The Fall of Bradley Reed (Seasons of Revenge, #3)

by Morgan Elizabeth

I just spent a full hour with Olivia Anderson and I know two things for certain. One, she is absolutely not guilty. And two, I am so totally fucked.

And for the first time, he smiles. It’s the kind of smile that could change a day from horrible to wonderful. The kind that, if you saw it every morning, you’d be the luckiest person alive. It makes me want to go buy a lottery ticket on my way home because fuck, being able to see this, something I somehow know is so rare, in person, means my luck is at peak levels.

And when I look at her, I’m pretty sure she feels it, too, the forbidden charge. I know it instantly, somewhere deep in my gut, whether I acknowledge it then or not. Fucked. I am so fucked.

Her breathing is quickening, and uncontrolled fear is starting to win. Watching it happen hurts something. I tell myself it’s just because I don’t like to see women in fear. I tell myself that it’s because I’ve been watching her for so long, it’s like I know her. I tell myself it’s because I know what a piece of scum her ex and her mother are, and I hate that they’ve put her in this type of state. But it doesn’t matter because even though I also tell myself to stay professional, to stay away, I do it anyway. I place my hand overtop of hers, pressing it down onto the cool tabletop.

Because that touch, my hand on her soft skin, the pressure, it slows her breathing. It takes some of that panic out of her face. It causes her eyes to float back to this plane of existence, to calm and steady, like my hand is bringing her down to earth. Like this small gesture is a grounding presence. Her eyes move up to mine,

Her brow furrows deeper. It’s definitely not cute. No fucking way is Olivia cute. My thumb moves against her hand without my mind telling it to and her eyes drop there.

It’s because, for whatever reason, a curtain dropped, and I think for the very first time, I’m looking at the real Olivia, the core version untouched by the desires and hopes of others.

I want revenge on him because I’m pissed and he’s a piece of shit and he doesn’t deserve to leave this . . . unscathed.” I smile. That’s my fucking girl, I think. Wow, where the fuck did that come from?

After watching Reed use her and fuck her over, even if she is a spoiled brat . . . it’s nice to see her get her own. It’s essentially Stockholm syndrome. Right?

Like this, I tower over her, and I wonder how tall she is and why that was excluded from her file. Or why the file just says brown when her hair is a warm chocolate color with light caramel highlights,

“Let me walk you to your car,” I say, and once again, I try not to let myself think about the why of it.

“It’s about the experience!” She clearly feels strongly about this, and even though she’s an obnoxious, spoiled brat, it’s cute.

Do not think about Olivia having sex or an orgasm,

She smiles with that last word, a self-deprecating kind of smile she seems to do a lot. It makes me feel uneasy, and I don’t like it.

I don’t know why I do, why I insist on giving her my number in case of an emergency.

I refuse even to acknowledge I do, in fact, have an unwanted hard-on for Olivia Anderson.

You are so totally fucked, that stupid fucking devil whispers. The angel who is supposed to counterbalance him is nowhere to be found.

God, if she were mine, I’d put her over my knee for being such an idiot. Jesus fucking Christ, Valenti, get it the fuck together.

But for some reason I can’t quite look at straight at, my finger scrolls to another name in my contacts

I answered and showed up because it’s part of my job. Because of my promotion. Definitely not because the edge of fear in her voice made me sick to my stomach. Definitely not because I felt an unavoidable need to check in on her, make sure she was okay, in one piece.

I can’t help it. I smile. “Oh! He smiles!” she exclaims, and I can’t help but feel it widen. Her eyes go warm in a way I should not be taking note of, like seeing it brings her some kind of joy.

Her cheeks go an adorable shade of pink and it twinges in my gut. Nope. No way.

She bites her lip, and I force myself to ignore it.

“Oh. Yes,” she repeats, and it’s cute. No, I scold. Not cute.

a part of me I refuse to look at too closely can’t stop thinking about her, can’t stop checking her recordings to see what she’s up to, if she’s staying out of trouble. If her mother is giving her a hard time.

She huffs. Annoying, I remind myself. She’s annoying and bratty. “Then what do you need, Olivia?” Might as well cut to the chase before I take this opportunity to look through her home and learn more about her. And not for the case. For purely selfish reasons. I’m going to hell. Absolutely and irrefutably going to hell.

