Cassie Mint

  The Guard

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2022

  Copyright © 2022 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-914242-69-4

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

  1. Alyssa

  2. Brick

  3. Alyssa

  4. Brick

  5. Alyssa

  6. Brick

  7. Alyssa

  8. Brick

  9. Alyssa

  10. Brick

  Teaser: Sweet Tooth

  About the Author

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

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  One

  Alyssa

  My date tosses his ping pong ball into a beer cup, sloshing amber liquid over the rim onto the table. It trickles across the wood, foamy bubbles popping one by one, and I wrinkle my nose from where I’m leaning against the wall, hanging back and slowly edging behind a curtain.

  Music thumps from towers of speakers. It’s so loud it vibrates in my blood, and the air in this room is thick with sweat.

  My date makes another cup. He throws his arms overhead and roars, his frat guy friends cheering and thumping each other on the shoulder. Beer’s slopped down his front and his blond hair sticks up on one side, and I can’t tell whether it’s from hair gel or something worse.

  Gosh. I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

  They’re all so drunk. So loud. Spilling drinks down their designer shirts, their cheeks flushed and eyes glazed from alcohol. Staring openly at the crowds of girls in their short dresses, even as their dates hang on their shoulders and titter with laughter.

  Ugh.

  And these guys are so freaking pleased with themselves. I think that’s the worst part. They’re rock-solid confident that their thumping music, their kegs of stale beer, their over-cologned bodies are everything a girl could possibly want. Not just a single girl, either–all the girls.

  Because why would such prime specimens of manhood limit themselves?

  Please. I huff out a short breath and edge further behind the curtain.

  “‘Lyssa!” My date spins around on unsteady legs, searching the crowd for me with his bleary eyes. He probably wants to celebrate his great victory by pawing his wet hands all over my dress. Um, no thank you. This was such a mistake.

  I slip fully behind the curtain, turning to fumble with the window latch. So close. So close to escape. These freaking nails aren’t helping, though. I crank the first latch open, the window rattling in its frame.

  “‘Lyssa!”

  I’m not sure if my date thinks it’s cute to shorten my name, or if he really doesn’t know it. I mean, our parents colluded to set this nightmare up, so I’d assumed he had the same lecture I did. The same level of background research and battlefield prep, as though we were storming enemy headquarters rather than going on a date.

  But if he did, he’d definitely know my name. And my known associates and career ambitions. And my net worth and G.P.A.

  My mom is very thorough.

  This beer-stained frat boy has a 3.8 and a seven figure trust fund. He’s on the rowing team and spent a semester in Madrid, and he got arrested for drunk driving last year, but his politician daddy made it all go away. See, I’d hoped he’d changed his ways after the drunk driving thing–that my mom wouldn’t set me up with such a loser if he hadn’t.

  But here we are. I guess that trust fund speaks louder than words.

  “Come on,” I mutter, yanking on the second latch. It’s stiff, the metal rusted, and I wince as it scrapes open another inch. So loud. Good thing they’re blasting music loud enough to kill brain cells in here.

  My nails are ruined by the time I shove the window open, warm night air washing into the stale room and fluttering the curtains behind me. I swing one leg over the window sill, twigs and leaves tickling at my bare leg.

  Guess I’m leaving this party via the bushes. Maybe it’s cowardly, but there’s a mean glint in some of those frat guys’ eyes, and I’d rather take my chances on the drop than blatantly offend their friend. Call it intuition.

  “‘Lyssa!”

  I swing my other leg over and push off. There’s a breathless moment, a split second when I’m hanging in the air and I can hear my heartbeat, and twigs scratch at my skin, and the ground rushes up toward me.

  Thump.

  I slam into the dirt, staggering forward on my heels, bushes rustling all around. I can’t have dropped more than four feet, but my left ankle sings with pain, suddenly hot and throbbing like crazy.

  Sniffling, I fight my way out of the bushes, then bend over and undo the straps of my heels. Should have taken them off before I jumped. Rookie error.

  Behind me, the sounds of the frat party float out into the garden. My date’s still bellowing the wrong version of my name, his silhouette lurching around behind the flimsy curtain.

  What a night. Heels clutched in one hand and a bitter taste in my mouth, I limp barefoot around the side of the house, the stars glittering overhead. It’s a fifteen minute walk across campus to my apartment–fifteen minutes until I’m safely tucked inside and I can sink into a bath and pretend this never happened.

  Honestly. I brush a leaf off my dress, stomach tight.

  My mom has the worst taste.

  * * *

  I make it half a mile before I need to sit down. What started as a distant buzzing pain in my ankle is now sharp and urgent, and every step sends hot pain vibrating up my leg.

  This part of campus is quiet, washed silver with moonlight. I sit on a low stone wall, shoes clutched in one clammy hand, and stare along the path with dry eyes. All around, the pale stone buildings of Kephart College loom against the night sky, some dark and silent, some with windows lit up gold.

  I’ll make popcorn, I think. To make up for the terrible date. A big bowl of warm, buttery, delicious popcorn–and I’ll plunge my whole freaking face into it.

