Rock Hard Bodyguard

by Alexis Abbott

  In my line of work, it’s vital that I keep my body in tip-top shape. People don’t hire me solely for my skills--at least, not yet. Right now, they hire me because I’m pretty and because my particular style--my brand--is really hot at the moment. This year, this month, this day, I am exactly what those Hollywood executives are looking for. When I walk into a casting room, I can see faces light up at the sight of me. I am the answer to their questions.

  I know this probably makes me sound a little arrogant. Too full of myself. But trust me, there isn’t a single part of my existence I take for granted. I know how lucky I am to have inherited my father’s wealth and prestige along with my mother’s beauty and talent. But my competition is often just as rich, beautiful, and skilled as I am. I need to have the edge. That one thing that makes me stand out, makes me more valuable to the crew.

  And I’m already establishing that edge. I do my own stunts.

  In The World Enders, I had to perform all kinds of jumps, rolls, sprints, and fight choreography. Originally, they offered to hire a stunt double for me. After all, pretty much every one of my co-stars had a double. But I was determined to make myself totally invaluable, irreplaceable in every way.

  I’ve been running track and doing gymnastics since I was a little girl, and for the past few years I’ve added another workout to the mix: self-defense classes. And I don’t mean those wimpy “hit your assailant in the nose and run away” self-defense classes. I mean stuff like taekwondo and krav maga. Like boxing.

  I know how to make a fight look real, because I know how to really fight. Of course, I’ve been lucky enough to avoid ever having to be in a real fight. But I would like to think that if I had to, I could.

  As I walk into the gym and head straight for the treadmill, a sad thought occurs to me.

  I may be a fighter trained in self-defense, but even that knowledge couldn’t protect me from what Eddie Arnold did to me. I can feel tears burning in my eyes. I shake my head and blink rapidly, refusing to shed a tear over that awful pig of a man.

  I step onto the treadmill and instantly turn the speed up as high as it goes. I’m not even in the mood to stretch first. I just want to sweat and run and let my anger motivate me to work harder.

  I glance up at the flat-screen television on the wall and am only half-surprised to see the image of my mother’s face. I have my earbuds in, listening to my workout playlist, but I can read lips and context clues well enough to figure out that the TV is playing some sort of celebrity gossip show. Cartoon hearts appear around my mother’s face on the screen and I smile, a little sadly.

  The media almost never has anything bad to say about my mom.

  My parents are both hard workers with hearts of gold. I determine after a minute or so that the host of the gossip show is talking about how my mom recently donated a bunch of money to a cancer research organization. She had a breast cancer scare about five years ago, and while it turned out totally benign in the end, she still walked away with an even deeper respect for the victims of cancer and the doctors who treat them.

  Good people. My parents are good people. And they only ever associate with other good people, having high standards for who they work with and hang out with on their down time.

  But even good people make bad choices sometimes, I think to myself.

  Like Eddie. Eddie Arnold is a bad choice. A bad guy.

  I swallow hard, feeling sick to my stomach as the memories of this past week flood back to me. The escalation of his attacks, evolving from minor annoyances to genuine harassment to bonafide threats. At first there were just some voicemails left on my phone, urging me gently to call him back so we could talk it out, discuss what happened and come to a congenial agreement about it.

  Then there were the texts. Alternating between begging for forgiveness and threatening to “make my life hell” if I didn’t return his calls and meet with him.

  I ignored them all for as long as I could, thinking eventually he would give up and leave me alone.

  All this time, I had no idea just how bad it would get.

  I thought at first maybe I could just pretend it never happened. Pretend I wasn’t that affected by what he did. I told myself maybe I misinterpreted his actions. Misread the situation. Exaggerated it in my head. The first couple days, that’s what I told myself.