“I need . . . your services.” My eyes widen with shock. I don’t mean to show on my face that my mind is going somewhere it absolutely should not, but she shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

“I need a bodyguard. But I don’t want you to be a bodyguard.” My gut drops. “I'm not following. I am a bodyguard.” I am absolutely following, and I do not like where she’s going. Don't you? the little fucking asshole on my shoulder asks. Don’t you like it? Even just a little. I punch him.

“I need a bodyguard because it seems like every time I’m out and about, they’re on me. But I also . . . I also need a lover.” I ignore the way my dick responds to that and jump in with the logical response.

“Look, a kiss for the cameras wouldn’t be the worst idea.” It would. It would be catastrophic.

And even more important, I would have an excuse to be with Olivia. I kick the part of me that says for my own benefit and add so when I need to stop her chaotic plans, I don’t have to make a scene. It would be the perfect excuse to talk to her more, to try and understand her, and maybe figure out this fucking case before Thanksgiving.

The way her eyes sparkle both with mischief and nerves twists my gut.

Even if I want to keep this shit professional, even if there is nothing in me that would say looking at Olivia Anderson sideways is a good idea, I know which side I want to win. The little menace.

“To be fair, when I did, I was bleeding from my head and a pretty girl was standing in front of me.” We both pause. We both stare. Then we both try and talk over each other. “I’m sorry—” “I didn’t mean—” This is so uncomfortable. But also . . . Pretty girl. The word runs through me like warm maple syrup and I fight a sigh.

And this time, I take him in. His eyes move right to me and scan my body, not like he’s a robot without feeling but like he’s a man who wants to see what’s beneath my shirt and jeans. When I bite my lip, his eyes move right there, and I can see it. The struggle. Holy shit.

for the third time in his presence, I get to experience an Andre smile. It’s good. That smile alone could convince me to try and make him into something more.

“What are you laughing at, little menace? Like you wouldn’t do the same, the one who told the press she had a perfect lover and her ex couldn’t keep it up.”

I roll my lips into my mouth and momentarily panic that he’s mad at me before I get my fourth smile. He’s not mad. He’s teasing me.

“Little menace! God, it’s just too perfect, isn’t it? His little menace.” Edna practically has hearts in her eyes. “Can you imagine hi...

Then, I turn to Andre, moving a hand to smack him for calling me a fucking menace. I fail when he grabs my wrist, his thumb brushing the soft spot. It sends a chill down my spine, one I try to ignore. “You’re an ass,” I say, but there’s no fire behind it. How could there be when he...

the spot where his thumb rubbed burns. I look to see if he left a mark, but it’s just fair skin and faint bluish veins.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, probably so very much over my questions, he’s rethinking agreeing to be my bodyguard slash fake boyfriend. I still can’t believe that’s a sentence running through my head. “No,” I lie because I’m starting to think I would trust this man with my life and it has absolutely nothing to do with his career path. It has to do with how he called me the day after I somehow got him to agree with going along with this charade and told me he was taking me out on a date. And how, when I told him that wasn’t necessary, he told me he doesn’t half ass things and if he’s my fake boyfriend, we’re going to make sure “that shit hits that idiot square between the eyes sooner rather than later.” It also has to do with Edna and how he’s apparently humoring her, letting her call him over for small handyman projects, knowing she’s probably lonely and likes having people in her house. It’s why I started going there so regularly after all. But most of all, it’s how, even though he never smiles and he tells me I’m a menace and he always looks so fucking mad and he carries around a gun like it’s the Wild West or something, I feel safe. Somewhere in my gut, I know nothing bad will ever come to me in his presence.

“I don’t like talking about myself.” “Why not?” “Because I’m boring.” “I doubt that,” I say without thinking. His cheek twitches like his instinct is to smile but he doesn’t want to.

“God, you’re insufferable.” “Why?” “Because you literally talk in single syllables. We’re on a date, right?” I ask, raising my eyebrow. He turns to me and glares. “I’m just saying, you said you wanted to hit him”—I lower my voice despite not seeing a single paparazzi or journalist nearby—“right between the eyes. Looking like I’m a puppy following you around and you giving one-word answers doesn’t exactly scream happy couple, you know?” His steps slow and I catch up to him, finally able to walk alongside him toward the line. I must have hit some kind of mark because his hand reaches out and before my brain can process it, he twines his fingers with mine then pulls our hands, and by association me, closer before pressing his lips to my fingers. I can’t stop staring as he does, my eyes glued to the movement like I’m making a recording and I know damn well I’ll be replaying it late into the night. The feel of his lips, the way the omnipresent scruff scratches my fingers, the short puff of breath from his nose, all of them somehow change something about me, about us. And most ground-shaking, the way his eyes lock onto mine, it’s like I’m the only thing in this universe.

