Student Bodyguard for Hire

by Callie James

Sometimes I wondered if Peyton saw part of me I didn’t, because I still had no damn clue what she saw in me. Why she looked at me the way she did. “She knows me. I guess. I mean, what the hell is there to know?”

  “You know exactly what I mean,” she said, reaching out and flicking my shoulder. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”

  Now that sounded like Mamá talking. I groaned and rolled my head to the side, shooting my sister my don’t-fuck-with-me look. “What?”

  Her eyebrows quirked. “Does she know you fight?”

  “No.”

  “Then how the hell are you going to explain the next bruise?”

  I shrugged.

  “Ah, I get it,” she said. “You’re still working on the lie. Careful, stud, you’re trying to nail a girl who hangs with the smart crowd.”

  Vanna knew I didn’t date and why. “I’m not going to lie to her. I’ll tell her someone hit me. I’ll tell her the truth.”

  “Well that’s never come up before. You planning to tell her why someone hit you? Because you love it? Because you make money doing it? You do know that would be a deal breaker. Jeez. The first girl you take a real interest in and you pick Peyton Greene. You’re twisted. Seriously. There’s no way this could work out, and since you’re not the idiot you pretend to be, I know you have to know that. What are you thinking? Or is Father Bonner requesting self-torture as penance for a foul mouth now instead of the usual twenty Hail Mary’s?”

  “Can we watch this damn DVD before I graduate?” I took a bite of the apple, knowing exactly how Peyton would react if she found out I fought for real. Especially that I did it for the reasons Vanna said. For money and not a cause. Worse, because I loved doing it. No way would someone like her, a girl who couldn’t keep her eyes open through an R-rated movie, understand how anyone could love fighting.

  Vanna sighed loudly and flipped back to the TV screen. “Excusez-moi,” she said, “but when your heart is on the floor and she doesn’t even bother to step over it in her quick exit, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Peyton Greene’s the type whose parents have her life mapped out already, and I doubt they’ve included someone like you anywhere in it. Face it. She’ll go to college next year, find some asshole frat boy to marry after graduation, and ten years down the road when you’re still fighting tattooed beefcakes at fifty bucks a pop, she’ll be dressing her three gorgeous kids in Gucci and doing the whole soccer mom …thing.”

  “Jesus.” I glared at her. “Ease the hell up, would you? We’ve gone out two times.”

  She clucked her tongue. “And that’s two more dates than you’ve been on with anyone else. Hells bells, I’d bet you can’t even name one girl you’ve banged in the past.”

  I scowled to hear my little sister say the word banged. “Would you find a point?”

  “Kristy,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Your latest conquest.”

  Conquest? The memory was a blur at best and not because it happened at a party over a year ago. “Karla. It was Karla.”

  “Dude, it was Kristy. God, you’re such an asshole.”

  “How could you possibly know who the hell I hook up with?”

  “Because I’m the one they approach after you blow them off.”

  She was fucking with me now. “Seriously?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Why would they talk to you?”

  “To get on my good side.”

  “What for?”

  “Du-uh. To get on your good side, you moron.”

  News to me. “So tell them I don’t have a good side.”

  “Because you do have a good side, when you’re not being a jerk.”

  I shrugged, out of comebacks.

  “Thank God Jonas got you out of that party scene. You have a better moral code when you’re sober. It’s the only cool thing about living in this town,” she said. “With all of the time you spent partying with your best amigo, Manny, and the rest of the Beaverton pack, the girls here don’t know you. Oh, except Peyton. And check you out. On the hook and all ready to be reeled in. I’ll bet you turn out exactly like Papá. All deep and sensitive. I’ll bet when it happens to you, that’ll be it.”

  “When what happens to me?”

  “When you pull your head out of your ass and let somebody get to know the real you.”

  “Ah, the real me. As opposed to…”

  “That unlikable, badass image you created by fighting every jerk at school when we first moved here.”

