Triple-Duty Bodyguards: Chapter 11

Matt comes in from outside and crosses into the kitchen, sitting on the stool opposite mine. I pass him the hoodie I left on the back of my seat.

“Thanks,” he says, pulling it on and shaking his damp hair back into place. “Give it to me.”

I push a pile of papers across the counter. I stopped by Angel HQ this morning to speak to Colette and collect all the info the stalkers found. It turns out they found a lot. Which is never good.

“The guys picked up on hundreds of social media accounts who have made consistent sexual threats against Briar in the last year,” I explain. “Given what we know about X, they’ve nixed any women off the list, anyone who seemed like a troll, and anybody who seemed to actively hate her, rather than love her. There are forty major suspects left.”

Matt nods sharply. “We’d better get to work, then.”

We go through the profiles together. It’s nasty shit. On pretty much every post Briar makes, she gets people threatening to kill her, rape her, or beat her up.

“This is bullshit,” Matt mutters, flipping through the list of men who have sent her nude photos. “How the Hell does she put up with all this?”

“I suppose you grow a thick skin,” I murmur.

To my left, the glass patio door shunts open. I look up as Briar steps in from outside. She’s dressed in a tiny black bikini, with a translucent pink robe made of some kind of fine mesh thrown over top. Her thick blonde hair is piled on top of her head, and her skin is flushed from the sun.

I clear my throat, focussing on her face. “Good morning, Miss Saint. Glen cleared your package.”

“Hey, Kenta. Please, call me Briar.” She steps forward, looking over my shoulder. I’m suddenly hyper aware of her almost-naked body next to me. “Ah. I see you’ve found my fan mail.”

“Do people always talk about you like this?” Matt demands.

“Since I was thirteen years old. As I said. I was a very lucky child.” She drops her mug off in the dishwasher, then sashays back to her room. I watch her go, fiddling with the edge of another dossier.

So far, Briar’s been a bit of a mystery to me. I have to admit, when we first got here and heard her swearing at her PR person, I was worried that she’d just be another spoiled celebrity. But I think she’s actually pretty sweet. She always makes extra food for us when she cooks. She’s allowing us free rein of her gym equipment and pool. She’s even giving us a place to sleep, for God’s sake.

I have a theory: I don’t think she’s rude or bitchy at all. I think she’s just a very private, intelligent woman who is playing the media like a fucking violin.

The past few nights, after my shift has ended, I’ve gone back to my room in the pool house and researched Briar. I’ve read everything from magazine articles to twitter threads. From what I can gather, Briar’s ‘mean girl’ persona mostly comes from her starting ‘drama’ with other celebrities, but I’ve looked through her statements, and it’s not like she’s starting petty arguments. In just the past week, she’s criticised a supermodel for advertising dangerous weight loss drugs; a director for underpaying his female actors; a rapper for getting handsy with his staff. Unless she’s just making the stories up—which is possible—she’s not stirring drama. She’s using her reputation to expose powerful people who think that they can get away with doing shitty things.

It’s an interesting PR model. Instead of trying to avoid public feuds, she actively calls out misbehaving celebrities, picks fights with them, and stays trending. It’s not like she has to worry about making enemies, since her whole schtick is being bitchy and unlikeable. And the more stars that hate her, the more relevant she becomes. It’s genius, really.

Of course, I don’t know that’s what she’s doing for sure. I still need more data.

Matt nods at the folder under my hand. “Saving the best for last?”

I blink. “Ah. Yes. This is the one Colette was most concerned about.” I pass him the file, and he shakes out a few pages of printer paper.

“Daniel F,” he reads.

I nod. “A few years ago, he ran a fan account where he uploaded pictures of Briar out and about. Nothing that the paparazzi weren’t doing; but instead of selling them, he uploaded them all onto his page with terribly written poetry calling her his ‘wife’. I spoke to Julie, and apparently, he used to send her flowers every year on her birthday.” I tap the page. “These are just some of the thousands of DMs from that account.”

Matt flicks through the list of messages. “Happy Birthday, Angel,” he reads aloud. “I watched you at your pool party. Do you shave all over? X.” He grimaces, glancing at the next one. “Angel, don’t wear such revealing clothing around other men. You should be saving your body for me. X. Christ.”

“Keep going.”

“Every time I think of you, I smile. Don’t you think I have a nice smile? X.”

“The photo he attached is on the other side.”

Matt flips the page. His face darkens when he sees the picture. It’s not of X’s smile.

“Daniel stopped posting under that name in 2017,” I explain, “but a bunch of anonymous accounts have written creepy messages on her page from the same IP address. One of those accounts messaged just last night. ‘I spent all day ordering furniture for our house. I can’t wait for us to finally live together, my beautiful wife. X’”

“Daniel always ended his messages with an X?”