  But then, when I thought about it more, I just felt so angry. So hurt. Offended that this man who I’ve known my whole life, who has been like an uncle to me, could try and take advantage of my trust in him that way. The more he harassed me, the angrier I got. The more I ignored him, the angrier he got. Soon, I was getting messages on social media. My Facebook account, my Instagram page, even on Snapchat. I had to turn off my email notifications because he was sending me messages there, too. I figured if I ignored him he would eventually stop, and I could just move on.

  But then I realized just how badly he’d tricked me.

  Eddie was my go-to guy whenever I needed to sign a contract of any kind. I would have him read through it. He sorted through my offers and scripts, giving me advice. And at some point, he put a contract in front of me to sign. I did. And in that contract, I signed away all the rights to my own career. All my scripts and offers, all my profits. They go through him.

  He is holding my career hostage. And that’s why I ended up talking to Arthur O’Connelly, attorney to the stars, today. To discuss what steps I should take to break that contract and win back my life from Eddie Arnold.

  Arthur didn’t mince his words. He told me, straight-up, that this will be an uphill battle. That Eddie is a seasoned veteran in the world of legally binding contracts, and he knows all the loopholes, all the ways to trap me and make me his little marionette.

  I finish my workout and walk back home as the sun sets over the beach. I pass by the little eat-in table in my kitchen and at the sight of it, my stomach turns. I flash back instantly to that fateful night last week when my life turned upside down.

  It was just a business meeting, or so I thought. A little late in the evening, sure, but Eddie’s a night owl, so no huge surprise there.

  We met at an upscale restaurant downtown, near closing hours. We were the only people still dining in that late, and Eddie seemed a bit off from the moment we sat down to talk. He sat next to me in the booth instead of across from me. He was slurring his words, but only slightly. He had the top three buttons undone on his silk shirt, the sleeves of his jacket rolled up. Eddie’s in his mid-forties, a paunchy, broad-shouldered chain-smoker with a raspy voice and a way of talking so quickly and confidently that he can make anyone agree to almost anything.

  He downed three glasses of wine at dinner, while I slowly sipped one. He was telling me all about this new project his director buddy is working on, about how I could be a perfect fit for the lead role. I excitedly told him I was interested, of course, but then he shook his head.

  “Yeah, oh yeah, you would be a great fit. Perfect. You got the body for it, obviously,” he slurred, gesturing with his hands in the shape of an hourglass. A little inappropriate, maybe, but I ignored it.

  “So can you set me up for a casting call?” I asked.

  Eddie looked at me long and hard. Then he said quietly, “Yeah, sure can, Molly-pop... But uh, he might need some coaxing.”

  “Oh?” I asked, frowning in confusion.

  “Or rather… I might need some coaxing,” Eddie said in a low voice.

  And that’s when I felt it.

  His hand. His meaty, thick fingers sliding up my thigh under the table. I froze up, paralyzed with shock. Eddie gave a low growl and leaned over, his boozy breath hot on my neck. Goosebumps prickled up on my skin. What the hell is he doing? I thought to myself.

  His lips brushed my neck, his hand resting on the soft mound between my thighs.

  Finally, my shock wore off and I jumped up, sliding out of the booth so quickly that I knocked over our wine glasses and sent a basket of ciabatta rolls flying off the table. I gave Eddie a horrified look an
d muttered, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  And then I turned on my heel and ran. Right out of the restaurant. Right into the middle of the street. Cars honked and swerved to avoid me. I hailed a cab and climbed inside, shaking so hard I could barely tell the driver my address.

  When I got home, I called my sister, sobbing. Andie came over and held me while I cried and told her the whole horrible story. I made her promise not to tell our parents. Not yet. I needed to think it over first. I knew it would be difficult to tell them. Eddie has been their closest friend and confidante for decades. It would be a huge shock to them, that kind of betrayal.

  I sit down at the kitchen table and finally allow the tears to fall. But only for a minute or so. Then I wipe my eyes, get up, and murmur, “That’s enough. Time to make dinner. Think about something else for awhile.”

  Just as I’m chopping vegetables at the kitchen counter, I hear a loud, curt knock at the front door of my apartment. I glance at the digital clock on the microwave.