  I laughed. “Says my dear sister, Ridgeview’s only other social pariah by choice.”

  “Come on,” she said, her painted toe poking my leg until I pushed her bare foot away. “You can tell me. Peyton’s it, isn’t she? The one?”

  I rolled my eyes and stared straight ahead.

  She laughed at my irritated expression, until eventually her mocking giggle faded into a disgruntled snort. “Listen, Samuel, it’s cool you like her and everything. But…”

  “But what?”

  “Don’t get too into her, okay?”

  I turned to her because she sounded genuinely worried. “Why?”

  “Because she’s not going to want a boyfriend who fights grown men. Men, by the way, who make Carter Delaney and his friends, look like puny little wusses. Your idea of fun would freak her out.” She frowned. “I mean, even I have difficulty watching you fight. The sounds of skin smacking skin and limbs twisting the wrong way…” She shuddered.

  I couldn’t bring myself to agree. Not aloud. If I did, then it would become too real. A situation I’d have to deal with. For now, I wanted to keep seeing Peyton. She made me feel different. Worth something. I wanted to date her as long as I could before this thing blew up in my face. “You’re not going to say shit to her, right? About the fighting?”

  She released another judgmental sigh and looked back to the TV. “Nope.” Placing a Kleenex box next to me, she added, “It’s your business if you want to set yourself up for an epic fall. Just remember telling her half-truths about the bruises is the same as lying.”

  Vanna could get scary psychic sometimes. “Debatable.”

  “And you’ll only be delaying the inevitable anyway.”

  “I know.”

  “Not to mention, you have no consideration for the position you’re putting me in.”

  “How did this suddenly become about you?”

  “If she dumps you and breaks your heart, I have to kick her ass. It’s my duty as your sister.”

  Despite all her swearing, piercings and tattoos, Vanna was as gentle as a kitten. I never took her threats seriously. Giving me another glance, she pushed the tissues toward me.

  “I’m not going to cry over a stupid cartoon,” I said.

  She looked at me with pity. “Who said those are for the show?” Turning to the television, she hit play. “It’s sad, really. You’re about to get your ass handed to you, by a girl no less, and you don’t even know it.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sam

  I couldn’t recall a time when I’d looked forward to school, but that was before I started spending every lunch hour with Peyton Greene, the hottest girl there. That she seemed oblivious of her appeal still fascinated the hell out of me. She ignored guys checking her out when she stopped by my locker in senior hall. She even pretended her girlfriends didn’t stare and whisper in the commons while we studied.

  She really got into literature, too. I’d never admit it to her, but the way she could ramble forever about character motivations was kind of cool. Occasionally she’d look up while talking and catch me studying her. But then she’d blush and smile that shy smile before looking away.

  When my boss, Martin, texted me Thursday with an okay to leave the auto body shop early Saturday night, I hadn’t been able to wait five minutes before calling Peyton to tell her we could do dinner. I’d been thinking about that kiss all week and couldn’t wait to get her alone again.

  But Saturday morning was busy as hell and when one
of my co-workers had to go home sick, I ended up working my regular shift anyway, killing my plans with Peyton.

  At least this time I had the wherewithal to text Peyton, who agreed to meet me in between shifts on Sunday. It sucked and I was disappointed as hell, but if she really wanted to know me, she might as well get good at disappointment. My schedule rarely let up.

  I left Winchester Auto at five on Sunday, which gave me two and a half hours before my next shift started at the gym.

  That left me thirty minutes to get home and clean up while Peyton drove directly from work—her aunt’s bakery in Sandy where she decorated cakes. She’d suggested we meet at a small food joint in Ridgeview, Rice Bowl XO, and we both arrived fifteen minutes before the place closed. The stuffy little kitchen had four inside tables and no air conditioning. Most people got their food to go or sat at the wooden picnic tables outside. We both ordered the chicken and vegetable rice bowl and realized while talking that neither of us had an aptitude with chopsticks. She suggested we remedy the problem with practice.

