Jay Thompson is not the sort of man to indulge in nerves, but as he waits in Anthony Williams’ office, he can’t help bouncing his heel against the polished floor, counting the seconds by the tick of the massive wall clock. Tony—the Boss—has a way of filling every inch of a room even when he isn’t in it. His scent (something between expensive aftershave and the inside of a loaded magazine), his voice, his legacy. Jay sometimes wonders if his own presence will ever carry like that.

The office door swings open with the softest whoosh. Tony enters in a suit so sharp it could double as a garrote. His stare lands on Jay and clamps like a vice. “Sit, J.T.,” he says, though Jay’s already perched on the edge of his chair, back rigid, hands folded so tight the knuckles go white.

Tony closes the door, sinks behind his desk, and slides a folder across the glossy surface. “You’ll want to look at that.”

Jay flips it open and scans the first page. It’s a dossier: headshot, bio, security summary, known threats. Tabitha Carter. Age: nineteen. Height: five-two. Alias: “Tabby Cat.” Not a newscaster, not a senator’s daughter. Porn star. Jay fights down the automatic flush in his neck.

He glances up. “You’re not fucking with me, right?”

Tony’s smile is a tic, here and gone. “You wish. She’s got a stalker, level three. Local PD are morons, her management is terrified, and it’ll be a PR nightmare if anything happens to her. They want you, specifically. You’re getting hazard pay.”

Jay thumbs through the next few pages. A laundry list of threats—social media, handwritten notes, gifts. Some photos, a few too graphic for the average civilian. “You know I’m married, right?”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “And you’re professional. I don’t care if her next scene’s a gangbang in a dumpster, you keep her safe. Think you can manage?”

Jay’s jaw ticks, but he nods. “Copy that.”

Tony studies him, expression neutral. “You need time to call Karla? You’re going to be clocking some overtime.”

“I’ll handle it,” Jay says, already closing the folder. “I always do.”

“That’s what I like about you,” Tony says, rising. “You’re never a fuckup—unlike some people.” He doesn’t say names, but Jay knows who’s on Tony’s shit list this month.

Jay stands, tucks the folder under his arm, and turns for the door. He’s nearly out when Tony calls, “J.T.—”

Jay pivots back. “Yeah, Boss?”

“Watch yourself. This girl—she’s not like the politicians. She’ll try to get under your skin. Don’t let her.”

Jay offers a wry smile. “I don’t do feelings, Tony.”

“Everyone does,” Tony replies. “Even you.”

****

By the time Jay gets home, it’s almost nine. The house is dark except for the kitchen, where Karla sits under the harsh fluorescent light, grading student essays in red pen. Her hair’s up, loose tendrils curling down her neck, face unpainted but still the best thing Jay’s seen all day.

She looks up when he enters. “Hey, stranger,” she says, smile crinkling her eyes. There’s no judgment in her tone, just the resigned humor of a woman who’s been married to a security contractor too long to expect dinner at seven.

Jay sets his bag down and peels off his jacket. “Sorry, babe. The boss pulled me late.”

Karla uncaps her water bottle and takes a slow sip, watching him over the rim. “You always say that.”

He leans in, kissing her temple. “I mean it every time.”

She snorts, marks an X on a paper, and sets it aside. “You smell like gun oil.”

He shrugs. “Had a range day.”

She leans into him anyway, nestling her cheek into his chest. He curls his arms around her, lets himself exhale for the first time all day.

“Tomorrow’s the appointment,” she says, voice muffled. “The big fertility one.”

“I didn’t forget,” Jay lies. He did, sort of, but it’s in the calendar, and he’ll make it happen.

They stand like that, motionless, until Karla breaks away, smoothing her skirt as she rises. “I made you something,” she says, moving to the fridge. “It’s probably gross now, but you need to eat.”

Jay follows, watching her pull a Tupperware container and dump it into a bowl. She microwaves it, arms folded tight around her ribs, as if she’s cold in her own kitchen.

“You okay?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Just tired. I had to sub for Mrs. Glass today, first graders. They’re like walking Petri dishes.”

He grins. “I bet you were adorable, herding all those rugrats.”

