by Aubrey Irons
6
Hudson
P A S T
“I don’t understand why I need to wear this fucking monkey suit.” I grow, shifting uncomfortably as the tailor pats the inside of my leg and secures the expensive fabric with a pin from his mouth.
I look up at the Old Man, and he’s grinning at me in this mix of amusement and something I can’t quite place- it could be pride, but I’m honestly not sure I’ve ever seen that emotion on someone’s face directed at me.
But, there’s a lot of new things in my world after meeting William Archer. New like being back in the States and working for his company, or like having more money than I know what to do with; new things like a new identity. “Hudson” is easy to keep, since it’s what the guys called me in the service after I got busted singing Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind” in the shower one night when I thought I was the only one up. And I was all too happy to drop my Dad’s fuckin’ last name for my Mother’s maiden one.
“You wear that fucking monkey suit, Hudson, because it’s your costume; it’s your disguise. That fucking monkey suit will open doors for you that would otherwise be closed - doors you never even imagined existed. It’s the mark of a man at a certain place in the world, and it lets those around him know what that place is.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, grinning; “Did you rehearse that?” He’s chuckling and I shake my head; “You rehearsed it, didn’t you.”
William shakes his head, exhaling slowly; “Shut up and turn around, Marine.”
I mock salute and roll my eyes as I turn; “Yes si-“
Well, shit.
The man who looks back at me in the tri-fold floor-length mirror is like a me from another alternate reality.
It’s me - those are my eyes looking back at me, but that’s the only thing I could possibly guess is the same, and it’s not just the suit. It’s everything about me that I almost don’t recognize, and my brain can’t even begin to process how much of a good thing that is. I need the old me to not be recognized, even by me; hell, especially by me. The old me needs to be purged in the fires of what’s to come, and the new direction my life is going in faster than I can almost catch up with.
“So, what do you think.” The Old Man looks smug behind me as he looks at me through the mirror.
“I think I- I look different?”
William tilts his head toward the tailor, who nods before ducking out of the room; “You look like a person again, Hudson. You look like a man ready to finally be one.”
I’m remembering that shitty dive in Kinshasa, when the first guy I’d seen in months that didn’t look like some kind of criminal or terrorist sat down next to me at the bar and introduced himself.
“You know I’d never let you down, Sir, but are you sure- I mean, just because we were in the Marin-“
“If you think I’m ‘hooking you up’ with a job like this just because we share a common military history-” He trails off, shaking his head; “I do not make decisions like this lightly, Hudson. You of all people should know that.”
I nod.
“The company needs someone like you; someone like all three of you actually. We need men who can react.” He steps closer to me, his eyes boring into mine. “We need men who’ve looked the devil in the face like you have and lived to know what it takes to walk away; what it means to keep a piece of your humanity when it seems like you can’t.” He smiles suddenly at me, breaking the spell; “So that’s why you’re wearing that fucking monkey suit, Hudson.”
He smirks and winks at me; “Think of it as a uniform. I’d think even a Marine could wrap his grunt head around that way of looking at it”.
I grin and look at myself in the mirror again, still amazed at the image looking back at me of the man I never imagined I could be.
“It’s a responsibility, Hudson; that’s something else I don’t take lightly.” His voice is quieter, and when I look up I can see the solemn and somber look in his eyes.
“Yes sir.”
“You’ve come a long way, Hudson, but there are demons still on your back I’m going to need you to shake at some point.” I’m still drinking, and we both know that. I mean, I’m drinking less, but addiction is addiction no matter how you quantify it.
“I need you in control, Hudson.” His eyes flash as he looks at the visage of the new me in the mirror; “Are you in control?”
P R E S E N T
This is getting ridiculous.
This girl is way too hot for me to be doing this whole pseudo-bodyguard thing, even though I can tell she's the type that doesn't even know it. I honestly don’t know what the fuck Logan and Bryce were thinking; hell I don’t know what I was thinking signing up for this, but this is too much. I mean a man can only take so much.
