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    Rent a Bodyguard
    Rent a Bodyguard
    Rent a Bodyguard
    Ebook63 pages48 minutes

    Rent a Bodyguard

    By Darcy Rose

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Dakota needs a bodyguard and fast. Assuming someone is watching her, she goes to the police, but they find nothing. Things get worse when she hires a private investigator who is unable to find anything, either.

    Dakota's fears mount, and when she meets Bane, a huge muscular mountain of a man, at the coffee shop, the only thing she can think of is to hire him as her live-in bodyguard. She needs protection, and he seems like the man who can offer her that. But Bane gives her so much more than protection. He makes her feel loved.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBleeding Heart Press
    Release dateNov 9, 2023
    ISBN9798224401000
    Rent a Bodyguard
    Author

    Darcy Rose

    Darcy Rose is a USA Today bestselling author who writes about shy and innocent heroines, to match them up with dark and intense heroes who have only eyes for one girl. If you like your books short, taboo, dark, and a bit (or a lot) kinky, then her books are perfect for you. For more info, go to www.facebook.com/darcyrosewrites/ or follow her on www.instagram.com/authordarcyrose/.

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      Book preview

      Rent a Bodyguard - Darcy Rose

      1

      DAKOTA

      I shouldn’t have left the apartment.

      Something is off. I just don’t know what. That has been my problem for the past few months.

      It’s not like anybody has come up to me. Nobody’s bumped into me or even stared at me an extra second too long. It only feels that way, which I know is the result of my paranoia.

      Even if I don’t have proof that somebody is following me, watching me, I just know.

      I barely stifle a yawn as the line moves, and I move with it. When was the last time I slept for more than minutes at a stretch? No matter what I do, I can’t seem to get more than that. I know I need it—my brain feels sluggish, a little off. It takes a conscious effort to shuffle my feet and move up in line in the café when another customer steps aside. And when I do, I look over my shoulder just in case somebody really is watching, maybe from outside the shop. There are so many windows for a person to look through.

      And now, even the smiling guy behind the register leaves me feeling prickly and uncomfortable. What can I get for you? he chirps. He must drink a lot of the stuff he sells.

      My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I can’t even do this. How many times have I ordered the same drink in this very shop? Um, an iced latte?

      He stares at me for a beat. Size?

      Large. Sorry. Oat milk, I add since I know that’s what he’ll ask next.

      Your name? He holds a marker poised over a cup.

      Now I know what a deer in headlights feels like. It’s the simplest question in the world, right? One I’ve answered countless times. Usually, I get a raised eyebrow or an appreciative grin when I tell them my name is Dakota since it’s sort of unusual.

      But the idea of announcing myself in front of a bunch of strangers makes my skin crawl now. Sweat beads on the back of my neck. I should never have left the apartment. Um, Maggie, I mumble, using my mom’s name.

      He rings me up and is probably glad to be rid of me by the time I step aside. I know I would be, especially when the place is this busy.

      This is no way to live. I might as well be a prisoner in my own head. But it’s the little things I can’t shake. The way the plants on my fire escape are sometimes out of place in the morning when I go to water them. Last week, there was a handprint on the bedroom window, like somebody had leaned over the railing running around the escape ledge to look in and touched the glass to steady themselves. Not coincidentally, that’s the last time I slept through the night.

      I’m not making it up in my head—I’ve never been like this, the kind of person who makes connections between unrelated things. Sure, plenty of blogs are dedicated to conspiracy theories and that sort of thing, but it’s not what I do. That’s not how my brain works.

      At least, it wasn’t until now.

      Maggie? Iced latte for Maggie. I barely register the girl holding the drink up over her head, looking around to find its owner. She plops it down on the counter before I remember having used that name. Jesus, I need to sleep. Maybe when I get home, I’ll try to grab a few minutes. It’s daytime, so it’s less likely for somebody to be able to sneak around.

      I try to wedge my way between a couple of customers, sliding my arm through to reach for the drink. Except one of them moves, knocking me off balance. My slow-ass reflexes leave me stumbling, and I realize I’m going to fall. It all happens so fast, but in my head, it might as well be slow motion.

      Only I don’t hit the floor. I hit a wall instead, one made of muscle. You okay? The man’s voice brings to mind a big, rumbly truck. And when I look up at him, that image only crystallizes. This is a mountain of a man, almost absurdly enormous.

      And he has his massive hands around my arms. I stiffen, even gasping softly, and he gets the hint.

      Sorry. He

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