Frog and Quinn: Chapter Four (Patreon)

  “You ever been to Good Syrup?” I asked my older brother before I left, an AirPod in my left ear while I fitted my comms piece in my right and attached my radio to the waistband of my dark jeans. I might know Philly, but Oscar knows New York.

There was a time I’d rather gnaw on my forearm than ask for his advice with anything, most especially security work, but that pained past and animosity is so far gone, I could dig deep and only love would surface.

I’ve never stopped loving him, really.

I think my love for him is why it hurt so much in the first place when things became too raw between us.

“Say that again, bro!” Oscar shouted over the sound of honking cabs and gurgling city noises. He must’ve been out tracking his client’s every wandering move.

I repeated the name and asked again, “You been there?”

“Good Syrup?” Oscar straight-up cackled.

“Fuck,” I cursed. “What’s wrong with it?”

I knew it must be sketch when neither me nor Frog had ever heard of it before. Not that we’re well-versed in the NYC scene. She said she rarely went to the city when she lived in Buffalo. That it was “ages” away. So our experiences here have been during our time as bodyguards, and we hadn’t accompanied a famous one to this spot before.

But Oscar has been everywhere. He’s attached to Charlie Cobalt, the Houdini of all Cobalt brothers who will disappear to Paris, Amsterdam, Barcelona, you-name-it at the snap of a finger. Even though Charlie is rich as fuck, Gabe, Frog, and I have a theory that he frequents hole-in-the-wall cafés, diners, and bars all over the city. Because how else is he evading so much fucking paparazzi? No one knows where he is half the time, not even our boss.

Oscar was still laughing when he shouted, “Good luck, baby bro!” over the traffic noises. He was going to get off on the surprise that awaited me, I knew it.

“Essa é a dica que você me da?” I said in Portuguese. That’s all you got for me? I pulled a gray T-shirt over my head, happy that protecting Luna meant dressing casual most days. “No tips?”

“Bring a gas mask!”

I stared hard at the mirror. “Nossa,” I said flatly. Wow.

I’m here now. At this pancake-only breakfast joint that must’ve been established in a caveman’s rectum. It smells like ancient ass.

I texted that to Oscar.

His reply?

Big Brother: Have fun smelling that ancient ass.

Look, I’m not a complainer. But certain pungent smells make my eyes water. I’d say this job has given me a level of patience I didn’t previously possess, but I’d suffer through anything to prove a point. Ever since I started, I’ve been underestimated as the kid brother to Oscar, and I don’t want to be known as “Oscar’s baby brother” or a “decent bodyguard”—I want to be known as one of the GOATs.  

Like Farrow.

He could piss off all of Alpha and Epsilon, and still, they’d all rank him in the Top 3. He’s who you turn to when shit goes down hard, who you want at your side, and I want everyone to hope for me, to turn to me.

Right now, I doubt I’d even make Top 8 of some lists.

I’m posted outside the creaky entrance of Good Syrup. Newspaper shrouds the glass door, and I try not to let my mind drift to Frog, the dating app, her likes and potential matches. It makes me feel weird and worked up, like I’m in a full-on sprint around the block when I’m actually stationary.  

“I’m sorry, they’re closed,” I say for the tenth—maybe fifteenth, I don’t know I’m not counting—time.

The two college-aged guys stare like I just took a volcanic shit in their cereal. I’m shocked this many people want to spend more than five minutes inside. Maybe they were all planning on getting it to-go.

“Man, they’re open. Apple Maps says so.” He points to his phone for proof, and he’s not wrong.

“Private party,” I say casually. De-escalation is the name of the game. Don’t provoke. Don’t get hostile. Calm down the people who are currently throwing daggers for eyes at me.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” the one in an NYU sweatshirt exhales an annoyed breath. “Who wants to do a private party at Good Syrup? It smells like overcooked bacon and stale cigarettes.”

I almost laugh, thinking that yeah, Luna and Donnelly would gravitate to a breakfast place with that description. Normally, Luna wouldn’t shut down an entire restaurant for herself (that’s a move her more famous little brother has to do) but Good Syrup’s booth-only setup wasn’t really ideal for security. So Frog and I made the call to buyout the restaurant for the morning, and Luna approved after seeing Fruity Pebbles Cereal pancakes on the menu. She said it was a must try.

On a selfless level, this is part of why I love my job. I get to give a girl the ability to eat in peace with her boyfriend. It’s fulfilling knowing I provided that safety for someone, and that’s what she is. Safe under my watch.

The guys grumble under their breaths, then take the hint the longer I just stare dead-eyed at them. Seeing they’re not moving me from my post, they head down the street.