We’re at the gym, and she’s working out; in fucking yoga pants and the worlds tightest, clingiest tank top. I mean honestly, how am I supposed to fucking deal with that?
At least the place is secure. Reagan might eschew her father’s money, but she’s got enough of it herself along with some sense to pick a gym that caters to the those who don’t want their picture being taken while they’re grunting out a squat or puffing away on a treadmill. The fact that we’re entirely alone in the gym has a secondary bonus too, in that no one’s around to see that I’m rock hard inside my gym shorts as I watch her.
I mean, I’m trying to tear my eyes away from the ice queen herself here, except the ice queen happens to have a fantastic ass. And from where I’m sitting pretending to do arm curls on a bench behind her while she climbs the stair-master, it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to grab her by the hips, yank those skin-tight yoga pants right off that ass, and bury my face between her legs.
Jesus Christ, get a hold of yourself, psycho.
She’s barely tolerating my being there, but she knows she’s stuck with me thanks to the board at Archer Holdings and thanks to Donald and his rigid schedule. I mean, I get it; she wants to be taken seriously as a real candidate and not just some pretty little rich girl with a killer smile (and a great rack, for that matter) who wants to play politics. But as annoying as he is, Donald does have a point; you gotta work those strong points, and Reagan's strong points do happen to include the fact that she's young and hot and fit. Give the people what they want, and all that.
Hence, the mandatory gym visit on today's schedule.
"Stare much?"
I shake my head and drag my eyes up, seeing that she's stopped the machine and is giving me a strange look over her shoulder. Her straight red hair is pulled up in this adorable little ponytail, and I just want to grab it and use it to guide my-
Jesus I need to get laid.
"Huh?"
She rolls her eyes. "I said, 'stare much', as in, quit staring at my ass, perv."
Put on some fucking snow pants, or a burka or something and maybe I will I grumble to myself, knowing I probably still would.
“Ray, your staff said you had a new bodyguard or someth-“
I turn at the sound of the door to the weight room opening and instantly lock eyes with a younger, blonde version of Reagan.
“Oh, it’s you.” She’s got the same look on her face Reagan had on this morning, without of course the distracting element of being Reagan; and of course, not standing there in just her panties.
“Lovely, another warm welcome.” I plaster on my biggest, most fake smile for the Old Man’s youngest daughter and Reagan’s little sister; “Hello, Chelsea.”
“What are you doing here, Hudson?”
“Just waiting for smiles like yours, sweetheart.” I smirk at her. Jesus, do all these Archer girls walk around with chips on their shoulders all fucking day?
“Don’t call her that.” Reagan’s snapping at me as she gets off the machine. She breezes past me, shouldering me out of the way as she goes to hug her sister; “What’s up, Chels?”
I can see Chelsea’s stormy, guarded facade start to fall as her older sister hugs her, and then her
face crumbles as the tears begin to drop.
“It’s Andrew, he- with her!”
I hate seeing girls cry. Seriously, no matter how bitchy Chelsea just was to me for a girl I’ve met all of like once, I instantly want to put my arms around them both and tell her that whatever it is, it’s going to be ok.
Just then though, Reagan looks up and sees me staring at them. Her face curls into a snarl; “Do you mind?”
I shrug, not ready to get bounced that easily; “What’s the problem?”
Chelsea whirls on me with a sneer on her lips; “Oh what, billionaire womanizer Hudson Banks has some magical advice on cheating boyfriends I suppose?”
It’s almost funny when you talk to people who clearly have no idea where you came from, and who you really are.
“I do, actually;” I shrug again; “Ditch him.”
Chelsea rolls her eyes; “Gee, thanks, Hudson but it’s not that simpl-“
“No, it really is.” Reagan is staring at me with a strange mix of loathing and curiosity, but I force myself to concentrate on Chelsea.
