The Soldier and the Bodyguard

By RJ Scott

Someone wants JC dead, and Adrian is the only thing standing in the way. Has war followed them home? Or is something more sinister at play?

JC struggles to understand his place in the world, and despite being wealthy beyond imagination, he’s never found real happiness outside of his friendship with Adrian. Enlisting in the army is his attempt at finding purpose, but tragedy strikes, and only the Ellery Veterans Center can help put back the pieces of his shattered life. With a bullet fragment in his brain and seemingly no hope of ever being the man he once was, he begins to lose courage.

Adrian didn’t hesitate to follow his best friend to war, but with their unit decimated in an ambush and JC bleeding into the dirt, Adrian buries his hopes for the future to keep the man he loves safe. Acting as JC’s bodyguard means he is secure for now, but threats from an unknown person escalate to attempted murder, and Adrian has no choice but to take JC and run. When the Sanctuary Foundation intervenes and takes them into their care, they might be safe, but revealed secrets could destroy everything.

Sometimes, even if love finds a way through tragedy, it can be impossible to imagine forever.

This book features characters from my action-adventure romantic suspense Sanctuary series, but you do not have to have read Sanctuary to enjoy this story. This best friends to lover’s, hurt-comfort romance has bodyguards, threats, found family, and a guaranteed love-filled happily ever after.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RJ Scott
• Release date: Jun 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781785643583

RJ Scott

RJ Scott is the author of the best selling Male/Male romances The Christmas Throwaway, The Heart Of Texas and the Sanctuary Series of books.She writes romances between two strong men and always gives them the happy ever after they deserve.

Book preview

ONE

Adrian

Three months ago

I’ve known JC since I was two.

I didn’t remember much about our first meeting, but I recall with absolute clarity all the years between then and the moment I fell in love with him.

We couldn’t have been more different. JC’s grandparents—Georgina and Elliot Baker—were old money, so wealthy no one knew exactly what they were worth. Their son, JC’s father, was an actor; his mom a model; and I was just the youngest kid of the housekeeper. I get that was the worst kind of cliché, but we were born to be friends forever, and that friendship didn’t diminish, even when JC spent an entire semester in a boarding school, separating us when we were ten.

He hated that we were apart. He ran away.

When he arrived at the house, he found me in the stables crying into Cody’s mane, and we both knew, without saying, that we were miserable apart. After a heated debate with his grandparents, he’d ended up attending a local private school with enough security to make everyone happy. In a mysterious turn of events, there was a scholarship to allow me to attend as well, and so our friendship continued. I know that the money had to have come from the Baker estate, but no one ever told me for sure. Then, at thirteen, when I realized that I like boys, it was JC who had my heart.

When he’d broken up with his first girlfriend and decided to try things with a boy in his English class called Robbie, I watched from afar; and my stupid hopeful heart had wished it was me he was dating. Robbie hadn’t lasted long, nor had Penny, or Mike, or Jamie, or any of the other people he’d dated. I know it was wrong for me to be happy when he didn’t go on second dates, but JC never seemed unhappy moving from person to person and never forming any kind of relationships.

He didn’t need them he said—because he had me.

We followed each other to college, both studied economics—more my decision than his; both dropped out to join the army—more his decision more than mine; and I watched him go on dates throughout, but my heart survived, and I came to terms with the fact that I wasn't going to fall in love with any other man. It seemed that I was specifically JC-sexual.

We trained together. I had his back; he had mine; and in the eight years we were enlisted, our friendship expanded to include Jack Taylor and Demi Aston—Taylor and Asti. They were an integral part of our lives right up until the day they’d died.

A day filled with so much horror that it wakes me up at night as nightmares chase me in my sleep.

A bullet had passed through Taylor’s heart and hit JC in the temple, slowing enough through Taylor, that it didn't kill JC outright. Fragments of the slug were still in JC’s head now, pressing on his brain. His emotions were in turmoil—his memory was strong one day, the next it was gone—the PTSD was crippling, not to mention the survivor's guilt, and worst of all…

The very worst thing…

I came away from that fight with nothing more than a concussion and hearing damage.

Nothing big in a physical sense, although my ear injury led to me being discharged. Emotionally however, I didn’t need a therapist to tell me that I was frozen in the single moment when I thought JC had died. The therapist wanted me to push through, to center myself, to find myself; but I wanted to be strong for JC. So I shoved everything down, became Adrian-the-dependable, the hero, the bodyguard, the medical assist; and thanked the heavens that I was at the end of my time in the army anyway.

Are you taking the bullet out? JC asked the latest doctor who had examined the records from the army surgeons and the private experts who followed. The doc frowned at him. He’d already explained how there was only a small chance that the bullet would migrate, that it wasn't causing an infection, and the damage was done, so there was no point in worrying. I knew there were letters in his records from his family—specifically his parents—asking that hope wasn’t given to JC when there was none. I hated that they had to say that—everyone is entitled to hope, but I was just as bad at never telling him the truth. The bullet wasn’t coming out, and the damage would shape the rest of JC’s life, and mine.

