The Bodyguard: an alien romance

by Tina Proffitt

“You can let me go now,” I say, irked by his cool, aloof manner when I’m freaking out inside. I try to squirm away.

  “I cannot. Letting you get hurt would be unacceptable.” His eyes are watering, but he's glaring at me like he hates me, like he wants to hurt me.

  “I'm sorry!” I cry. “But I didn't ask you to be my bodyguard!”

  He wipes at his eyes with one hand, keeping a hold of me with the other, but they're watering so much, his fingers slide away. “What did you do that for?” He groans.

  I'm a little sorry for what I’ve done—a little, but not altogether. “I didn't know it would hurt so much.”

  His expression is one of pained tolerance. “Have you ever been sprayed with that stuff?” he asks with deceptive calm.

  “No.”

  “Well, I have, twice now.” Van's voice is resigned, but the deep echoes reverberate inside the mine and weave a ribbon around my throat that makes it hard for me speak.

  Then I remember my original mission, to relieve myself of this embarrassment, this bodyguard assigned to me by my overprotective stepfather. My resolve returns, and I don't feel sorry for Van anymore. “Well, what were you doing, sneaking up on us?”

  “I am charged with keeping you in my sight at all times. I cannot do that with you inside this cave.”

  “You mean you've been following us this whole time?” Anna says, sounding surprised.

  He's a lot more determined than I expected. Losing him isn't going to be easy.

  “You'd better go rinse your eyes.” I didn't have any more water left in my bottle.

  His voice is cold and exact as he speaks. “I cannot leave you.”

  I heave a sigh, rolling my eyes, and pretend not to be affected by his closeness even though my heart is thudding against my ribs. “I'm sixteen. I don't need anyone taking care of me.”

  But my declaration has no effect on him.

  “We were just heading back,” Anna says, taking a step closer to us.

  His strong hands fall away as he straightens his tall frame.

  I notice the loss right away. The intensity of his touch is like being zapped with electricity, and now that it's gone, I can't feel anything.

  “I will be ten paces behind you,” he says in a low almost feral growl, “just so you know who it is. Do not mistake me for a stalker and spray me with that thing again.”

  “I said I was sorry,” I say, irritated by his mocking tone.

  He grits his teeth.

  I can see the muscles working in his square jaw, but I still can't resist shooting one more barb his way. “Don't follow us too close.”

  His eyes meet mine threateningly, and I know that he has no intention of letting me out of his sight again.

  Once back on the trail back to the campus, I look over my shoulder and can't see Van behind us or anywhere for that matter. Maybe he finally listened to me. The clouds overhead part and make way for the sun. We head for the main road that takes us back to the dorms.

  Just as we're about the cross the road, a mini-van skids to a sudden stop right in front of us.

  “There you girls are!” the woman driver calls out. “I've been all over campus looking for you.”

  Anna looks as stunned as I feel to see her mother.

  “Well, don't just stand there in the rain,” her mother says, “get in.”

  Anna climbs into the back seat after me. She sits beside me instead of taking the empty front seat next to her mother.

  “What about your friend?” Mrs. Breen is looking at Van, who's appeared out of nowhere.

  He's standing by the side of the road, his eyes wet and red, looking like he wants to laser me with those eyes.

  “He's nobody,” I say and glare back at my bodyguard.

  “Does he need a ride?”

  “No!” I say quickly.

  “He'll be stuck out here if we don't,” Anna says, always sympathetic to any cause.

  I shrug. “He's got legs.”

  Anna opens the door for him.

  Without a word, he bends his long frame and climbs into the farthest seat in the back, away from me.

  Once he's settled and Mrs. Breen starts to drive, I glance back at him. He's staring out the window. He holds his head high with pride. Sunlight reflects off the trees, showing the shadow of a beard on his jaw that only adds to his manly aura. The muscles in his proud jaw twitch. He must be angry. And I can't really blame him. For a second, I even feel sorry for him. He is just trying to do his job. Then I remind myself who he works for, and my comfortably righteous indignation comes back.