She manages a laugh. “You have no idea.”

He wants to tell her about the new assignment, about Tabby Cat and the stalker, but the words stick. He isn’t sure why—maybe it’s that he doesn’t want to admit how much it bothers him, this idea of being paid to guard a girl who gets fucked for a living when he and Karla can’t even manage it once a week anymore. Maybe he just wants one quiet dinner with his wife before everything changes again.

She slides the reheated food across the counter. “Eat.”

He digs in, forcing the food down even though he’s not hungry. Karla returns to her papers but keeps glancing up, as if waiting for him to say something real.

After a minute, she sets her pen aside. “Jay?”

He looks up.

“Are you happy?”

He chews, swallows, and considers his answer. “Sure. I mean, yeah. Why?”

She picks at a hangnail. “You just seem…distant. Even more than usual.”

“I’ve got a big job coming,” he says, defaulting to honesty when all else fails. “High-profile client. There’s a real threat this time.”

She nods, lips pressed tight. “Will you be home for dinner, or is this another three-week ghosting?”

He grimaces. “I’ll try. You know how Tony is.”

She offers a thin smile, then stands and starts stacking her papers. “Let me know if you’re not coming home. I don’t like waiting up.”

“Hey,” Jay says, coming around the counter. He takes her face in his hands, gently tilting her chin so she has to look at him. “I love you.”

She bites her lip, then kisses him, soft and chaste. “I love you, too,” she murmurs. “Just…don’t die, okay?”

“Not planning on it.”

He releases her, then gathers the empty bowl and rinses it in the sink. Karla retreats to the bedroom. He hears the shower start, the water pounding through the pipes like distant artillery.

Jay stands in the darkened kitchen, hands braced on the counter. He wonders when intimacy became so procedural, when his body started responding more to adrenaline and danger than to the woman he married. He wonders how much of himself he’s already sacrificed for the job, and how much more he can bleed before there’s nothing left.

He checks his phone, scans the email with the stalker’s threat portfolio. It’s standard fare—obsessive, escalating, probably harmless but not a risk he’s allowed to take. Still, it bothers him, the way the words loop back on themselves, the way the sender knows things about Tabby Cat that aren’t public record.

He thumbs through her file again, pausing on her photo. She’s young, absurdly pretty, almost childlike if not for the hard, practiced stare. He tries to imagine what it’s like to be her, living in a world where every glance could be a threat, where every man might want to own you, break you, fuck you or kill you.

Jay closes the folder and goes to the bedroom. Karla’s already under the covers, scrolling her phone, pretending not to notice when he undresses and slides in beside her.

He wraps an arm around her waist, spooning her, and for a moment, it feels like the old days. Her body is warm and pliant, her breathing slows to match his. He’s hard, unexpectedly, but he knows better than to press it. Instead, he holds her until she drifts off, then lies awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Tabby Cat and the faceless man who wants her dead.

He wonders if this will be the assignment that finally breaks him. He wonders if he’ll even notice.

When sleep comes, it’s shallow and restless, haunted by the electric glow of a stranger’s green eyes.

****

The studio looks like any other warehouse from the outside—rectangular, nondescript, tucked between a vape shop and a massage parlor that’s almost definitely a front for something. Jay arrives early, parks his nondescript sedan in the back lot, and does a slow, methodical perimeter walk. He clocks the cameras (two real, one dummy), the blind spots, the alley exit. No sign of trouble, unless you count the needle tracks in the arm of the guy passed out behind the dumpster.

Inside, the air is heavy with sweat, old coffee, and something faintly sweet and rotten—probably lube. The studio’s front office is a glassed-in booth papered with flyers: amateur casting calls, STD test results, a motivational poster of a kitten dangling from a branch. Jay is directed to the break room, where he’s told “the girls usually gather before a shoot.” He sets up at a corner table, scanning the space, posture relaxed but alert. This is not his world, but it’s not entirely foreign either.

He’s only been nursing a terrible coffee for five minutes when a shock of red curls enters the room, wrapped in a sweatshirt that reads I’M NOT THAT INNOCENT across the chest. Sandra “Red Riot” Wilson drops into the chair opposite him, her legs splayed in ripped jeans, with a size-you-up smile already in place.

