On the elevator back up to his condo, he finally got around to the question he’d been waiting to ask. “Are you always packing?”

“Not in the club, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

He had been. The image of Piper turning into a one-woman SWAT team to protect him from whatever she defined as a threat wasn’t anything he cared to contemplate. “No more guns,” he said, after she’d gone to the terrace to bag up the pieces of the drone.

“You grew up on a ranch,” she protested.

“And I can shoot. But that doesn’t mean I want ’em around me in the city.”

She looked up at him and grinned. “Admit it. That was one hell of a shot.”

A shot he doubted he could have made. “Respectable.”

She laughed and picked up her jacket from the kitchen barstool. “Good news. I’ve decided to take that bouncer job you offered me.”

He should have anticipated this. “Forget it. The offer’s off the table.”

“And why’s that?”

“You only want the job now because you’ve decided I need a bodyguard. In my own club!”

“Nonsense. You can take care of yourself.”

She said it with an absolute sincerity that didn’t mean a thing. He was caught in a dilemma. He needed her, wanted her, but on his terms, so he poked his finger toward her forehead. “If I hire you, you’re a bouncer-only there to take care of the women.”

“Of course.”

“No bodyguard needed. None.”

“Understood. Completely understood.”

“Okay. You can have the job.”

“Great.”

As she walked back into the kitchen, all he could think was-shit, now he had a bodyguard.

She grabbed her jacket and turned back into the Woman of Steel. “There won’t be any more physical contact between us. Not while I’m working for you. Agreed?”

She wasn’t the only one who could dish out crap. He rested his shoulder against the refrigerator door and gave her his laziest drawl. “Now, sweetheart… Do you really think you can keep your hands off me?”

Then he kicked her out.


***

Piper fingered the broken wing of the drone. She’d pieced together enough to make out the model and manufacturer, but an online check and a couple of phone calls revealed that the company had sold thousands of these. The creepiest part was knowing this particular model offered live-streaming video. Whoever had sent it up had seen her heavy make-out session with Coop.

She gazed morosely out her office window into the parking lot. What had almost happened between them this morning was, in a way, worse than what had happened at the lighthouse, because she should have been prepared. She knew the effect he had on her, yet she’d been stupid all over again. No more. His body was forbidden. She drove the point home by giving herself a sharp slap on the cheek.

Faiza called, interrupting Piper’s self-flagellation. She was giddy with her newfound freedom, and full of stories that made Piper smile. They’d just ended their call when her phone chimed with a text from Eric.

Get my message? Dinner tonight?

Eric was her sexual savior, and she started thinking about where they’d go to do the deed. She didn’t like the idea of the ever-vigilant Jada seeing a man disappear inside her apartment. But Eric also had a roommate, and Piper was past the age of having sex while a bro played Call of Duty on the other side of the bedroom wall.

She went back to work. A routine online check to see if anything new had shown up about Spiral revealed a recent post on a local club life message board left there by somebody who called himself Homeboy7777.

Spiral is the best place in Chicago to score all kinds of good shit without getting stabbed or shot.

She’d stake her reputation on the fact that nobody was scoring much of anything at Spiral, now that Dell was gone. Registering herself as Wastoid69, she posted an appropriately obscene response, denouncing Homeboy7777 as a troll and Spiral as a “fucking drug wasteland only good for picking up the hottest chicks in the city.”


***

At five on Friday evening, Piper met Jen and Amber at Big Shoulders. It was one of their favorite places, with good coffee, friendly baristas, and Carl Sandburg’s poetry painted on the wall.


Hog Butcher for the World,

Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat…

Piper hadn’t seen her friends for two weeks, and she’d been looking forward to this all day, but Jen was uncharacteristically glum. “Dumb Ass called me into his office and asked me how I felt about getting a face-lift.”

Amber Kwan smacked the flat of her hand on the table hard enough to rattle her cup of house-blended tea. “Your face is perfect,” she exclaimed. “Ask him how he feels about a sexual discrimination lawsuit!”

Hearing the soft-spoken opera singer speak so vehemently made Piper laugh, and even Jen smiled, but only for a moment. “I’m trapped,” she said. “I don’t want to leave the city, and what other local station is going to hire a forty-two-year-old meteorologist?”

The early October days were getting shorter, and a streetlight came on outside the window. “Maybe you need to remind him how many over-forty women are watching the news,” Piper said. “How does he think they’ll react if they hear about the kind of discrimination you’re facing?”

“Yeah, that’d work, all right,” Jen scoffed. “He’d twist the story against me while he replaced me with someone younger, prettier, and cheaper. After that, I’m sure every male-owned station in town would jump at the opportunity to hire a known whistle-blower.”

She had a point.

Amber distracted Jen with the latest gossip from the Lyric. Without Berni shooting her threatening looks, Amber was funny and relaxed. Piper made up her mind to talk to Berni about her attitude, whether Amber wanted her to or not. Then she dropped the bombshell about what she’d seen in Lincoln Square.

Amber and Jen peppered her with questions, none of which she could answer because, two days ago, she’d let an overweight senior wearing a foam cheesehead get away from her.

Buffy interrupted. It was Coop, and she excused herself to take the call. “What’s up, boss?” Boss, not lover.

“Logan Stray.”

“The teen pop star?”

“He’s not a teen any longer. He’s coming to the club tonight to celebrate his twenty-first birthday, and you’re on guard duty.”

“I’m not a bodyguard, remember?”