  “What are you doing here?” Anna asks her mother.

  “I'm not going to let my little girl spend Christmas at school.” Her mother sounds cheerfully indignant.

  Anna gives me a sympathetic look.

  I have to look away. She knows how I feel about sentiment, and her's is wasted on me.

  I look down at George, who's fallen asleep in my lap. He's curled into an unbelievably tight ball.

  Anna rests her head against my shoulder for the briefest second, but long enough for me to suck in a breath. I hold it until it's over.

  There's no reason for her to feel sorry for me. I didn't want to go home for Christmas. Going home involves being forced to see my dad. And I have made a concerted effort for the past six years to spend as little time with my real father as possible. But it's impossible to avoid at Christmastime.

  The kitten stirs in his sleep. I still can't believe he came to me instead of Anna. She's the nice one. She's the gentle one. Why not go to her?

  Anna's mom snaps on the radio, and I take a deep breath. All I want now is for Christmas to be over so everything can go back to normal.

  I'm sure there's nothing on the radio but Christmas music, but her mom tries to find something anyway. She finally settles on a song I recognize from our video dance game. It's one of those songs with heavy bass, the kind you hear a lot playing from the girls' dorm, so everyone knows the words.

  Anna starts singing along. Then to my surprise, Mrs. Breen starts to sing along with the words too.

  I lean over and whisper to Anna, “I didn't know your mother had a trained voice.”

  Anna shakes her head. “She doesn't. I've never heard her sing like this before. She's usually out of tune.”

  “Well, she must have been taking lessons.”

  Her mom starts singing louder.

  I glance behind us at Van.

  He just sits there in the back of Mrs. Breen's minivan, looking handsome, as if he has any right to be there. I turn back with a huff. I try to put things into a little perspective. I’ve got a bodyguard for some reason. My stepfather wouldn't send him to my school if he didn't have a really good reason. I try to think of a good reason, but I can't really concentrate because Mrs. Breen is belting out the lyrics now in a way only classically trained singers do. It sounds like she's heard this song just as many times as we have. Then, I don't know why exactly, but it all strikes me as funny. A laugh starts in my stomach, and I can't hold it down. I hold my lips tight to stop it, but before I know it, it's coming up out of my nose in a snort. I feel like a kid who's just heard a fart in church.

  Anna stares at me blankly, and I try to play off the sound like I had to cough.

  But Mrs. Breen just keeps going, stringing the words together, enunciating every syllable like she's singing an opera, and I can't help it, I start laughing, hard. I’m trying to stifle it, but I'm shaking, and Anna can see it plainly now.

  It's really not funny at all. Mrs. Breen is a terrific singer with a beautiful voice, and I would never want to offend Anna. I'm not laughing at her mother. It's just the situation that's got me in this weird state. I have no idea why there's a man following me around everywhere I go. And what Anna asked back in our room is right, why do I need a bodyguard? There's got to be a good reason for it. I feel myself starting to freak out a little.

  Now more questions pop into my head.

  Will I be able to go home again? Is tha
t why he's here, to keep me from going back home? Maybe something bad happened at my mother's lab. Maybe the country is at war, and the M.G. doesn't want me to know about it. If something so bad has happened that I need a bodyguard, am I going to make it? And worst of all, why does Van make me feel things I've never felt about another person, things I've never wanted to feel?

  For the first time in a super long time, I'm having feelings. I'm afraid. I’m scared for my life. And I think I have what Anna has for Robert Lansky—I think I like Van.

  And instead of it being this violin moment like in the movies, my stomach aches. I feel sick. This can't be right. Can it?

  Chapter 3

  ∞

  I wave goodbye to Anna as she and her mother leave the parking lot in front of our dorm.

