Student Bodyguard for Hire

by Callie James

  “I’m not going to get hurt.” His thumb brushed my wet cheek.

  “It’s not that I don’t care,” I said, needing to keep explaining. “I do. Too much. I don’t want to stop seeing you.” I noticed our fingers entwined between us. “I really don’t, but—”

  “Then don’t,” he whispered, his fingers threading into my hair as he kissed the corner of my mouth. “Don’t stop seeing me.”

  The moment he said those words, the second he kissed me, my convictions cracked. I wanted him to quit this thing that left marks on him. He wasn’t offering to do that. He wanted me to look the other way, to pretend I didn’t care. “Sam, you forget I’ve seen you walking into school like this for years. Black eyes. Splits in your lip. I think you even had a broken hand once. It bothered me then and I didn’t know you. Imagine how I feel now. Would you want to see me hurt every week?”

  “Those were from street fights.” He cupped my jaw. “I don’t do that anymore.”

  “Wait, you were in street fi—”

  He kissed me once, so quickly and firmly, that it startled me into shutting up. “You,” he said, his breath mingling with mine, “are being crazy.” He kissed my cheek softly and I closed my eyes. “Nothing has changed, Peyton. Don’t make everything so complicated all the time. Focus on you. Do your thing.” His fingers threaded through mine as he kissed me again. “You’re going to be busy working on this website project, keeping up with your classes, and decorating cakes for your aunt. You won’t have time to think about me. Don’t think about what I do if it bothers you.”

  “But what you do—”

  “I train,” he said, pulling back to look at me. “That’s all. And believe me when I say there’s a huge difference between training and the real thing.” The stark regret in his voice made me want to interrupt him to ask. “I’m not working two jobs for fun. I do it to help support my family. I can’t quit because you have a problem with it. I’m not asking your permission, Peyton. But you do matter to me. A great deal.” His hand brushed my cheek. “I don’t want to stop seeing you and I don’t want to see you upset. Just …ignore the occasional bruise. That’s all I’m asking. See? Simple. Not complicated at all.”

  How did this happen to me? Logically, I shouldn’t feel drawn to him as much as I did. We barely knew each other. “I do want this to be simple,” I whispered. “Instead, it feels complicated and awful.”

  His mouth tilted in that half-smile. “That’s because you’re thinking too much.”

  “God, you sound like my dad.”

  “Wow, really?” His eyebrow quirked. “I’ve never been compared to a man who has six years of higher education.”

  “He’s a total chauvinist, Sam. It’s not a compliment.”

  He frowned. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? I’m hardly sexist. I just don’t worry about things like you do. It’s not a crime, you know.” His thumb brushed my cheek again. “So… are we good?”

  I looked down. Eventually nodded. I wanted to believe him so badly that part of me did, and when his head lowered and his mouth closed over mine, I kissed him back.

  I had no idea how long we kissed until I felt his hand slide under my shirt to the clasp of my bra. I pulled back to look at the clock. “We’ve been kissing over an hour. Shouldn’t we go? You have things to do before work, right?”

  His gaze shifted from the clock to me. “Yeah. But I like this better. Do you want me to take you home?”

  “No.” I’d answered him without thought, not at all certain I wanted to stop. Goose bumps shivered across my skin wherever his fingertips still touched. “But what are we doing?” I whispered.

  “Whatever you want.” His hand moved slowly over my bra clasp, tickling my skin. “Do you want me to stop?”

  It was dark and gray outside and the rain showed no signs of letting up. No one was around, not that it would matter with the fogged up windows. “Not yet,” I whispered and his mouth covered mine in that demanding way that made my insides liquefy. The clasp released.

  Everything got warm and blurry after that.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Peyton

  I published the website Tuesday and sent out a few mentions on free forums. Adam and I set up our little carpet picnic of cheese, crackers and soda, even though we didn’t have much to celebrate. Nothing happened as we talked for over an hour, weighing the pros and cons of my next idea. Once we had a few students in the database, I wanted to add more fields and a revised Terms and Agreements page, allowing me to collect confidential FERPA information from each of them. To monitor the students’ lives, well-being, and grades in an environment where bullies no longer had the opportunity to tear them down was the only way to measure the success of the database. This was all under the assumption that someone would eventually use my website.

  After I took Adam home and worked on several hours of homework, I spotted a new email with a subject line that read, Bullied.

  I opened it and looked at the student’s information that appeared to be legit. Within thirty minutes, I had three more. Two Bullied. One Bodyguard.

  Even though I recognized the names, I knew I had to brace myself because the sudden flurry of submissions couldn’t be real. Maybe Ryan or Adam had called a few friends. Maybe the emails were nothing more than quick mock ups to appear valid.

  Although, I couldn’t imagine either would do this to me, even as a joke.

  The next email had a subject line that read, You’ve Got Money. I opened it. Stared at the amount of two hundred. Checked the header information and confirmed it was the real deal.

  Holy cow.

  Of course, I should have known people wouldn’t read the guidelines. No one was supposed to send money without a matchup confirmation from me first.

