyes narrow, not believing a word of it. “Well, whoever she is, I hope you two are happy someday.”

She’s baiting me, hoping I’ll slip up and admit she’s right. I say nothing more and step outside, closing the door behind me.

Sorry, Darla. It’s not just you. Getting personal isn’t something I do with anybody anymore.

Roxie Roberts.
Of course, I know who she is. Everyone has a movie star they’re head over heels in love with. Mine is Roxie Roberts. Every guy wants to date her and every girl wants to be her best friend. You’ve no doubt waited in line to see every one of her blockbuster movies. You cried with her when she won her awards because she’s just so darn
relatable
, it makes you believe that one day you could be in her shoes, too. She’s the perfect role model for young girls, a walking billboard of body positivity and confidence. The perfect storm of talent and beauty.

I knew her before the fashion or the fame. Before all of that crap, she was my little stepsister, Dani.

Beautiful, off-limits, Dani Roberts. The girl down the hall.

Darla makes an okay substitute. Her resemblance to Dani is absolutely the reason why I request her every time. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not all that ashamed of it either. It’s been five years since I’ve seen Dani — outside of the silver screen, of course. I’d love to go home and see her face again, but that situation is about as complicated as it can get.

I climb into my car and drive away from the motel, leaving Iowa City behind me. I rarely enter the city at all anymore. I travel in about once a week for groceries or to run an errand for Mrs. Clark on the days when her hip is acting up on her. I suppose I’ll have to limit my trips in to see Darla now, too. She’s gotten way too attached to me and I don’t feel like dodging her questions anymore. Tonight was the first time she started slipping personal information about herself into the conversation —
Psychology. University of Iowa.
— but I already knew all of that because I did my research on her. She’s your basic, no-nonsense girl, someone that
didn’t
seem like the type to psychoanalyze me when I first started paying for her company. I guess she switched majors.

I turn off onto a dirt road and flick my brights on to illuminate it once the city lights dim away. Mrs. Clark has lived on this land for nearly fifty years. I know this because it’s always the first thing she mentions at the start of every story involving her and her late husband, Larry. He died in his sleep early last year — it’s how I met her. She wanted to upgrade the guest house and rent it out to help pay taxes on the land. I offered to do both and I’ve lived out here ever since. It’s quiet, secluded, and completely off-the-grid, which is exactly what I was desperate for about six months ago.

The farmhouse comes into view along with Mrs. Barbara Clark herself, gliding back and forth in the rocking chair Larry built for her with his bare hands. She raises a pale salute and waves at me while I park near the guest house across the driveway. Her husky dog, Sammy, stands up as I approach; the ever-watchful protector. His lips split and he growls at me.

“Sammy, down!” Mrs. Clark tells him. She rests her hand on his head and gestures him back to the porch. “It’s just Fox.”