  The scene wasn't as bad as it could've been. Her mother asked if I wanted to come home with them of course. That's the kind of family they have—always enough love to go around. Even though I don't want to be at school for Christmas break, I don't want to be with a big happy family even more. Anna's brothers and sisters are older than she is by several years. Her mother calls Anna the happiness that sneaked in a door she didn't know she'd left open. There will be a houseful of people waiting for Anna when she returns, and I’m glad I'm not going to have to witness it. I don't have the stomach for sentimentality, and Christmastime is too chock full of it.

  My own mother sometimes looks at me more like one of her lab rats than her daughter.

  I'm really glad I have George. My mom is going to freak when she meets him. She loves cats.

  George!

  I have a cat! Cats need food and water and bowls and litter boxes and litter and little beds to sleep in, and I don't have any of that!

  I look down at the little bundle in my arms.

  He looks up at me and meows. He makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world he wants.

  “What have you got there?”

  I look up at the masculine voice. I don't know how, but I forgot that Van got out of the minivan with me. How could I forget that I’m still being stalked?

  “It's a kitten, Van.” I don't mean to sound so testy, but it's been a long day. “You've seen one before?”

  Van doesn't answer, just stares at George like he hasn't.

  I turn to head back into the building, then stop. I've still got to have supplies to take care of George. I know I'm not supposed to have a cat in the dorm, but as long as no one snitches, it'll be alright.

  I turn to face Van, who I can feel behind me. He's looking curiously at George, like he's actually never seen a cat before.

  George meows at him, and Van takes a step forward. “What do you call it?”

  “I call him George.”

  “George.” Van reaches out a strong hand and gently strokes the back of George's head with his finger the way I'm doing. “George.”

  When did Van forgive me for pepper spraying him in the face?

  “Van,” I try to keep my voice flat even though I think Van is being kinda weird about George, “could you please drive me to the pet store?”

  I can't stand the thought of taking the Berry Ferry alone. Besides, it has a scaled back schedule on breaks like this. I could end up waiting until tomorrow for it to go into town. “I've got to pick up some things I need for George.”

  Van's expression stills and grows serious. His handsome features go from curious to suspicious. He thinks I'm going to try to get away from him again if he takes me to town. Plus, there's no way the M.G. authorized him to drive me around in his car. When I’m home, I can barely go to my room without him asking where I’m going. So, Van's going to say no if it means getting himself into hot water with the major general.

  Instead of answering, Van turns and heads toward the silver car I always see him sitting in. It's pretty nondescript as cars go, but it's got two doors. He's got the driver's side door open when I realize I'd better follow him.

  Boy! If this guy wasn't so good looking, I'd think he was really weird.

  I thought Van acted like he'd never seen a cat before, but now I realize he hasn't got a scooby about cats at all. All the way to the pet store, about a half hour drive like everywhere else from the campus, he asked questions, things he should already know, like why do we domesticate cats? Why bring them inside our houses?

  He's not like any other person I know. And as I watch him drive, I can't help but notice that he's not changeable—I mean, he doesn't seem to have mood swings like the other guys I know. And for someone who lives in his car, the inside of it is pristine. Not a hamburger wrapper or stray french fry to be found. It still has that new car smell.

  “I liked hearing your laugh.”

  I do a double take at the man sitting next to me. “What did you say?”

  “Your laugh. I liked hearing it in Mrs. Breen's vehicle. I have never heard you do that before.”

  I can't believe what I'm hearing. Does Van think we're going to be friends? Is he really trying to call a truce after what happened between us in the woods?

  Still, it might not be so bad to be his friend, even though he is way too old for me to be anything more.

  I can't help but notice that he has nothing that might be considered a flaw. His profile reminds me of one of those Roman gladiators, all power and ageless strength. His thick hair brushes his collar at the back of his neck. His ruggedly handsome face is still vaguely familiar to me. I wish I could place it.

  He starts to turn his head to me, and I stop my ogling before he catches me.

  I rest my cheek on my fist and look out the window.

  I also can't help noticing that even for an overcast, rainy day, no one is around. At the dairy farm we pass, the cows aren't in their pasture. The little mom and pop gas station and grocery store, not even a car is in the parking lot. I do a double take as we pass the K-Mart, not a soul.