I nod. “It might just be a kiss. But I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“No,” he says flatly. “Me neither. We need to look further into him.”

Behind us, Briar’s door opens. “Matt,” she calls.

“Hm?”

“Come here.”

Matt doesn’t move. My gut twists. Something’s wrong, I can hear it in her voice. Dropping the papers, I make my way to her bedroom. The cardboard box is sitting open on her rug, and a sparkly silver dress is laid out on her bed. Briar is standing next to it, holding an envelope. I’d assume it was a note from the designer, if it weren’t for the frozen look on her face. She hands it to me wordlessly.

I shake out a photograph. It’s a blurry picture of Briar standing in just her underwear. It’s been shot through a window.

Shit.

“This is from the fitting?” I ask, trying to keep calm.

She nods. “There’s a message on the other side.” Her voice is hoarse. I flip the photograph.

I swear under my breath. “Carter,” I shout. “Get in here.”

“What’s going on?” Matt asks, coming in behind me.

I show him the photo. He takes one look and pulls out his phone. “Briar. Give me the designer’s number.”

“I’ll call the courier,” I say. “Find out who got it put in the package.”

We split. I dial the courier service. A female voice answers.

“Jameson’s delivery, how can I help you?”

“Hello,” I say politely. “I’d like to speak with one of your couriers, Jack Ellis, please. It’s urgent.”

“Of course, sir.” There’s a click and a fuzz of static. A teenager’s voice sounds down the line.

“Um. Hello?”

“Who tampered with the package you brought to Briar Saint’s house?” I ask. “Did someone give you something to put inside it?”

“Wh-what?” The boy stammers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not going to report you,” I say calmly. “I just need to know who gave the letter to you. Miss Saint’s security is at risk if we don’t find out.”

There’s a pause. “I don’t know anything,” his voice is muffled.

“If you tell me now, you won’t get into trouble. If you don’t tell me, and Briar ends up getting hurt, your name will be splashed on every magazine and newspaper in the damn country. I’ll see to it personally.”

There’s an even longer pause. “He was standing on the street by her security gate,” he says eventually. “Offered me five hundred quid to cut the box open and put the envelope inside.”

I lean forward. “What did he look like?”

“I didn’t see his face. He was wearing a hoodie and sunglasses. He had a scarf tied over his mouth.”

I take a deep breath through my nose. “And the fact that he was dressed like a ninja didn’t tip you off that maybe you shouldn’t be smuggling for him?” I ask, keeping my voice as even as possible.

“Look, man, I’m sorry. I figured it was just a fan letter, or something. I wouldn’t have done it if it was like, a bomb.” He hesitates. “Shit, is she okay? Is she gonna sue me? I—”

“Thank you for your cooperation,” I interrupt. “Please call this number back if you remember anything useful.” I end the call just as Matt walks back into the kitchen. “Well?”

He scowls. “There was a blip in the alarm system a few minutes after we left. They thought it was an error.”

I bite back a curse, running a hand through my hair. What the fuck is the point of having a security system, if you ignore it whenever it goes off? I give Matt the rundown of my conversation with the courier, and his face just gets more thunderous.

“We should report the kid,” he growls. “He put her in danger.”

“He was just young and poor and dumb. What I don’t understand is how X found her in the first place. Did you notice anyone following the car when you drove to the appointment?”

Matt shakes his head. “There were paps outside, she wouldn’t have been hard to track down. I think—” He jumps as Briar comes up behind him, tapping his shoulder.

“I have a nail appointment,” she says quietly. “I need to go to the salon.”

“No,” Matt says immediately. “There’s no way. You’re not going anywhere until we figure this out.”

She rubs her eyes, looking tired. “I can’t go out with my nails like this. They have mani cams at these things.”

“Mani cams?”

She glares. “I don’t really want the headlines tomorrow to be about my cuticles, instead of disadvantaged kids.”

Jesus. She lives in such a strange world.

An idea pops into my head. “We have a neighbour who works as a beauty therapist. I can call her and ask if she’s available to do a house call.”

Matt nods. “Good idea.”

Nin is a very sweet sixty-year-old woman who lives in our building. Glen helped unblock her sink once, and ever since, she’s been calling us upstairs to feed us homemade meals once a week. She works as a beauty therapist, but from what I can tell, work is pretty light for her at the moment. We’ve been discretely loading up her electricity meter for months.

I expect Briar to protest, but she looks almost bored, waving her hand vaguely. “Sure. Whatever. Make the call.” She looks around the room. “I’m gonna take a bath. Exfoliate, and… whatever.”

She flounces out of the room. At least she doesn’t seem bothered by this mess.