“Tonight you are. Nothing’s going to happen to that little putz’s ninety-million-dollar body on my turf.”

“Doesn’t he have his own security?”

“Pop star bodyguards aren’t good at saying ‘no’ to the kid who signs their paychecks. I want someone around who reports to me. The club doesn’t need bad publicity.”

“You’re already getting some.” She filled him in on the message board post she’d uncovered that afternoon.

He wasn’t happy. “Stay on top of it. I don’t want to give Deidre any excuse to walk away from this deal.”

“I understand. The post probably came from somebody who got turned away at the door, but I’ll keep a close eye out.”

“Real close.”

A blender whirred on a few feet away. She stuck her finger in her ear so she could hear the rest of what he was saying. “Wear that blue dress tonight, and try to look sexy. As far as Logan and his crew are concerned, you’re a special hostess.”

“That makes me sound like a hooker.”

“As soon as he sees you, he’ll know you aren’t.”

She couldn’t decide if that was a compliment.


***

Logan Stray and his posse showed up just after midnight. The pop star was barely Piper’s height but looked even smaller next to his hulking bodyguards. His black knit cap revealed a fringe of dirty-blond hair complemented by a scraggly soul patch. His dark-framed sunglasses were unnecessary in the dim light of the VIP lounge, and she stifled a grin as he bumped into a table. He might be cool, but he definitely wasn’t smart.

The three women who clung to his entourage wore tatters of spandex that made Piper’s short, cobalt-blue dress seem demure. The group settled in a gargantuan booth overlooking the main club floor. Piper introduced herself to the closest of his bodyguards as the club’s VIP coordinator because it sounded better than “special hostess.” She greeted Logan, who gave her the once-over.

Before long, the group had ordered a couple of magnums of Armand de Brignac, two liters of Grey Goose, some Gran Patrón Platinum, and lots of Red Bull. Coop took his time coming to greet the pop star. Logan hopped up and gave him a couple of manly slaps on the back. Only a few days had passed since Coop had been attacked, and she noticed his nearly imperceptible wince. But as she stepped forward to intervene, he gave her a back-off glare.

She was growing increasingly frustrated by all the inventive ways Coop kept her from sticking close to him. This was her third night as the club’s sole female bouncer, and her attempts to get the other bouncers to step in had only increased their hostility. They’d disliked her before, but even more now that they’d been informed that Coop had originally hired her as a watchdog. She couldn’t shake her uneasiness about his safety. She’d have felt better if she’d been able to track down Keith and his girlfriend’s new address.

Word had gotten out that Logan Stray was in the club, and the crowd had reached capacity. Coop sat with the group for a while, drinking club soda and hating every minute, although he acted as genial as ever, so maybe she was imagining it. But turning himself into a nightclub impresario didn’t seem to be what Coop should be doing with his life.

Piper stopped him as he excused himself. “You’re hurting,” she whispered. “Take that ridiculous body of yours home and bury your head in one of those books you pretend not to read.”

He repaid her with his calculated heart-melter of a drawl. “You seem to be spending a lot of time thinking about my body. Too bad I haven’t made up my mind whether you’ll get to see any more of it.”

She swallowed. “That’s okay. I’m starting a relationship with…” For a fraction of a second she forgot his name. “With Eric. Our cop pal. We’re thinking about taking it to the next level.” And maybe they would, if she ever got around to returning his texts.

Coop seemed to tense up, or maybe not, because he sounded as laid-back as ever. “He’s a player.”

“I know, right? We’re a perfect match.”

He scowled at her and walked away.

Not long after, Jonah approached. If he’d had hair, it would have been bristling. “I heard you were on my boys again, telling them how they’re supposed to do their job.”

She did her best imitation of a reasonable professional. “The club’s packed tonight, and you know Coop got hurt a couple of days ago.” Coop had explained his injuries away as a sparring accident. “I’m sure he’d appreciate you keeping the crowd from bear-hugging him.”

He moved so close she could see his nose hairs. “I’m in charge of the bouncers, and that includes you. Now how about you tuck your balls back between your legs and mind your own business.”

“Stop being a jerk.”

That infuriated him. “Ever since you came here, you’ve been trying to take over. It’s no mystery that you’re the one who got Dell fired.”

She reared back on her ridiculous high heels and craned her neck to look up at him. “Dell was a dishonest turd, but then you probably knew that.”

He jutted his jaw. “You’re riding high right now, but once the boss stops boning you, he won’t even remember your name.”

A fireball exploded in her head, and she dug her finger into the middle of his chest. “Meet me in the alley after closing, you scumbag. Then we’ll see who has the biggest set of balls.”

She’d finally pierced his swagger. “Are you serious? You want to fight me?”

Not exactly. But just because he was big didn’t mean he was quick, and maybe she’d get lucky. Probably not, but maybe. She curled her lip at him. “Why not?”

He puffed out his chest. “I’m not fighting a chick.”

“Afraid I’ll get you pregnant?”

He stepped back, as if she were contagious. “You’re a lunatic, you know that?”

She grimaced as he stalked off. He was quite possibly right.

The three original women in the booth with Logan Stray had been joined by two more, all of them young and beautiful. Since Logan had seemed oblivious to her earlier, she was surprised when he gestured for her to scramble over them and sit next to him, but her heels were killing her, so she didn’t object.

“How old are you?” he said as she slid in. He’d begun to slur his words, not surprising, considering the amount of liquor being consumed at the table.

“Thirty-three, chronologically.”