  Now that's weird.

  Is it Christmas day already? Did it sneak up on me like the year I was seven years old and down with the flu?

  I check my phone. Nope. There's still a whole week before the big day.

  The Christmas parade! That has to be it. The whole town is lined up along Main Street watching.

  But as we get closer to town, I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. There are no cars parked around the church in the middle of downtown. No children holding hands with their parents lined up along the sidewalk. No one's walking from their houses over the railroad tracks to the clock tower where they'll wait, armed with thermoses of hot chocolate, to catch a glimpse of the fire truck leaving the station carrying Santa on its back.

  It's like everyone has skipped town all at once. I feel my heart miss a beat then pound hard against my chest. This can't be happening. My grandmother was wrong. She had to be. She's an unbalanced, old woman. There's a rational explanation for whatever's going on here.

  Van pulls his car into a front row spot in front of Saluda Creek Pet Store. “Wait right there,” he orders as he gets out, but I barely hear him.

  My mouth hangs open. I can't believe what I'm seeing—no one.

  He comes around my side of the car and opens my door for me.

  “Not a living soul,” I mumble.

  A tingling of excitement races through me as his strong hand takes mine.

  We walk side by side, but he watches me with a look in his eyes as soft as a caress.

  Is this all in my imagination? Or is he looking at me now the way I looked at him?

  The door to the store is unlocked. There's the open sign in the window. Parakeets chirp from the back of the place.

  “I take that back,” I murmur, as I step in. “Animals are here.”

  “Would you expect them not to be here?” Van says as though he's an expert on the matter. “This is a pet store.”

  “Yes, but where are the people?”

  Van looks around as if just realizing that we're alone, at least we're the only humans. The mice run on their wheels, and the fish swim slowly across
their tanks as though nothing is out of the ordinary.

  With each step, my feet slow. My face gets hot, and I want to go back.

  George meows and breaks the spell.

  I look down. “Poor thing.” I’m holding him with hands that shake. He can't possibly understand why I'm afraid, only that I am. I watched a pet psychic show once. The expert said that cats are emotional sponges, soaking up whatever feelings we're giving out. He must be scared too now.

  I'm sure he's also hungry and asking me for food, so I take a deep breath and head to the canned food aisle.

  Van grabs a shopping basket, so far, the most domestic thing he's done besides drive a car. We fill it full of all the things a kitten will need, even toys to play with. Van carries a bag of litter over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing.

  Out of habit, I head for the cash register. I stand there, waiting, thinking surely someone is in the back, someone will appear any minute and shatter this living nightmare. But no one does. No one comes.

  We set out things on the counter and look at each other, perplexed.

  Van cocks a brow.

  “What do we do?” I say.

  He takes a one hundred dollar bill from his wallet and lays it on top of the cash register, a noble gesture, I think, especially when he could've easily gotten away without paying.

  “That's pretty generous of you,” I say. “There's no one here.”

  He shrugs a powerful shoulder. “I guess you bring out the best in me.”

  I can't believe he just said that. I feel the zing from my head to my feet. My eyes are probably bugged out to the size of saucers. But his sentiment came out of nowhere. I hope he isn't starting to fall for me. I'd hate to have to tell him to his face that he's too old for me. I can't have that on my conscience too. But he doesn't say more, just goes back to the stoic bodyguard that I’m starting to get used to. And he still doesn't say anything all the way out to the car, or when he loads our supplies into the trunk of his car, or all the way out of town.

  We pass the cow pastures on our way back to the school. The Holsteins are out standing in their fields, but no people. I think about that rhyme I learned in Sunday school as a kid where you clasp your hands together in front of you with your fingers knitted together and say, here's the church, here's the steeple, open the doors and there's no people. Then, you clasp your hands together with your fingers knitted together, but tucked inside. Here's the church, here's the steeple, open the doors and there's the people. When you open your hands, all your fingers are the people.