Jenna’s Protector (Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists: CHARLIE Team #4)

6. Jenna

SIX

Jenna

My heart thunders against my ribcage, a wild beat echoing the storm of emotions churning within me. I draw in a deep breath to anchor myself. Tension ripples through each vertebra as I straighten my spine.

“I should get back out there.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “Malia can’t handle the lunch rush alone.”

“Thank you. I mean it.” Carter’s eyes, warm and earnest, lock onto mine.

“What now?” My fingers twist the hem of my shirt, betraying my nerves.

“I want to bring in a sketch artist.” Carter’s chest rises with a deep breath. He leans in, his presence both comforting and overwhelming.

“Why?” The question escapes before I can stop it, sharp with fear. He doesn’t need a sketch artist, but I’ve already shared too much. I need space.

“I’m hoping we can identify some men from those parties.” Carter’s voice is low and intense. “If I can get sketches, I can run them through facial recognition databases. It might help find a pattern or link to the current disappearances. ”

My stomach lurches, twisting into knots. “I don’t know if I can help with that.”

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Every face, leering smile, and predatory gaze is seared into my memory, and the thought of revisiting those images makes my skin crawl.

“You’re the only one who has seen these people up close.” Carter’s tone is gentle but firm.

“I’ll try.” The words are barely a whisper. I swallow hard, feeling the sting of unshed tears.

I don’t want to try.

I don’t want to remember.

I don’t want to visit a single moment from my past.

“I hate to ask more from you, but it could help.” Carter’s hand finds my shoulder. His grip is warm and reassuring.

I yearn to lean into his touch, to let his strength seep into me. His presence is a comfort, something solid I desperately need right now.

A soft whine draws my attention downward. Max nudges my leg, his brown eyes pools of concern. Kneeling, I bury my fingers in his soft fur, drawing strength from his unwavering presence.

Rising to my feet, I meet Carter’s gaze. My voice is stronger now, bolstered by Max’s silent support.

“Okay. When do we start?”

“As soon as possible. I need to schedule the sketch artist. I’ll let you know.”

“Then it’s a date.” The words slip out before I can stop them, a bitter reminder of the fantasies I’ve harbored. I force a smile, trying to mask the ache in my chest.

“I suppose it is.” Carter’s eyes soften, and a flicker of something unreadable passes over his face.

“If there’s nothing else, I do need to get back out there.”

Carter’s gaze lingers, a flicker of something—regret? longing?—passing through him.

“Sure. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.” He opens his mouth as if to say more, then presses his lips together, the moment evaporating like mist in sunlight .

Would a real date have been too much to hope for? I nod, pushing the longing aside.

“Well, I guess that’s it. Let me know when you… When you need me.” I brush past him, the warmth of his body a fleeting comfort.

The scent of his cologne clings to me, a bittersweet reminder of our closeness. As I step back into the café, the cacophony of clanking dishes and murmured conversations washes over me. It’s jarring, this abrupt transition from the intimacy of our conversation to the mundane bustle of everyday life.

The espresso machine hisses. Its familiar sound grounds me in the present. Yet, I feel as if I left a part of myself behind in that small room—the part that dared to hope, to dream of a future with Carter Jackson.

For a moment, I imagine what it might be like to spend more time with Carter—not as a victim or a witness, but as someone he cares for. The thought is both thrilling and terrifying.

But he’s right.

As much as I want to pretend that part of my life never happened, I can’t ignore the fact that I might be able to prevent others from suffering the same fate. The weight of this responsibility settles on my shoulders, heavy yet somehow empowering.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me from my reverie. I pull it out, my heart stuttering as I read the name on the screen: Forest Summers. The man who helped me escape my personal hell, the leader of the Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists.

With trembling fingers, I open the text. It’s short, but it sucks the air from my lungs:

Forest : I’m sending a Detective to talk to you. I think you can help him.

Me : Two minutes too late, Forest.

Forest : Sorry.

A humorless laugh escapes me. Forest Summers brought my past into my present with all the subtlety of a freight train.