  A car rumbles down a distant street, its engine purring, and I roll my stiff neck, glad that it’s a warm night, at least. All I have on is this thin blue dress, but it’s okay. We’re creeping into summer. Nearer to graduation and the big, wide beyond.

  Is there any point calling my mom? Telling her the guy she fixed me up with sucked? Or will she brush me off like last time, saying I should have given him a second chance? Saying he’s from such a good family; that a catch like him could set me up for life.

  I suck in a shaky breath, filling my lungs with salt and pine.

  I mean, it didn’t work out like that for her, did it? My dad couldn’t wait to leave us in his dust.

  “Alright, get up.” There’s no one else here to boss me around, so I need to do it. “What are you going to do, Alyssa–live on this wall?” I grit my teeth and push upright, testing my ankle again with a wince.

  Don’t think it’s broken or sprained or anything. Just really, really sore.

  Could be worse, though. I could have some drunk frat guy breathing on my neck.

  Damn it, Mom. I hold my chin high and limp down the path.

  Two

  Brick

  Friday night shifts are always messy. There are the library-dwellers who camp out in the stacks and only leave if they’re dragged out, heckling the librarians. Then there are the frat parties and the bar nights in town; the sports games and political marches. Church groups and candlelit vigils. Dare nights and cookouts.

  It’s a lot.

  Everyone seems to find some reason to be outside and loud on a Friday night, and I’m the sucker on call. Striding around campus with nothing but a flashlight and my bulk to keep the order. Breaking up fights and separating yelling couples. Helping drunk students call their friends for help.

  Pure chaos.

  Come Saturday morning, I always need a few hours carving wood in the quiet of my yard to restore my faith in the world. Then by midday, I’m good.

  This shift went bad right from the very start. Busted up a drug deal in the center of campus, right in the light of the damn library, then found a kid with a concussion slumped out on the quad. Got him an ambulance, then no sooner had the doors swung shut, my radio crackled with reports of some creepy fucker loitering around the girls’ dorm.

  Chased him off.

  Got back to the guards’ office. Put a coffee on. Added milk.

  Got called out to the gym, to reports of a fight in the weight room.

  Got back to the guard’s office, jaw throbbing from a punch thrown wild. Coffee gone cold.

  It’s a cursed night, no doubt about it, and when I head out for a lap of campus around eleven, I’m braced for the worst. Zombies could claw their way out of the earth, and I’d go, “Sounds about right,” then bop ‘em on the head.

  I don’t find zombies, though. What I find is a tiny slip of a thing–a pretty female student limping barefoot along the stone path.

  She’s clutching a pair of high heels in one hand, dressed only in a thin, pale blue dress, the skirt floating around her thighs. Her long, dark hair tumbles over her shoulders in waves.

  Woah.

  She’s real pretty. So pretty that looking at her is a punch to the gut. But she’s frowning at the ground, muttering to herself as she walks.

  Oh, jeez. Here we go.

  “Miss?” I keep my flashlight beam trained on the ground, strolling closer. No need to dazzle her. As I approach, my boots thud against the stone path, and I suck in my belly like a fool. As if a girl like that would look at a man like me, even on a good night. “You alright?”

  It’s a nonsense question. Of course she’s not alright. She’s limping and barefoot, walking alone at night and talking to herself.

  The girl blinks up at me, coming to a halt on the path. Her dark waves frame a heart-shaped face, with a freckled nose and big, chocolate eyes. Like a damn milkmaid wandered onto campus. “Oh. Yes, I’m fine. Sorry.”

  Her voice sounds rich. Fancy. Makes me think of tennis matches and that sport where they make the horses dance. But why is she apologizing? She’s just walking. Well, limping. It’s not like she’s out causing trouble like most people tonight.

  “Where are you headed, miss?”

  She shrugs a slender shoulder. “I’m going home.”

  Smart girl. Tonight’s only going to get worse–there’s something in the air that’s driving folks wild. I chew on the inside of my cheek, scanning her torn, floaty dress; the goosebumps on her bare arms; her swollen, banged-up ankle. Seems like she’s already had a tough time of it.

  “Will you let me walk you?”

  She fiddles with the hem of her dress and glances back over her shoulder. Her dark hair lifts with the breeze, and a burst of raucous laughter floats out a nearby window.

  I swallow, waiting for her answer. Suddenly tense.

  I won’t follow her like a creep. She’s not breaking any rules, so if she wants me gone, I’m gone. But when she turns back to me and nods, I won’t lie–I’m relieved. My heartbeat steadies and my muscles ease.

  I hate the thought of her out here in the dark. Alone. Vulnerable, hurt and limping.

  I click my flashlight off, sliding it back onto my belt. “I’ll walk you home either way, but if you’ll let me, I’d rather carry you. Save that ankle.”

  She makes this tiny surprised noise. A squeak. But when I stride over, closing the last few steps between us, she lifts her arms without another word and loops them around my neck. The soft, cool skin of her forearm brushes against my bristly beard.