Because I was never leaving his side.

Adrian? Are they taking it out?

Soon, JC, I lied and leveled a glare at the doctor to warn him not to say a word. Every time JC asked me if the bullet would one day come out, I told him soon, and then he’d forget, until he asked me again.

Every time I lied to him another small part of me died.

At this time, given everything I have here, our recommendation remains one of therapy…

I glanced over at JC's grandmother, Georgina, who was sitting upright in her chair and showing no emotion. That was her upbringing, her station, her belief in what was right, but I'd seen her cry. Hell, I'd held her when she sobbed; so, I knew that the surface was calm, but under it all, there was indescribable grief. The three of us left the office—JC still holding my hand, leaning on me for support—and we made our way back to the car with careful and slow steps. The chauffeur opened the door for us, and as soon as we were inside, Georgina turned to me with determination.

I found a place in Tennessee, rehab, horticultural therapy. There are stables nearby, no paparazzi, no one would know he was there. I want JC to go.

My chest tightened. What would he do without me next to him? What would I do without caring for him and loving him the best way I could?

To Tennessee?

JC used my shoulder as a headrest and closed his eyes, mumbling something under his breath.

They won't come to us here, she pursed her lips, but I understand why. There's affection at the center, warmth, love, and support.

Okay, if it’s the right place for him, then I’ll take him there, I insisted. But I wouldn’t leave him. Hell, I was already making plans to rent close to wherever he was, just a small place where I could see him every day. I didn't care if we were co-dependent because I knew him better than I knew myself, and I was staying.

I don't want you just to take him; I want you to go with him and stay. As his… She waved a hand as if she expected me to fill in the words.

Friend? I suggested with caution.

You're his friend already. At this moment in time, he needs more than just a friend; he needs you to step up and keep him safe from the threats that circulate around this damn family. She dipped her head, as if she couldn’t believe she’d cursed. "Away from his parents, and I need you to create a security team. I need you to be his bodyguard."

Okay.

To never leave his side.

I won’t ever leave his side.

To keep my grandson safe.

You have my word.

She reached over and took my hand, glancing at JC, who had drifted into sleep. I know you love him more than you let him know. She couldn't know how much I loved JC. Could she? Not even JC knew what I really felt.

I don’t… Words were hard, but her perception was legendary.

You don’t need to lie to me. Love my grandson, wholly and completely, and keep him safe. She laced her fingers with mine.

I nodded. Always.

TWO

JC

Present day – Ellery Veterans Center

The mirror lied.

It might show me my face, but that was it and it only revealed the parts of me that the world could see. I have blond hair, but wet from the shower, it was darker; and I could push it right back and flat. When it’s dry, it tends to curl, something I’d inherited from my mom; but as it got longer, I'd started tying it back, not letting one single curl escape. My eyes are blue, but just saying they were blue is underselling them. Along with my mom's curls, I had my dad's piercing blue gaze, the same eyes I saw staring down at me from billboards. Not that I saw much of them to remember the shapes of their faces, and the only reference I have now is photos in glossy magazines. Turns out that a crippled son is worse than useless for social media likes, and I hadn’t seen either of them since the one time they’d visited me in the hospital. Dad lived in Hollywood; my mom split her time between Paris and Milan; and somehow, the two of them had one of the longest marriages in Tinseltown.

Probably because they were never together.

Neither of my parents were hands-on when it came to me. After that one well-publicized visit to my hospital bed, and a big fuss over a privately funded mercy flight, there’d been nothing.

I’m used to it.

My grandparents were the people who’d raised me, and I was glad for that.

I peered at my reflection, ignoring the blue eyes, and the growing beard that I hated, and the curls starting to bounce up as my hair dried.

The lie in the mirror was that I couldn't see the bullet fragments in my head. Only machines could see the damage, but I knew what was in there, and I scratched near the scar, which itched like fuck.

Hey, don't do that, Adrian murmured and laced our fingers together so he could tug me away from worrying at the skin. He’d have been horrified if I’d told him I had this idea that, if I scratched hard enough and then tilted my head, the fragments would fall out.

I did that in my dreams, but I’d also discussed it in my chats with my therapist, who told me it was understandable to feel as if I could reach into my brain and pick out the metal.

Understandable. Reasonable.

Sorry.

Adrian squeezed my hand. It's okay; I'm just jealous that you have a wicked scar for the ladies.

I glanced at him. And the men.

He nodded and I wish I knew what he was thinking, but Adrian had this inscrutable way about him. Or maybe it was that my brain wasn't working enough to try to read his thoughts the way I'd always been able to do before. My doctor likened this challenging part of my recovery to face-blindness, saying that the part of my brain that understood expressions was damaged.

Yep, all the men, too, Adrian corrected himself in his usual upbeat breezy fashion, then pulled me away from the mirror and sat me in the chair. I couldn't tie my hair back on my own, but he knew that, and already had the thin leather he twined in my damp curls to tame them. Ready for a shave? He picked up the shaver, but I shook my head. You're gonna grow a beard, JC? For real? He was teasing me because that was what Adrian did. He pulled me out of the dark times, and he laughed with me, and at me, and he made me remember I was still alive.