And just like that, the past I’ve tried so hard to outrun catches up with me, pushing me into the arms of the man I’ve secretly yearned for since moving into this town. A man who, moments ago, I foolishly thought might be taking a step toward something more.

The bitter irony isn’t lost on me. As I tie on my apron, preparing to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of brewing coffee and serving customers, I can’t help but wonder: Is this a new beginning, or just another chapter in a story I thought I’d finished writing?

I turn away as Carter leaves. The soft jingle of the bell above the door marks his departure.

The hiss of the espresso machine jerks my thoughts back to the coffee shop. I breathe deeply, letting the freshly ground coffee’s rich aroma fill my lungs. The rhythmic clink of cups and saucers, the low murmur of conversation, the scrape of chairs against the hardwood floor—these sounds envelop me, grounding me in the present.

I move behind the counter, my hands automatically reaching for the portafilter. The routine is comforting—measure, tamp, lock, brew. The machine whirs to life, and I lose myself in the sultry dance of creating the perfect shot of espresso.

A customer approaches, and I plaster on a fake smile. It feels fragile, like a mask that could slip at any moment, but it holds.

“What can I get you?” My voice is steady, betraying none of the turmoil beneath the surface.

As I work, I can’t help but reflect on the foolishness of my dreams. Carter now knows my past. He sees the damage underneath. The spark I felt between us was clearly one-sided. He’s not interested in me beyond his case, and that totally sucks.

The lunch rush begins in earnest, and I throw myself into the work.

Each latte becomes a canvas, each perfectly pulled shot of espresso a crafted masterpiece, and every friendly interaction with a regular customer a comforting anchor. These small victories remind me I’ve created something real here, something good.

It may not be the life I dreamed of, but it’s mine. And for now, that has to be enough.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, my mind trapped in an endless loop of our conversation. I serve customers on autopilot, my smile a brittle mask hiding the turmoil within.

As I lock up for the night, exhaustion settles into my bones. The short walk home is a haze of streetlights and shadows, my thoughts as murky as the twilight around me. My apartment, once a sanctuary, now feels like a cage of my own making. My phone suddenly buzzes with an incoming text.

Carter: I’ve secured a sketch artist. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at 9 AM and take you to my office.

I stare at the message, my heart pounding. Tomorrow, I’ll have to face my past again. I respond with a simple “ Okay ,” and set my phone down, trying to calm my racing thoughts.

Sleep eludes me, my dreams a twisted maze of memories and fears. In my nightmares, I’m back in that room, the harsh lights blinding me as rough hands strip away my dignity. I didn’t tell Carter about the tattoo—invisible marks on my skin—branding me as property. I wake with a start, my wrist burning as if the ink is still fresh.

When my alarm blares, it feels like I’ve barely closed my eyes. I drag myself out of bed, every movement an effort. My fingers automatically reach my wrist, rubbing at the invisible tattoo. No matter how hard I scratch, I can never erase what was done to me.

In the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror. A stranger stares back at me. Her eyes are haunted pools in a pale face. Her hair hangs limp and lifeless as if it, too, has given up the pretense of looking good. I lean closer, searching for any trace of the woman I thought I was becoming.

“You can do this,” I whisper to my reflection, the words sounding hollow even to my ears. “You have to do this.” My fingers retrace the inside of my wrist, a habit I can’t seem to break.

Under UV light, the mark is as clear as day, but my skin looks unblemished in the harsh bathroom lighting. If only the scars inside could be so easily hidden.

I go through my morning routine mechanically, armoring myself in layers of clothing as if they could protect me from the memories I’ll have to face. Each tick of the clock is a countdown to the moment I’ll have to confront my past. Pulling on my shirt, I ensure the sleeve covers my wrist completely. Even though no one can see the tattoo, I feel exposed and vulnerable.

A sudden, sharp rap on my door makes me jump. Three hard, demanding knocks—unmistakably the hand of law enforcement.

My heart leaps into my throat. Carter’s punctuality is both reassuring and terrifying. My hand flies to my wrist again, rubbing frantically as if I could scrub away the memories and the invisible mark.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself, before opening the door.