I click the mic at my crewneck collar, the wire leading up to a discreet earpiece. “Quinn to Frog, front entrance is secure.”

Static crackles over comms before I hear her voice. “Frog to Quinn, all good in here.” She pauses before she speaks again. “Except for the smell. I think my nostril hairs might need to be singed off after this. Lest they harbor this scent for life.”

I smile at the cement and click my mic. “Burnt bacon and stale cigarettes?”

“Wait, are you in here right now?”

I imagine her looking around for me, and I don’t know why that image heats my core. I’d stepped inside with her earlier, but not more than five feet before I took the entrance while she checked out the location. We didn’t mention the stench to each other because we were focused on the job. So I never gave my personal assessment.

“No,” I reply over comms. “I have my sources.”

“Yelp?” Frog asks. “I looked up the reviews, and people docked stars for the smell, but apparently the pancakes are supposed to make up for it. Pretty sure they have a whole-wheat cardboard pancake in here for you, if you want it to-go.”

I let out a dry laugh, then speak into the mic. “Hilarious.”

“I was serious, actually.”

I shake my head into a fleeting smile. A couple of women stop near the doorway. “Excuse me,” the one in trendy denim overalls waves a hand at me. “You look so familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

Jesus.  

Let me list the ways.

1)     I’m an Omega bodyguard that was involved in a viral video where we were each competing in a Hot Santa contest. I was nicknamed “the Young Stud” as the rookie of the security team at the time.

2)     My older brother, Oscar, has made numerous headlines as the bodyguard to the enigmatic Charlie Cobalt. Even me being ten years younger than Oscar, we look enough alike that maybe I could be mistaken for him.

3)     Luna Hale has been a constant source of gossip fodder for the media these past six months. It wouldn’t be wild for someone to spot me in the background of paparazzi photos.

4)     Last month, I was a boxer on a televised Fight Night for H.M.C. Philanthropies, a charity organization run by these families, and my fight ended in a draw with Oscar. There were millions of people tuning in.

So I’m not exactly surprised whenever I’m “recognized” in public, but it just throws an unneeded wrench into my job. Frog…she’s so lucky she doesn’t have this problem, but Farrow has it and he’s still Top 3. It’s proof that this isn’t a death knell to a career in private security, and I’m not letting it be one.

“I have one of those faces,” I say with an amicable smile.

“No, I swear I know you from somewhere,” she insists, then lets out a loud gasp. “I know! I know…you’re that guy from Love Island.”

MyGod.

“Oh my gosh, I think you’re right, Jenni. He was on season—”

“I wasn’t,” I cut her off. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Really?” Jenni asks in disbelief. “You totally should then. You’re so hot. You’d fit right in.”

“Oh my god, Jenni!” her friend says into a big laugh, but her cheeks are red hot in mortification.

They’re a distraction, and while I usually don’t mind the flattery, I am at work. “Good to know,” I tell Jenni. “Maybe I’ll apply.” Even saying the words sends a wave of nausea down my stomach. Nope, definitely won’t do that.

“We’ll keep a look out for you,” Jenni says in a coy smile, a breath away from giving me a wink. Her friend hooks her arm with hers and drags her away maybe before she thinks she’ll embarrass herself further. I don’t mind bold women though.

I prefer them, most of the time. A sudden flash of my ex passes through my brain, and a hot wave rolls over my body. Take a breath. I try to inhale deeply and block out the image of her.

Jenni and her friend round a corner out of sight, and I know what’s best for the situation is if I switch positions with Frog. It’s only a matter of time before people realize Luna is inside because I’m outside. But I’m more worried about paparazzi catching wind of our location and making it harder for us to leave.

“Quinn to Frog,” I say over comms. “We need to trade places. I’m getting recognized out here.”

She replies almost instantly. “This is one of those times I’m glad you’re so hot. My nose wasn’t going to last much longer.”

One of those times. What other time was there?

I want to ask, and then I don’t. It’ll just take over my brain all day, and I need to be present. On.

Glancing back at the door behind me, an uneasiness flips my stomach. Part of me hesitates to put Frog on the street. She’s much better flanking Luna than used as entrance security. For most guys, the reverse is true.

But Frog can’t intimidate paparazzi that well. She could have the meanest glare, and still, they know they can walk right through her because of her size.

I’m not about to be one of the dicks on Epsilon who don’t value or trust Frog. She might not have the muscle, but she has other strengths that we’ve all utilized for the benefit of the team. It’s literally why she’s a part of the team.

Not because she’s the boss’s cousin. But because we need her.