“Don’t look, but behind you is a man in all black, a camera in hand, taking a picture.” “Oh,” I whisper. “So don’t punch me for touching you, okay?” he whispers, a small smile on his lips. Fuck. It’s a good thing he doesn’t smile often. I couldn’t handle seeing it more than once in a blue moon. “Got it,” I whisper. “Show’s on,” he says, lowering our hands then releasing mine. But he moves next to me, hooking a hand around my waist and tugging me close. My body prickles where it touches his and I shiver. He must think that it’s nerves, that the shiver is from anxiety instead of anticipation. “You’re safe with me, Olivia,” he says, so low only I can hear. I nod, but I don’t tell him the truth. I don’t tell him that somehow with Andre, I don’t feel terrified the way I did that afternoon when I called him, or even the first time they found me when I was in the café. I feel safe because his arm is around me and he’s got me. And that’s a dangerous feeling,

some cheesy souvenir mug she wouldn’t stop giggling about when she was walking around so I bought two—and

“You hate it.” “No! Not at all. It’s great! Beer at an Oktoberfest in the mountains? What else could you ask for?” I have to fight a full-out laugh when she attempts a second sip, a smile on her lips but a look of panic in her eyes. “Olivia, give it to me.” “What? No! Why?” She moves the cup over, like she’s attempting to hide it from me, like she’s not half my size and I can’t just reach over and grab it. “We’ll get you something you like. Dark beer? Cider? Apple juice?” She scoffs. “I’m not a child, Andre. I can drink.” “Then give me the fuckin cup and tell me what you want to drink.” She moves again, trying to stay out of my reach. “No! This is fine!” I sigh and stare at the blue sky, trying not to let the frustration take over me. “Menace, give it to me.” “Stop calling me that!” She steps back again. “Then stop being a fucking menace and give me the damn cup so I can get you something you’ll actually like.” “You spent money on this! It’s fine!” Fine. It’s fine. You spent money on this. There is it. Her reasoning. “I don’t give a shit. It was a waste of money if you don't like it.” “You don't have to waste money on me, Andre. This is great.” She takes a third sip, this one seeming to go down a bit easier now that she’s had one, before smiling at me. “See?” Pride is on her face,

I shake my head at her before stepping closer and wrapping my arm around her waist. She feels good there, pressed against me. It must cloud my mind. Or maybe it's the two sips of alcohol I had. Or maybe it’s the sun. Or maybe it’s the short fucking skirt she’s wearing that swishes against her upper thighs with each step. Either way, I speak, and the words absolutely do not pass through a filter before leaving my mouth. “If you were mine, I’d fuck ‘fine’ out of your vocabulary. A woman like you? Deserves nothing but fucking perfection.” It comes out low and quiet, but I know she heard me. Her mouth is dropped open, and even though all I can seem to do is the exact opposite of what I should do, I manage not to kiss her. Instead, my free hand reaches behind her, grabbing the glass from her hand and stepping back before pouring it into mine. “Now, what the fuck do you want to drink, Olivia?” Her mouth is still open, she’s still standing there frozen, but she answers. “Cider, please.” I smile. “That’s a good girl. Now go sit and wait for me to bring your drink.”

“You stay here,” I say, moving to stand, but I’m stopped by a small hand on my thigh. “Andre—” I lean in even though I shouldn’t. I use a hand on her chin to tilt it my way, even though I shouldn’t. I brush my hand down her neck, using it to push her hair over her shoulder, even though I shouldn’t. And I lean my forehead against hers, even though I absolutely shouldn’t. I’m in such dangerous territory, playing with fire. Let me burn. “I’m here to keep you safe, Olivia. You sit here, you look fucking gorgeous, and I’ll talk to him. Get you your space.” “You don’t—” “You let everyone think you don’t need their help, Olivia, but you’re getting mine no matter what, okay?” I don’t give her a chance to answer as I stand and do one more ridiculously stupid thing. Because she’s looking up at me, eyes wide with wonder and confusion, and she looks so pretty like that, so far out of her head, I can’t help it. I lean down and I press my lips to her forehead before I make my way toward the man. I tell myself the move was for the pictures. For the press.

But I can admit—if only to myself—that the move was completely selfish. Fully motivated by nothing more than wanting to put my lips on her skin, by wanting to comfort her. And I repeat: I am so fucked.