  We sat next to each other on the picnic table, propped our feet on the bench, and spent thirty minutes practicing getting food to our mouths without wearing it. I wouldn’t have thought this the best suggestion for a third date, but it gave me a few opportunities to tease her, even touch her, since she had a worse time using the wooden utensils than I did and kept getting teriyaki sauce on her lip and chin.

  On my most articulate day, I wouldn’t know how to be romantic. But tonight the universe must have felt I needed a break, because I actually looked like I had a clue. We watched a beautiful sunset burn a section of the sky as we talked about trivial things we had going on at school. She smiled a lot, laughed just as much, and sitting next to her, so did I. For the first time in years, I stopped thinking about the bad shit in my past and focused on the present. Current-day clarity had never happened to me like that except in a fight.

  “I’m wondering why you have that slight accent,” she murmured, trying to talk and keep her lips closed as she ate. “Because I haven’t heard you speak much Spanish before. Although you did call me a … a chica guapa.”

  “That’s actually a compliment.”

  “Not the way you said it.”

  I frowned, wishing I could take that day back; I’d been such a dick to her. “I know, but it’s still a compliment. You should take it that way, at least. Do you know what it means?”

  That shy smile returned. “After sushi, my curiosity got the better of me. I looked it up using online translation software. So I have an idea.”

  Cool. That meant she’d been as curious about me after that near-kiss incident as I’d been about her. “Then you know I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Well, I know that now. But at the time, I assumed it was derogatory since I’d only heard you swear in Spanish.”

  I nearly choked to keep from laughing and spitting chicken bits across the grass. “When did I swear?”

  “Oh sure.” She smirked. “Like you don’t remember.”

  I remembered plenty of times, but I couldn’t imagine doing it around her. “I get that it had to be in class. Which one? We’ve had a few together.”

  She looked at her bowl and poked a chopstick at the cardboard bottom. “It was a couple of years ago. You really don’t remember?”

  “Accounting,” I said, recalling the class where she’d sat in front of me, arranged alphabetically by our last names. She’d sat close enough to hear me, and I didn’t doubt for a second that I’d sworn up a blue streak since I’d really hated Mr. Stephens.

  She nodded. “You couldn’t get your payroll to come out right,” she said, taking a bite of sticky rice.

  “Oh, sure. Make fun of a guy’s payroll.” She giggled into her napkin as I transferred a miniature carrot to my mouth in one smooth move.

  “You’d messed up your company’s taxes,” she murmured, pulling her napkin away, “and I could sympathize because I had the same problem. My company had five out-of-state consultants. I don’t recall ever getting that right.”

  “How do you remember details like that? It was three years ago.”

  “Because Mr. Stephens was such a jerk to everybody,” she said, “and you made me laugh telling him off under your breath whenever he walked away. You made the class bearable. I may not have known exactly what you said, but I knew you were calling him something. I’m surprised you don’t remember me giggling all the time. He made me stay after school because of it.”

  I remembered her giggling until her ears flushed pink, but I hadn’t known she was giggling because of me or that he’d made her stay after class. “Stephens was a jackass.”

  “Especially to you.”

  “What did I call him?”

  She finished chewing. “I told you. I don’t speak Spanish.”

  “Come on. Give it a try.”

  She swallowed. Nervous. “Pendayho,” she murmured. She brushed her tongue alongside her lip and caught a grain of rice. “I can’t say it. And now you made me spit out my food.”

  “Pendejo,” I said, watching her lick the sauce off her lips. “You’re a natural. What else did I say?”

  “You called him a …this one I can’t say at all because it’s always said too fast. Ca…cahberone?”

  I laughed aloud to hear her say it like that.

  “I said it wrong, didn’t I?” She swallowed. “Sorry, I don’t do the tongue roll right.” She poked at food in her bowl, embarrassed.