  Up we go. Her dress tangles around my hand as I scoop up her legs, the material soft and warm from her skin. Her weight settles against my chest, and I sigh up at the stars, suddenly peaceful. Maybe tonight’s not so bad after all.

  “So where are we headed?” My voice is a rumble. Like shifting rocks.

  But hers is soft, her breath tickling the side of my face. “Across campus. My apartment’s on the west side, next to the bakery with all the pastries.”

  Oh, yeah. I know it well.

  “Come on, then.” I juggle her higher, then set off down the path. It’s a fair walk, but I don’t mind. Not at all. “Let’s get you home with the other sweet things.”

  * * *

  Her name is Alyssa. She’ll graduate this summer, and her degree is in Art History.

  “It’s what you study when you love art but can’t actually paint,” she explains ruefully. I chuckle, shifting her slender body in my arms.

  My radio crackles at my hip as we go, a non-stop stream of calls for help. The other security guards can handle it. I’m already a man on a mission, the bright moon overhead lighting the way.

  “I can walk,” Alyssa offers for the dozenth time as I round the English department building. “I’m pretty heavy–”

  “No, you’re not.” I mean, she’s no feather. A human body weighs something, no matter how cute it is. But it’s nothing I can’t handle, and besides–I like having her in my arms. Maybe it’s selfish, but I don’t want to put her down. Not until the last possible second.

  “So what did you study?” Alyssa asks, biting her lip, all shy.

  I snort. “I didn’t.”

  And her poor cheeks flush bright red, like she really forgot that not everyone goes to college. I guess it’s understandable when we’re walking across the center of a campus, but still.

  We have lived very different lives.

  “I do some wood carving, though,” I tell her, taking pity. She clearly didn’t mean any harm. “In a workshop on my days off. So maybe I’d have done something artsy too.”

  She brightens at that, the awkwardness forgotten, and we chatter away easily for a few minutes. She talks about her favorite painters and sculptors I’ve never heard of; I tell her about the antique cabinet I’m restoring. It’d be two separate conversations, except we keep stealing shy looks at each other. So eager to keep talking, even though in some ways it’s like we’re speaking beginners’ French.

  The breeze dances her hair against my neck. Her shampoo smells like lavender.

  God. She’s so fucking pretty.

  The paths are mostly deserted on this part of campus, luckily, so barely anyone sees me mooning over this girl. Losing my head over someone who’d never look at me twice; so caught up in her beauty I’m surprised I don’t walk us into a wall. When we pass the entrance of the library, a couple stares at us, their eyebrows raised, but I clear my throat and walk on, Alyssa cradled against my chest.

  “I can walk,” she whispers again.

  I shake my head, holding her tighter.

  “How’d you hurt your ankle?” I ask her instead.

  I scan the shadowed path as I walk, the ground trembling under my steps. Her high heels are still dangling somewhere, bobbing with every stride, and her bare limbs have a silver sheen in the moonlight.

  Alyssa frowns over my shoulder. “I jumped out of a window. A low one.”

  Uh. She did what now?

  “Why?”

  I grit my teeth, trying not to squeeze her too tight. There’s no good reason to jump out a window then limp through the darkness on your own. Not a single one. And if someone forced her into that–they’ll answer to me. I swear it.

  Her mouth twists. “I had a bad date.”

  I slam to a halt, breathing hard.

  I’m cursing loudly, ready to charge back across campus and grab that bad date by the throat, when cool fingertips rest against my lips. Cutting me off.

  “It was nothing like that. Nothing really bad. It just sucked, and I didn’t want to deal with it, you know? So I hopped out the window. Easy as pie.”

  I raise an eyebrow, staring pointedly at her swollen ankle, but my blood’s cooling, and I start walking again. Alyssa wasn’t chased out the window, so, fine. There are enough people losing their heads tonight without me being one of them.

  “It was a mistake,” she says.

  “Yup.” Her poor leg.

  “I don’t regret it, though.” I stare at her, disbelieving, and Alyssa flicks my gray shirt collar, her fingertips coming so close to my throat. “Because now I’ve met you,” she finishes brightly. Ah, fuck. She’s so sweet. Her gaze dips to my name tag and a smile spreads over her face. “Brick. It’s a funny name, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Why are you called that?”

  My old man’s humor. Short for shithouse.

  I juggle her against my chest again–let her feel the hard swells of muscle, my big belly, the thick cage of my arms. How her little body is dwarfed by mine. Let that be an answer.

  Her cheeks are pink when I rumble, “Why do you think?”

  Alyssa bites her lip and smiles. Yeah, she knows. And when we turn the corner onto her street, I’m grinning too.

  So. Not a bad shift after all.

  One of the best I’ve ever worked.

  Three

  Alyssa

  I never thought I’d be the sort of girl to sigh and swoon over a man, but two days after meeting Brick, I don’t recognize myself. I’m two steps from walking the streets in a bathrobe, hollering his name. I ought to be fanning myself and muttering about streetcars, the way I’m going on. Mooning and moping.

 

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