“You’re the new muscle?” she says, voice raspy but playful. “I thought they’d send someone with, like, a neck tattoo. Or at least a porn ‘stache.”

Jay shrugs. “Disappointing, I know. I’ll try to grow one by next week.”

Sandra grins wider, then leans in, dropping her voice. “Just so we’re clear—I don’t need a bodyguard. But Tabby’s got a thing for collecting strays, so here we are.”

Jay taps the folder in front of him, the same dossier Tony gave him last night. “Your friend’s got a real problem.”

“Everyone in this building’s got a problem, sugar,” Sandra says. “Tabby’s is just more… interesting.”

He waits, lets the silence bloom, and eventually Sandra relents. “This guy’s been escalating. Last week, she got a box of dead flowers with a note taped to her gate. ‘I see you.’ Classic, right? Weirdo probably jerks it to her videos six times a day, but that’s not a crime, is it?”

“Any reason to think it’s someone here?”

Sandra smirks. “That would be way more fun, but nah. The studio’s crawling with pervs, but they’re too lazy to stalk. Tabby’s just got bad luck.” She glances at Jay, noting the scar on his knuckle, the way he watches the door behind her. “You ex-military?”

He nods. “I did a couple of tours. Private sector now.”

Sandra shrugs, like it figures. “Well, you’ll love this place. The craft services table is all Red Bull and gummy bears, and the only time people aren’t screaming is when they’re fucking on camera.”

Jay’s about to ask more when Sandra sits up, craning her neck toward the hallway. “It’s Showtime,” she says, a little too loud.

A ripple goes through the room. Even the crusty sound guy by the fridge sits up straighter. She enters with zero ceremony— a platinum blonde, micro-miniskirt, t-shirt knotted just below her barely-there tits. Tabby Cat looks like a cartoon sex doll crossed with a Catholic schoolgirl, but her face is pure calculation. Jay sees it in the way she scans the room, clocking everyone and everything, including him.

She walks right up to Jay, bends at the waist (no shame, not even a hint of it), and stares him down. “So… Are you my new babysitter?”

“Security detail,” he corrects, and stands to meet her gaze. She’s a head shorter than he is, but projects an energy that makes her seem bigger.

“Good,” she says, and grabs his hand, turning it palm-up to study his lifeline. “You look like you don’t fuck around.”

Sandra rolls her eyes. “He’s ex-mil, Tabs. I already checked.”

Tabby tosses her hair, then finally lets go. “You’ll have to stay close. My Stalker likes to call during my shoots.”

She glances up at Jay, a flicker in her eyes that lands somewhere between a challenge and an invitation. "You can go ahead and watch me if you want. I know you're curious, so you don't have to pretend otherwise."

Jay suppresses the flush rising in his cheeks. “I’m here for your safety, miss. That’s all.”

“Whatever you say, officer, do right.” She winks, then grabs a Red Bull from the fridge, cracks it, and drains half the can in one go.

She’s barely settled in when a PA pops in and calls, “Ten minutes to first scene, Tabby. They’re doing makeup.”

Tabby looks at Jay. “You coming? I might need a chaperone so I don’t get molested by the crew.” She doesn’t wait for an answer; she just starts walking, and he falls in behind her, keeping two steps back.

The makeup room is chaos—lights, mirrors, girls in various states of undress, powder dusting the air like fine snow. Tabby drops into the chair, crosses her legs, and lets a makeup artist attack her face with brushes and sprays.

Jay posts himself by the door, his arms folded, doing his best not to stare at the way Tabby’s thigh rides up as she bounces her leg.

The director, a leathery guy in a Hawaiian shirt, sidles up. “So you’re the new black suit? Heard you were military.”

Jay just nods.

“Well, just don’t block the shot, okay? And if you gotta shoot anybody, wait ‘til we finish the scene. These girls don’t come cheap.” He cackles at his own joke and shuffles off.

