“I just got that phone!” she exclaims.
I raise my eyebrow, and it dawns on her why that would explain the bug. She sits down on the couch, looking terrified.
“Oh my god, how many people does Eddie have coming after me?”
“If they had you bugged, they were likely tracking you,” I say crossing back to my laptop and flipping through the channels on the security, and my heart starts to pick up at what I see.
This job just got a lot more interesting.
“What?” she asks, looking over at me, distressed.
“Your manager must have deep pockets,” I say, my eyes focusing on some of the faces I see moving around the hotel. “And he must want you very badly.”
“What are you talking about?” she snaps, hurrying over to my side, and I point to some of the men in each feed of the security.
“See these men here?” I point out a few of the people that have caught my attention in the cameras. “Bulky jackets, wide frames, look like they’ve seen combat? They aren’t the types of people who stay in five-star hotels. I recognize them. They’re ‘security’ who work for a company called North Sonoran Security. They’re mercenaries, more or less. All veterans, all of their officers formerly involved in black ops. These are the kind of men drug lords hire.”
It occurs to me that what I’m saying isn’t exactly reassuring. I look over to see utter terror written on her face, and I add, “They don’t know we can see them, though. But it does mean this is more serious than you could have known.”
I expect her to break down, but instead, I watch her carefully compose herself, breathing deeply and stifling her fear to show a still, unreadable face. “Okay. Okay, there are military mercenaries here. For me. No problem.”
Well, mostly composed.
I can’t blame her, either. This is the big leagues.
“Stay calm,” I say. “We know two things we didn’t know a moment ago.”
“What’s that?”
“One: we know what lengths your friend Eddie is willing to go to, so he’s going to have a hard time surprising us again,” I say, my voice even. The next part is more complicated though, and my mind is already churning, going through the blueprints of the hotel I studied on the way over here, thinking about our options. I wasn’t expecting to have to outwit special ops, but after all, the excitement is part of why I like this job.
“Two,” I say, turning to look her in those sparkling amber eyes, “this hotel room is no longer safe.”
5
Molly
Thump. Thump. Thump.
All I can hear is the pounding of my own heart, the blood rushing in my ears.
I turn away, almost in slow motion, like the world is grinding to a halt all around me, the background details fading into darkness and blurry shadows. I feel lightheaded, sick to my stomach, weak in the knees. All these feelings I’m not used to. Like I’m fragile. Like I’m weak.
This is not who I am.
This is not my life. It can’t be.
I stumble my way across the room and into the en suite bathroom, closing the door behind me with a resounding click. I catch a glimpse of movement to my left and look up, terrified, just to see my own reflection staring wide-eyed back at me. It doesn’t even look like me. I’m not accustomed to seeing my own face look so frightened. So pale and exhausted.
Suddenly, I’m filled with fury. This is not my fault. I didn’t cause any of this to happen. I know that’s what Eddie wants me to think. He wants me to blame myself. To regret how I responded to his disgusting advances. That’s what he’s banking on-- that I will give up and give in and come crawling back to him with my tail between my legs.
I can’t help but wonder how many other women he’s done this to. How many other girls have been cowed into submission? Convinced to give themselves over and relinquish their power to some fast-talking, manipulative asshole? Don’t get me wrong, I’m no naive little ingenue like the media thinks I am. I’m not dumb. I’m no stranger to the ins and outs of the Hollywood game. I know there are predators out there just seething with opportunities to prey upon women young and old, drawing them in with promises of fame and stardom, only to dash their dreams to pieces and ruin their lives. Everyone here is desperate for one little shot at success, and all these guys have to do is dangle some fake connection or hookup on a string and girls come running. They throw caution to the wind and jump headlong into the deep end of the pool, not realizing that there are sharks in the water.
But me? I’m not like that. I’m shrewd. I’m careful. I grew up in this world and I watched my parents-- especially my mother-- navigating these tricky waters with expertise. I can usually spot a scam or a con artist from a mile away. I read between the lines. I examine the fine print.