  “Nah, that was okay. Cabrón. See? You said it correctly. But hearing you say it as if it were a question, especially with that sweet voice, it sounds funny.” I placed my empty carton behind us and took a drink of water.

  “What does it mean?”

  I debated telling her. “Let’s just say it’s pretty bad and you’d never say it like a question.”

  “You definitely didn’t.”

  I felt my cheeks heat. “You have a good memory.”

  She shrugged. “Only with certain subjects. You’re one of those people who stand out. I remember you. A lot.”

  Given the time reference, this was likely a very bad thing.

  “I remember the first time I saw you,” she added, avoiding my gaze while her dimples deepened. “You walked by me and did a double-take.”

  I looked down and away, my heart racing and not for doing the double take. I hated to think about those years and wished she hadn’t seen me during any of it. I’d been a different person—a sophomore roaming the halls, lost in my dreary world of shit. Then this bright-eyed freshman girl with copper hair had passed me in the hallway. She’d had her books pulled to her chest and four friends in tow when her gaze had caught mine. I’d done a double take, and those blue eyes had stared back at me until we’d both turned to look at each other. Her friends had whispered and giggled, but Peyton had seemed oblivious, giving me a shy smile before turning back around.

  Had I not been so absorbed in my own hell, I would have seen how different she was from other girls. Had I felt better about myself, I might have even worked up the nerve to ask her out. “Who would have guessed we’d be talking about it three years later,” I said, trying to make light of a memory that bothered me more than she needed to know.

  She placed her bowl next to mine. “So, how is it you have an accent when you rarely speak Spanish? Are you fluent?”

  “Sí.”

  “But you don’t speak it.”

  “I speak it when I’m around people who understand it.” Darkness had fallen and I had only a streetlight to see her. A cool wind blew her hair across her face and I reached out, pushing it behind her ear. “My mother has a strict rule not to speak Spanish in front of those who don’t understand it. The same with English. We don’t speak it around my grandmother and great aunt who have difficulty understanding it. It’s rude.” Her crooked smile made me wonder if she knew something that I didn’t. “What?”

  “So, you’re saying if I came to your house, your mom wouldn’t start going off in
Spanish telling you to get rid of that red head? She’d tell me in plain English to stay away from her son.”

  I laughed. Knowing my mamá, I couldn’t picture that scenario ever happening. “My mother would never say that. And we don’t speak Spanish much at home either, unless we’re alone or Vanna’s out with friends.”

  Her doubtful expression could only mean she didn’t believe me about the Spanish or didn’t believe Vanna had friends.

  “Are you saying Savanna doesn’t speak Spanish?”

  “Right. My parents spoke English and Spanish when I was little. They wanted us to know both languages. But when Vanna came along, she rarely spoke and none of us could understand why. Turns out mixing both languages became too confusing for her. My father suggested we only speak English at home. He didn’t want her having problems at school.”

  “And it worked?”

  “Yeah. With only one language to focus on, she started speaking more often. She knows a few words of Spanish you or anyone else would recognize, but that’s it. Although she’s taking French this year. Go figure.”

  “How did you keep speaking it if no one spoke it at home?”

  “Mainly my dad. We spent a lot of time together, and we spoke Spanish when no one else was around. He had an accent so… to answer your question, that’s where I got it.”

  “Wow,” she said, leaning forward and brushing her hands over her arms. “Your parents sound amazing. To give up teaching their daughter something so important to them, all to help her succeed in school.”

  Her sincerity made my chest tighten, and I suddenly became desperate to flip the topic back to her. “Why is it you don’t speak Spanish? What foreign language did you choose?”

  “You’re assuming I took one.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “C’mon, brainiac. You know you did.”

  Her back straightened and she gave me a prim look. “Well, if you must know.” I laughed. “I took Japanese. Rather, I’m still taking Japanese.”

  “Can you speak it?”

  “After four years, I hope so.”

  “Four years?” I leaned back, impressed. “Wow. Prove it. Say something.”

  “Uh-uh. That would be rude, remember?”