Tabby meets Jay’s eyes in the mirror, her mouth pursed in a tiny, mocking pout. “You look so uncomfortable. It’s adorable.”

Jay ignores her, scans the faces reflected in the mirror—crew, techs, other performers, none of them a match for the photo in the stalker’s file. But Tabby’s right: he feels the eyes, the unspoken challenge. He’s the interloper here, the only one playing by a set of rules the rest of them find funny or pathetic.

When makeup’s done, Tabby stands, shakes out her hair, and walks over. She stops just close enough that he can smell her perfume—something sharp and synthetic, like bubblegum and vodka. She tilts her chin up. “Now, don’t get bored.”

Then she’s gone, out onto the soundstage.

Jay follows, standing just inside the black curtain as the crew sets up the lights and sound. The set is a cheap simulacrum of a high school locker room—benches, a line of lockers painted in garish blue. Jay takes his spot, watches as the male performer (older, generic good looks) enters, and starts running lines with Tabby.

She’s a different person on camera: voice pitched higher, movements exaggerated, eyes huge and guileless. The director calls, “And action!” and Tabby launches into a breathy, giggly monologue about being caught after cheer practice. The guy plays along, stumbling through his lines, but Tabby is the real star, and it shows how she can dominate the whole set. Tabby Cat doesn’t just act for the camera, she OWNS it.

Jay tries not to watch, but it’s impossible to ignore as Tabby bends over a bench, her skirt riding up to reveal not just panties but the absence of them. The guy fumbles at her, and in seconds they’re fucking—loud, messy, with Tabby egging him on, milking the camera for every drop of attention.

“Yes! Fuck yes!” she's screaming while the guy’s balls are slapping against her ass. Tabby’s voice rings through the studio, wild and high and completely unfiltered.

“Oh god, YES! Fuck me just like that! Harder, you fucking animal, HARDER!”

The guy behind her grunts and really lets go, pounding into her so fast and rough the whole bench is rattling and the set is creaking and everyone in the room is watching, even the bored camera guy who’s suddenly wide-eyed.

Tabby’s voice is a fucking siren, high and wild, “YES! YES! HARDER! Oh my god, don’t stop! Don’t you fucking stop!”

Jay can’t look away. The sounds Tabby’s making are obscene and wild, echoing off the walls.

“YES! YES! Fuck me! Oh god, pound my pussy!” She’s clawing at the bench, her ass jiggling with every brutal stroke, and the guy’s got both hands gripping her hips like he’s afraid she’ll rocket off the bench if he lets go.

Jay stands there, his arms crossed, trying to look detached, but his cock is already thickening in his pants as Tabby’s voice goes higher and higher.

“Fuck! YES! YES! FILL ME UP! Oh god, I want it so deep! Oh fuck, I can feel you in my stomach! HARDER! HARDER!”

Tabby glances his way mid-scene, locking eyes with him even as she gets railed from behind. Her mouth opens in an exaggerated moan, but the look she gives him is a pure challenge—daring him to look away, to pretend he’s not affected.

He doesn’t look away. He stands his ground, his jaw locked tight, his senses sharp as razors as she screams, “I’m cumming! I’m fucking cumming!”

He sweeps the crew, the exits, never quite letting her out of his sight—not even for a second.

When the scene finally wraps, Tabby doesn’t even bother covering up. She saunters off the set, sweaty and glowing, and heads straight for Jay.

“So… how did you like the show?” she asks, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

He answers flat, emotionless. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters to me.”

She leans in and whispers so only he can hear. “If that’s all, how come it looked like you were getting hard?”

He doesn’t respond; he won’t give her the satisfaction.

She lingers a second longer, then turns and walks away, her hips swaying exaggeratedly.

Jay exhales, tries to will away the pulse throbbing in his groin.

He’s worked war zones, cartel compounds, domestic disputes gone nuclear, but he’s never felt so off balance, so close to losing control. This job is going to be harder than he thought.

He watches Tabby’s retreating form, then turns back to his job, eyes hard, posture squared, but blood still pounding hot and guilty in his ears.

****

The shoot on the next day is different, it's not a man but a woman instead. The other porn star is young like Tabby and is about the...