I wish I weren't alive. I would give anything for Taylor or Asti to be here instead of me.

It hurts, I admitted, and as soon as I said it, I wanted to take back the words because Adrian dropped to a crouch in front of me.

What hurts? he asked with urgency.

The… thing, I patted my cheek, but my hand was shaking, and I dropped it immediately.

Your head hurts?

No. Yes.

Okay, do I need to get someone? Adrian was talking to me, at me, and I tried to listen, but his voice was a blur. I knew he'd been injured in the same firefight because that memory was right there, lodged in some part of my brain that I couldn't store much else in. He was deaf in one ear, and he sometimes shouted, but this was different. It was just noise.

No, I held out a hand, which was shaking so much he had to catch it and hold it still.

I'm sorry, Adrian said, but he didn't move from his crouch.

I needed to tell him how the shaver hurt me, I had to get him to understand why it hurt, and then he would back off. It was the movement of the razor, the press of it to my skin, the sensory impact of it around the scar. There was a word that meant… like a movement… like repeated pinpricks, like… I know it began with a V, but I couldn't find the fucking word.

When you shave me, it does a V-thing in my head. I felt so damn helpless.

Adrian frowned, but he knew more of what was in my head than I did, and his eyes widened.

Vibrates?

That was the word! Such a simple freaking thing. Only two… styluses, no, syllabubs. No! Syllables. Yes.

Okay, no worries, I think the beard looks sexy. For a mountain man. He smirked at me, and I knew that he was making a joke as he smiled, and I smiled in return. That was something I did know. When a smile met a smile, this equaled a happy thing, and Adrian made me smile. Maybe we need to visit the barbers? There's a place in town, Norma Jean's Clip and Curl. I'll call the team, and we could walk down there? No pressure if not.

Maybe tomorrow, I said, as if that was what I wanted to do and the thought of walking into the local town didn't terrify the fuck out of me. Could you do it with a razor?

He sat back on his heels. I can if you want me to.

I think that might be a good idea. I lost myself in his dark eyes. Sometimes, I was unfocused, but never when I caught and held Adrian's gaze, because I was always able to center myself and stare right back when it was him. I'd never had trouble staring at the man I'd loved since I was old enough to know what love was.

I’d always wanted him to love me back, but we were friends, that was all; and I needed a best friend who cared about me as a person, more than I needed sex and regrets.

I didn’t want him to hate what I’d become—a messed-up excuse for a person.

Okay, hold on. He went over to his cot, which was pressed into one corner of this already small room. I didn’t think it could’ve been comfortable to sleep on, but he was adamant that no one would make him leave my side. He wasn't just my friend anymore; he was my security—head of a team based in Ellery, here in the Smoky Mountains, at the Ellery Veterans Center—and he was serious about his responsibilities.

When he came back with a disposable razor and foam, plus a towel, I stopped him from walking past me to the small bathroom that was part of the room.

Can I get a hug? I asked him, attempting to keep all the pathetic parts of me out of my tone.

He smiled and pulled me close. Of course, he murmured.

I buried my nose into his neck and inhaled the scent of him. He was so familiar to me, such a big part of my life and heart, but something had changed since we’d come home. He was holding himself apart from me, watching me all the time, and I was desperate for the old Adrian.

It seemed like I'd lost my Adrian on the battlefield, as sure as I'd lost the rest of the team.

I wanted my Adrian back.

I just didn't know how to go about it.

THREE

Adrian

Can I get a hug? he’d asked me.

I hugged him close because hugging JC was everything to me. I was caring for him, offering support, but at the same time, I was able to hold him tight and pretend we were together in all the ways I wanted to be.

He chuckled against my shoulder, and then eased himself away.

I needed that hug, he murmured, then went into the tiny bathroom and sat on the edge of the bath before tilting his chin. Have at it.

You might regret this, I teased as I filled the washbasin with warm water and fussed around setting things up. We’d done so much in our lives together—slept in the same bed, fought, lived, seen things that no person should see, loved, laughed, and been closer than brothers—but I’d never shaved him.

I felt the puff of breath on my face as I concentrated, realizing I was syncing my breathing with his. His eyes were beautiful, as blue as a perfect sky, with a darker rim around his pupil. They were the eyes of a movie star or a model, the sort that captured the attention on a billboard or stopped you from turning pages in a magazine.

The kind that stole my breath whenever I was near him.

I concentrated on shaving him, and he kept still as best he could. I only had to steady his chin twice, and the second time, I didn’t release my gentle hold, shaving him in smooth movements, but I saw the pain in his eyes just before he closed them.

Are you okay? I asked.

When will they take the bullet out? he murmured.

My heart cracked. Soon.

Okay.

Change the subject. Hey, do you remember that day we were out riding and Bumble stole your sandwich?

His grandparents owned the vast Baker estate in California which came