“He’s not going to suddenly just change, Chelsea. As a former lying, cheating asshole, I feel pretty confident in telling you that.” I level my eyes at her. “Just ditch him.”
I can see her frown begin to fade as my words sink in. “You’re a strong, confident, beautiful girl, Chelsea, and you don’t need dead-weight like whoever this total idiot is holding you down.”
Chelsea’s fierce look is gone as stares at me with a whole new, much nicer expression on her face; “Um, thanks Hudson.” She looks confused for a second, as if amused that those words came out of my mouth, before her face suddenly breaks into a big grin as she smiles at me; all traces of her former sneer gone.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Reagan shooting a venomous look at her sister, as if she’s somehow traitorous just for not acting like a total bitch to me like Reagan is. I’m almost ashamed to admit the sense of smug satisfaction I get in seeing it.
“He really is kind of an idiot, isn’t he?” Chelsea shrugs in a defeated way, and I find myself opening even more.
“To cheat on an Archer girl like you?” I shrug and wink at her; “Total idiot; must be blind too, which almost makes me feel bad for him.”
Chelsea blushes and grins at me and I see Reagan roll her eyes dramatically and turn back to reach for the water bottle she’s left on the stair-master machine. For whatever reason, I suddenly feel compelled to push her buttons even more on this.
“Why don’t we all go out to lunch? My treat, of course.”
Chelsea’s nodding eagerly but Reagan cuts her off; “Thanks but no thanks, we came here in gym clothes, remember?”
I wave off her concerns like they’re nothing, because they aren’t with the resources I have; “I’ll have one of my guys bring something here for you to wear. Just go hit the shower and I’ll be sure there’s a selection waiting for you when you’re done.”
The dichotomy between Chelsea’s impressed and beaming face and Reagan’s look of “are you kidding me” disdain almost makes me laugh, but I compose myself; “So, that’s a yes then?”
I can see just the tell-tale signs of a smile teasing the corners of Reagan’s frown as she shakes her head at me; “Who are you, God.”
“Just ‘Hudson’ will do.”
She rolls her eyes; “You know what I fucking mea-“
“Well right now, I’m your lunch date. So go hit the showers sweet-cheeks.”
7
Reagan
P A S T
“So, how was Dad last night?”
Chelsea looks up from her homework and frowns at me. I’m supposed to be doing the same thing, especially since I’ve just started sending transcripts to colleges, but I’m mindlessly paging through TV channels instead. “You should have at least gotten on to say hi, Ray.”
I shrug; “It sounded like you were having a hard time hearing him anyways, wherever he is.”
“Angola.”
“What?”
“Angola; that where he is.”
I roll my eyes and sneer; “Of course he is.”
Chelsea slams her homework down and glares at me; “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means wherever there’s some third world conflict with terrible people willing to spend money of disputable origins, that’s pretty much where you can guarantee our father will be, Chelsea.”
I turn back to the TV with a huff, but my younger sister jumps out of her chair, grabs the remote out of my hand, and shuts it off; “Meaning?”
“Meaning Dad sells guns to bad people, Chelsea!” I shout at her. She flinches at the outburst but I keep going; “It means all of this” I’m gesturing around at the opulent home around us; “We have all of this because Dad is an arms dealer.”
Chelsea’s face scrunches up in a frown and it looks like she’s about to cry; “You don’t know that, Reaga-“
“I know how to put one and one together and get two, Chelsea.” She starts to snivel, and I feel the wind go out of my sails as I reach out and pull her into a hug; “Hey, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t know that, Reagan!” She says again weekly as she presses her wet eyes into my shoulder.
“I know,” I say, stroking her hair; “I should gotten on the phone yesterday. So, how did he sound?”
“Good,” Chelsea pulls aways, her eyes red and wet looking.
“Who’s yelling in here?” Quinn pokes her head into the room and frowns when she sees Chelsea; “Reagan-“
“It’s nothing, we were just talking about Dad.”