  Within an hour, I was deep in a mixture of emails and money transfers. I finally texted Adam, freaked that I hadn’t considered how much money I might be handling if the project actually took off. I was a high school student. This didn’t seem legal, although I’d talked to Daddy and knew that it was.

  Adam advised creating a separate savings account if this thing was really going to happen.

  I texted again a few minutes later when I needed advice on how to handle the online bullying, which was nearly as bad as the physical threats.

  This time he called.

  “You realize that’s a whole different set of friends,” he said with a sigh. “Want me to rally up a few who might be interested?”

  “Like who?”

  “Michelle. Terra. Jacob. Hell, Troy blew all of last Sunday trying to outmaneuver a computer virus in real time because he was bored. He’d probably love tackling something like this.”

  I had the strangest feeling this was about to get crazy. “Okay. Gather up the usual suspects, I guess. Tell them they’d be doing me a huge favor.”

  “Not to mention, a cool hundred or two never hurts.”

  I smiled, even though I felt bitter that it always seemed to take money to motivate anybody. Anybody, that is, but Sam. “If you think of anyone else techie enough who might be interested—”

  “I’ll call ‘em,” he said. “Quit worrying.”

  “Adam,” I sighed. “What would I do without you?”

  “Are you kidding?” he said, a grin in his voice. “You’ll never be without me.”

  *****

  By Wednesday morning, twenty-two bullied students had submitted matchup information and wired two-hundred each. I knew all of the students but three, only because those three attended Ridgeview Jr. High, which violated the Terms and Agreements they obviously hadn’t read on my home page.

  By Thursday night, I had forty-eight bodyguards and forty-one students under protection or waiting for a matchup. I’d received more Ridgeview Jr. High applications and emails from their parents willing to send the money. When I managed to find matches for most of them, I realized I’d violated my own Terms and Agreements page, so I rewrote the page.

  Wiring money that wasn�
�t technically mine freaked me out to no end. So far, I’d wired close to four thousand dollars to thirty-three guards, quite a few who had taken more than one student.

  Most applicants weren’t eighteen and couldn’t send electronic funds. In the end, it didn’t matter. The amount of friends, siblings, and parents stepping forward to help these bullied kids shocked me. Payments and thank-you notes poured in.

  When I woke Friday morning, I had three anonymous donations, twelve more bullied students, and twice as many bodyguards. Nine new applicants attended other schools, and six of those schools weren’t even in Oregon.

  That’s when I had my first panic attack.

  I was hyperventilating over the bathroom sink when Mom found me. She suggested I call my aunt to cut down my hours at the bakery, which I did, reducing my time to working Sundays only. Scaling down my hours helped, but it wasn’t enough, and whenever I wasn’t busy with homework or spending a couple of hours with Sam after school, I was transferring money, comparing class schedules, and emailing applicants potential bodyguard names. The erratic flurry of work kept me from finding a routine, which left my life and peace of mind in a constant state of flux. The entire ordeal gave me a new appreciation for Sam, who held down two jobs and somehow kept up with his homework while still finding time to see me.

  Three weeks into the project, Adam showed up one Friday night and coerced me into going out to dinner with him. A forced break, he called it, which turned out to be a mistake because apparently I could think of nothing else now but the project. Eventually he broached the entire reason for the dinner. He was worried about me, so was Ryan, and he suggested I narrow my clients to Ridgeview High only, as originally intended. But I couldn’t consider it. I didn’t know how to say no.

  Even when I started getting threats.

  *****

  I’d been half-asleep, standing at my locker between first and second period the following morning, when a boy barreled through a group of students and slammed into me, knocking us both to the ground. The hit winded me, but I gathered my senses in time to see my friend, Maru, grab Tim Nash by the shirt and smack him into a locker. Tim immediately pushed back, Maru came back even harder, and before I knew what was happening, they’d dropped to the floor, fists flying.

  Maru was the stronger fighter, but Tim stupidly kept hitting back, which only made things worse and last forever. I yelled for them to stop, a moot effort since I could barely hear myself above the crowd of cheering students. Within seconds, the shouting had garnered the attention of numerous teachers, who bolted out of their classrooms to see the commotion. It took three of them to pull Maru and Tim apart.

  From my spot on the floor, I watched the teachers haul both students down to the office. My entire body trembled. Getting the wind knocked out of me didn’t help, but I knew the real reason for the shakes. Violence scared me to death.

  The blond-haired boy who knocked me down stood and held out his hand to me. “S-sorry,” he said.

  I grabbed his hand, feeling as though I’d been in the brawl myself. “Thanks,” I said, recognizing him. “Wait a second … you’re Scott. Maru is your—” I paused, thinking twice.

  “Bodyguard.” He pulled me to a standing position. “Go ahead. You can say it.”

  I managed a weak smile. “I take it Tim shoved you.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” He nodded, his eyebrows crinkling together. “You okay? You’re shaking.”

  I pulled my hand from his. “I’ll be okay. I just hate violence. It freaks me out.”

  “Tell me about it. I’m going to go explain what happened,” he said with a nod toward the office. “I don’t want Maru getting in trouble for me.”

  I knew it wouldn’t matter what Scott told the powers that be. School policy dictated both parties fighting would get suspension. I needed to call Maru later and apologize, even though he signed on for this thing long before I’d implemented the website.