I hear the front door lock unlatch before Frog slips out onto the sidewalk beside me. She’s wearing thick gold hoop earrings, a denim mini skirt, and white sweater. I can already hear Ian and Vance Wreath complaining about how unfunctional her outfit is, but I’ve seen Frog sprint in a mini dress. Pretty sure she’ll do fine in a skirt.

Plus, she blends so easily with Luna in ways we can’t. She isn’t garnering the same attention as a six-foot-seven towering bodyguard who can’t shrink (sorry, Morettis). Some guys might as well be wearing shirts that say SECURITY.

Luna doesn’t want the spotlight. She sure as hell doesn’t want paparazzi on her ass, so Frog is a perfect fit for her.

Better than even me, which is what I’ll be saying by the end of summer when I have my quarterly meeting with Akara. I shouldn’t be on Luna’s detail forever. I need to go back to where I was before the…incident in November.

I had a coveted position reserved for only the elite bodyguards. But when Luna needed two bodyguards after her threat level increased, I was (for all intents and purposes) demoted.

I’m only sticking out this demotion for Luna.

For Frog.

I’ve wanted to be here for them. It hasn’t been hell. It’s been…it’s where I needed to be.

But end of summer, I’m out of here and back to my rightful place. It’s another reason I’m helping Frog with her goal of getting the team to trust her to fly solo.

And I want her to feel ready enough, too. After what happened…I know it took a toll on her, I know we don’t talk about it enough, but I’m sure she’s craving to be the sole bodyguard to Luna Hale again. She’s wanted to burn up the perception of needing an extra bodyguard just to take care of a client.

If she can do this alone, it means she’s okay. It also means Luna’s threat level has decreased enough to only require one bodyguard.

So yeah, I want this for Luna, for Frog…more than I think I want anything for myself.

“You good, Kannika?” I ask, stepping around her.

“Yep.” Frog pulls out a pair of sunglasses from her belt bag. “Except for the fact that I’m never eating bacon again.”

I smile over at her. “Now you're speaking to my vegetarian heart." I give her a once-over. "Looks like you're great then.” I lean a shoulder against the door and push it open, and I catch her peeking back at me and the hike of her lips before I face forward. My chest is light, until I’m inside. And I’m hit with the toxic mixture of burnt meat and stale cigarettes.

Ancient ass.

Damn. It’s going to be a long morning.

Aaaand fuck, I freeze and unfreeze like a glitch in the matrix at the sight of Luna Hale climbing on Donnelly’s lap in a scuffed wooden booth. I’m ten feet away and hidden slightly behind a flocked Christmas tree with multicolor lights. This place really said to hell with June, let’s keep it confusing all year ‘round. Dollar bills are glued to the ceiling like we’re in a bar, and a beady-eyed parrot stares at me from a tall cage behind a coat rack.

I bet their health inspection grade is horrifying. I’m not searching for that certificate on the wall. Ignorance is bliss right now.

Really, this place should be called Bizarre Syrup. Which is probably why Luna loves it.

I need to post up near the kitchen, which happens to lead to a fire exit. But that involves interrupting…whatever they’re doing.

Luna presses her fingertips to Donnelly’s head like she’s attempting to read his mind. I quickly pull out my phone and text Frog.

Our channel. Now.

I send it, then switch frequencies on my radio to a private channel that Frog and I have used more than once. Last thing I need are the fucking Wreath brothers eavesdropping on our conversation. Whenever they dig at her, I literally want to light one on fire.

“Smell getting to you?” Frog asks over comms. “You need a hazmat suit? Sorry to say we didn’t pack one for this adventure.”

“There’s a fucking parrot in here,” I whisper under my breath.

“Carlos.”

“Carlos?”

“Read the sign.”

I didn’t see the tiny, microscopic handwritten notecard attached to Carlos’s cage until now. Nothing gets past Frog. I speak quieter in the mic. “Your parents should’ve nicknamed you Hawk.”

“That’s not as cute.”

“True.” The corner of my mouth curves upward thinking about her actual nickname, then I check on the state of things in the booth. My stomach clenches. Shit. I put the mic to my lips to whisper, “They’re going to make out.”  

Thank you all for reading another Frog and Quinn chapter this month! Their story is soooo much fun to write, and we're excited to start showing some side character dynamics with these two as we get deeper into the story. You'll see more Lunnelly and Oliveira siblings soon. We hope you enjoyed this one! More chapters are coming in the new year, starting in January. Stay tuned!

xoxo Krista & Becca

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RESOURCES:  Check out Frog & Quinn's Collection for more of their chapters as their story continues.

MUSIC: We listened to "Good Horses" by Lainey Wilson and "So Sweet I Could Die" by Lucia & The Best Boys while writing this chapter.