  Nine-oh-five.

  Not super late, but definitely late enough to arouse my suspicion. I don’t have plans with anyone, to my knowledge, and the only person who ever comes over unannounced is my sister Andie. I set down my chopping knife, then think twice and pick it back up as I walk quietly over to the front door. I peek through the tiny peephole.

  Nobody there. Empty hallway.

  Then I hear a crinkling sound under my foot. I look down to see a white envelope poking out from under my slipper. Scowling in confusion, I reach down and pick it up. It’s totally blank. Should I even open it? What if it’s--

  “No,” I sigh. “Come on, Molly. It’s not anthrax.”

  With my heart pounding, I open the envelope and pull out a single sheet of crisp white printer paper. I unfold it to read a brief message in all caps.

  COME BACK OR I WILL DRAG YOU BACK.

  2

  Wes

  “Christmas Eve is just a bitch, isn’t it?” Cody says as I finish the glass of beer in front of me.

  “Enough to drink to,” I reply gruffly.

  The two of us are having a drink over what we call a lunch break at the bar down the road from my office. I don’t usually day-drink. Not on a weekday, at least. But on a day like today, I couldn’t turn down an invitation from Cody, because I’ve got my share of things to drink over.

  The two of us are about the same height--a few inches over 6ft--and we have about the same broad, muscled frames, meaning our two bodies take up a hell of a lot of space at the bar. We almost blend together. For Cody, that’s a good thing.

  Cody’s famous. He’s LA famous, in fact, one of the biggest up and coming faces on the music scene since the last big thing. Even though it’s relatively dim in the bar, he’s wearing a beanie, thick-rimmed glasses that are just for show, and a jacket with a collar that makes it easy for him to keep a low profile if he needs to. He looks a little more hipster than my dusty leather jacket, flannel, and jeans, but that just makes me the sore thumb sticking out.

  He needs to go a little incognito for meetups like this. The bartender here knows us both, so it’s not a huge deal, but he likes to be careful. That, and I think he kind of likes feeling like he has to be careful. He’s always had a flair for theatrical shit.

  That’s how his band got discovered all those years ago when we were still a couple of mob thugs in Vegas together. Never thought I’d owe my new life to this rock star, but there could be worse people, that’s for damn sure. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to hearing Cody the punk I saved from a fight in an alley suddenly doing things with a guitar over the radio I didn’t know were possible.

  Even with Cody’s disguise and us looking like we’re looking for a fight, there’s a burly, stout guy sitting in the corner of the bar who’s been eyeing us since we walked in. I can’t tell if he recognizes Cody or if he has beef with me, and as long as he doesn’t bother us, I don’t care to find out.

  “This is the same bar we were at last Christmas Eve, wasn’t it?” he muses, turning over the amber beer bottle in his hand thoughtfully.

  “Don’t,” I say with a warning tone and a gruff smile to him.

  “Just sayin’,” he says, returning it, “you make this a tradition and you’re on a steady path to becoming something like a... a depressing regular.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Seriously though,” Cody says, “I didn’t set you up with that office down the road so you could drink yourself into an early grave.”

  “You set me up in that office because you want me dead,” I say, taking the second round the bartender sets in front of us. “I swear they didn’t get all the asbestos out of it the first time.”

  “Hey, I didn’t exactly have time to scope the place out,” he says with a chuckle. “You gave me enough prep time to throw a pair of pants on when you rolled into town.” He finishes his own beer and looks at me. “You still haven’t told me what that day was all about. I mean, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve known you a long time, Wes. I haven’t seen that look in your eyes in…”

  “Not the time, Cody,” I grunt, downing a third of the beer pointedly. “That’s a conversation for 2 AM in Tijuana, not 1 PM at Burt’s,” I say, giving a respectful nod to Burt, the bartender. “Besides, Christmas Eve drinking is for something else.”

  Cody screws up his face like he’s wracking his brain trying to figure out what I’m talking about, and finally, realization hits him. “Ohhh, your dad. Shit. Sorry.”