  I turned back to my locker to get my notebook when something hit me from behind, so hard that I had to catch myself against the door. I grabbed my shoulder as pain radiated down my arm, but when I turned to see who’d hit me, not one of the students behind me looked guilty.

  My eyes watered as I rubbed where a knot was growing on my shoulder blade. Now at least I could say I knew what a sucker punch felt like.

  *****

  I stared at a note in British Authors, unable to grasp what I was reading, even though I’d read it over twenty times. My hands shook as I scanned the typed words again while Ms. Campbell’s voice drifted around me.

  P,

  Big surprise planned if you don’t kill the website. Hoping you still like to play hard.

  When it registered that Ms. Campbell had stopped talking, I looked up to see how long I’d drifted off and frowned to see Vice Principal Tanner standing at the front of the class whispering with Ms. Campbell. He finished and turned, pointing in my direction and crooking his finger.

  I froze.

  All heads pivoted to me and I turned to Molly Graham behind me, who glared back at me as though I’d just fingered her in a murder. I whipped back around. “Who?” I asked. No way did he want me. “Which one of us?”

  “Grab your things and come with me, Ms. Greene,” he said. “You won’t return today.”

  I stared, feeling shell-shocked as I closed my book. Eventually, I picked up my things, folding all of it against my chest like a shield. Disbelief kept me seated a few more seconds. I wanted to pretend the note in my hand didn’t exist. I also wanted to give Mr. Tanner time to figure out he’d made a huge mistake. No one had ever called me to the office. I was an honor roll student, did community service on a regular basis, and had a part-time job. What more did they want?

  I stood and forced my trembling legs to move forward. This had to be about skipping class with Sam. It had only been the one time, but I still felt like a delinquent as I followed Mr. Tanner to the door. I glanced at Sam, whose scowl made me look away before I closed the door behind me.

  “Don’t worry your pretty head over this,” Mr. Tanner said, leading me to his office. He waved a hand to the faux leather chair across from his desk. “I told Mr. Smith I had no doubt you’d be agreeable to the idea.”

  I sat, tempted to comment about the sexist pretty-head remark when my brain shifted into a different gear. What did Mr. Smith, my Projects teacher, have to do with this? “Could you explain why I’m here? I think that would help.”

  He closed the door and sat behind his desk. “My apologies,” he said, scratching his head until he’d made a dent in his springy, black hair. “I thought you understood,” he said, clearing his throat. “Several people have directed my attention to a certain bodyguard website you created.”

  “You make it sound like it’s a secret. Is that what this is about? My website?”

  “Yes, we need you to shut it down.”

  I’d felt less stunned after that earlier sucker punch. “What?”

  “Admittedly, your idea was creative, Ms. Greene. But it’s causing the school problems.”

  I realized my mouth was open and closed it. “You can’t ask me to shut down my website.”

  “You didn’t create this for your Projects class?”

  “I did.”

  A polite smile pulled his mouth into an unattractive grin. “Then your project is school business and we have every right to tell you to shut it down.”

  I shook my head. “I’m providing a needed service. How can that be a problem?”

  “We’re getting complaints from parents. A large number actually.”

  “Parents? What parent wouldn’t want their student to feel safe at school? Who are these people?”

  “You’re encouraging violence, Ms. Greene.” His pasted grin faded. “The conflict with school policy is clear.”

  “Well it’s not clear to me.” I shifted, uncomfortable under his stare. “How am I encouraging violence?”

  “We suspended four students last week. Two this
morning. That’s six students who would be in class today if you had not encouraged them to fight.”

  “I didn’t encourage anyone to fight.”

  “Three of those students, as I understand it, are your bodyguards. Do you mean to tell me you don’t pay people to fight?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t pay anyone anything. The student pays. All I do is hold the money and make the transfers. It’s not my money to spend. Even the donations.”

  “Donations?” He blinked rapidly, his glasses sliding to the end of his nose. “Donations from who exactly?”

  “Citizens supporting the cause.”

  “The cause?” His tone suggested my website had become a doorway to the occult.

  “The cause of protecting the student body,” I explained. “The donations are for students who can’t pay for protection.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t make a dime?”

  I shook my head. “It’s nonprofit. All overhead is strictly voluntary.”

  He picked up a pen and leaned back. “You understand it’s my job to protect the student body, Ms. Greene. Not yours.”

  “I know,” I said. “It is your job.”

  The silence grew heavier. “Then I should get back to it, don’t you think?” he said. “The good news is that Mr. Smith has agreed to give you an A for your project.”

  “Why? We have weeks left in the semester. I have to compile and analyze results. I have to write a paper to present my findings.”

  “The website has proven successful enough, and Mr. Smith is happy to give you an A. No paper necessary. Although, we require you to discontinue the project first.”

  I couldn’t decide if this was a bribe or an ultimatum. “And if I don’t shut it down?”

  “You fail.”

  Ultimatum. Wow. I couldn’t believe the school’s VP just threatened me. “In other words, Mr. Tanner, you’re bullying me to shut down a project because parents are bullying you.”