Quinn shrugs; “Oh yeah, he’s in Angola with The Guys.” She frowns at me; “You really should find the time to talk when he calls you know, it’s not exactly easy to make phone call from there.”
I suppress the urge to growl; “So he’s with the guys in some remote corner of the globe instead of spending time here with us while you’re back on break, huh?” I roll my eyes; “Shocker.”
Quinn makes a face; “Oh, did you want to go to the sub-Saharan conflict zone, Reagan? Were you just dying to take in the scenery with a dash of extreme poverty and active war zone?”
“You know what I mean. I mean spending time with them all the time.”
My older sister frowns; “It’s work, Reagan. And besides, you know they’re all military or whatever; it’s like a brotherhood thing.”
I shrug; “Yeah but they just - I don’t know, they’re weird.”
Quinn grins; “You mean hot.”
“Um, not what I meant, but eh, I guess.”
“You guess?” Quinn is grinning at me; “Uh, news to Reagan, they’re hot. Chels? You with me here?”
Chelsea blushes and grins; “They’re super cute, Reagan.”
“They’re old!”
Quinn laughs; “Fuck you! Old? I think Hudson’s my age and Bryce is younger than that, bitch.”
“Fine, whatever.” I reach for the TV remote.
My older sister frowns again; “Did you finish your application essay for Columbia yet”
I groan dramatically; “Yes, MOM.”
She bristles, and I cringe; “Sorry.”
“Just finish that application, dummy.”
P R E S E N T
“What, no Charger?” I smirk at Hudson as his driver brings the Bentley limo around to the back-door of the gym.
He flashes that cocky grin at me as he opens the door for us; “Not today”.
“Hmm, yeah, much too flashy,” I nod with phony enthusiasm; “Good thing you’ve got the Bentley limousine as a far more inconspicuous backup.”
He shrugs; “What fun is money if you can’t spend it?”
“Oh is there money you haven’t spent? I wasn’t aware of that” I smile sweetly at him, nodding towards the sleek, ultra-luxury Bentley.
“Get in the car, Archer,” He smirks, his eyes glinting at me.
Later as we’re finishing lunch on the rooftop terrace of the exclusive place he takes us, I frown
as I watch him; half-listening to him as he doles out relationship advice to Chelsea.
There’s a mystery to Hudson, almost as if there are two of him both sharing the same stupidly good-looking body. The one Hudson is arrogant and - wait, no, scratch that; both Hudson’s are arrogant. But while the one smug, cocky, overly-confident Hudson surrounds himself with luxury and and sarcasm and boorish behavior, there’s another one that I keep getting glimpses of, like the one sitting here talking to my sister.
That Hudson is, well, utterly different. The second Hudson is fragile and partly broken; full of demons with fire in his eye. He’s the man with battle-scars and tattoos peeking out just enough from underneath that Armani armor to make me crazy to want to know which Hudson is the real one.
Or are they both?
But then of course, I’m reminded of who he is. I’m reminded that however charming and sober and put-together this new Hudson is, this is still one of the family of men my father surrounded himself with off in some remote corner of the globe when he was avoiding us - his real family. I remind myself that however handsome his face is, and however sweet he’s being to Chelsea right now, this man has an agenda in helping finance my campaign.
My father might be gone, but Hudson Banks is here, as if he’s helping my Dad exert his will over me from beyond the grave, which is a bizarre and uncomfortable thought.
Chelsea seems right as rain with him though, sitting there wrapped around Hudson’s finger. I shake my head at the sudden pang of, well, something that sure feels a whole lot like jealousy, even I know that’s impossible. But just the same, I find myself clenching my hand a little tighter around my water glass as Chelsea leans towards him, and puts her hand on his arm as she laughs at something he says.
I mean it’s harmless; her mannerisms are far more sibling-like than anything flirty, but I still can’t seem to shake the possessive feeling, as if Hudson is mine somehow.