  I do a little mental counting. “That’s...twelve years now and counting. Fitting for Christmas.” Twelve years ago today, that asshole walked out of our house and never looked back. So I never looked back either. Doesn’t mean I can’t drink to it, though.

  Cody tilts his beer to me, and we clink bottles ruefully.

  “Might be a little less sour if you’d take on a few of those jobs I know are coming your way,” Cody adds, and I shoot him a look.

  “None of what’s coming my way is really my scene,” I say.

  “Keep turning down jobs at the rate you are, and I’ll start to assume being able to afford food isn’t your scene either,” he snorts.

  “Look, would you do a show at…” I pause, trying to think of an example. “I dunno, a kid’s birthday party?”

  “That’s not the same thing,” Cody says. “Exact opposite, actually. Wes, you’re one of the best freelance personal bodyguards on this side of LA, especially for how short a time you’ve been in the city. You’ve got a reputation. And celebrities are starting to throw work at you, especially around the holidays. You’re only in a dry spell because you aren’t taking up any of the offers coming your way. The bait’s there, why aren’t you biting? Most people like you would kill for those kinds of jobs.”

  “You make it sound like I’m more of a diva than you, rock star,” I say in a low tone with a cocky smile, and he ribs me with his elbow before I continue. “You know I don’t like all this glam and glitzy shit, man. The kinds of people asking for security were born choking on silver spoons. I did one of those gigs once, and it was some spoiled brat with a trust fund who had a theater career practically handed to them before they’d been born.”

  “Exactly,” Cody laughs, “what’s wrong with taking their money?”

  I frown.

  “Well, it might be worth putting up with it, but then there’s all the strings that come attached with celebrity work. Paparazzi. Tabloids. Drama. I don’t know how you put up with it all.”

  “Money is good, my friend,” Cody says simply. “The attention isn’t bad either. No such thing as bad PR.” I know he’s right, in some ways.

  “That works for you, but there are the other strings attached that only us bodyguards get to deal with when we’re not getting paid,” I say. “Like the one coming toward us, for example.”

  Cody looks in the direction I gesture with my finger from my beer, and we watch the burly guy across the room striding toward us.

  I recognize him, now. He�
�s the ex-husband of that theater brat. I’d been hired to protect her during the divorce proceedings.

  “Wes Jameson?” he demands, his brow knit.

  “I’m off the clock,” I grunt, trying to brush the guy off--not that I don’t know that’ll just antagonize him. Hell, maybe I’m in the mood for a fight today.

  “You son of a whore,” he says as Cody and I turn around to face him, exchanging a glance, silently agreeing how to handle this when it turns rough in a few seconds. “That bitch took everything I had!”

  “I wasn’t her lawyer, pal,” I say matter-of-factly, and it’s true. “All you’re doing here is making a mistake.”

  “Oh bullshit, all of you were conspiring against me,” he slurs, and I can tell the guy’s been drinking already. I would feel bad for him, if he hadn’t cheated on his wife with her mother and gotten violent with both of them. “I saw the looks she gave you. Did you screw that lying bitch, too?”

  “No, but you’ve got a few things wrong there,” I say, standing up and looking down at the man. “It wasn’t my job to know details, but the way I heard it, you were the one who cheated on her--and buddy, with her looks and your personality, I’m surprised she stuck with you as long as she did.”

  Yeah, I’m definitely looking for a fight. And now I’ve got one.

  Red-faced, he slings a meaty fist at me blindly. This guy’s shorter than me, but the extra weight means he’s not someone to underestimate. Fortunately, I’ve dealt with this guy before. I’ve physically held him back before, in fact, so I know how much force is behind that punch.

  I roll out of the way of the fist and catch him by the wrist. A drunk’s main weakness is his reflexes, obviously, so it’s the easiest thing in the world to use that against him. With his wrist in my hand, I side-step him and pull his wrist along with me, using his own momentum against him.