Until Eddie came along and reassured me, made me think I was finally safe. He let me think I could relax a little bit, let him shoulder some of the burden of sifting through offers and scripts instead of going it alone. But it was all a trick. He just wanted me to lower my guard so he could slither through like the snake he is. And the worst part? It worked. He slid that contract in front of me like it was just routine business and I signed my whole soul away.
I grit my teeth, my hand gripping the edge of the bathroom counter as I try not to cry.
I should have seen this coming, somehow. I’m in control of my destiny. I always believed that so completely. I used to feel so strong. Now I just feel… violated.
Eddie’s a sleazy guy who’s been grooming me to be his little toy since I was a child. That much I’m already coming to terms with. But the idea that he could hate me so much that he would hire a bunch of mercenaries to come looking for me? That’s crazy! That is the kind of thing that would happen in a movie I might star in, not my actual, real life.
I’m ripped out of my scary thoughts by the soft click of the bathroom doorknob turning. The door opens slowly and I turn to see Wes standing in the doorway, a serious look on his face.
“You done having a meltdown in here?” he asks. But even though his voice is gruff, I can detect what might just be a tiny note of sympathy. Gentleness, even.
But it disappears just as quickly as it appeared.
“We don’t have all day,” he says, “You saw those guys on the monitor. They’re coming after you, whether you acknowledge it or not.”
“I know that,” I snap. “I’m fully aware of the situation, Mr. Jameson. I have been fucking living this situation for a couple weeks now. And I’m not having a ‘meltdown,’ I just needed a second to think without you looking at me.”
A look of almost amusement crosses his face, and that makes me even angrier. He shakes his head. “Whatever you say, Miss Parker. Either way, we need to get a move on. Those men aren’t going to wait until it’s convenient for us. It’s time to go.”
“Go where?” I ask, frowning at him. “They’re already in the hotel.”
“Exactly,” he says, turning and walking out of the bathroom without explaining himself any further. Where the hell did Arthur find this guy?! He is absolutely infuriating!
I have half a mind to just plant myself right here in this bathroom and refuse to move until he tells me the plan, but then I remember Andie’s words to me. Reminding me to swallow my pride and just put up with whatever I have to in order to survive this situation. I roll my eyes up to the ceiling, take a deep breath, and walk out into the main living space of the hotel suite.
Mr. Jameson is bent over, digging through his bag of technology, tucking some smaller items into his jacket pockets. I peer over his shoulder ever so slightly and catch a flash of something metal and shiny. My heart skips a beat.
Is that… a fucking gun?
Before I can even ask, he turns back around and gives me an exaggerated once-over.
“What?” I ask, shrugging.
“Nothing. Just that you’re not exactly dressed for the occasion,” he says coolly.
“What occasion? Being hunted by mercenaries in the hotel where I was suppose
d to safely spend Christmas alone? Watching all my hard work evaporate in front of my face because of some nasty old man who wants what he can’t have?” I exclaim, rather shrilly.
Again, he just gives me that semi-amused look. I wish I could slap that expression off his stupid, handsome face. What an insensitive asshole.
“No,” he says, grabbing a fancy chair and dragging it over to the middle of the room. He climbs up onto the chair and begins fiddling with one of the ceiling tiles-- no, an air vent.
“Then what?” I press on, crossing my arms over my chest.
He looks down at me, setting the ceiling grate on the floor.
“An elaborate escape,” he answers finally. And cryptically.
“Could you just, for once, give me a straight fucking answer,” I mutter.
He steps down from the chair to stand right in front of me, towering over me with my nose almost pressed into his throat. I look up at him slowly.
“Fine,” he says. “You’re wearing what I can only assume are designer jeans, which, in their defense, do make your ass look fantastic, but are going to be pretty damn uncomfortable when you’re climbing on your hands and knees.”
I take a step back, my eyes going wide. “Excuse me?”
He smirks. “In the air vents. That’s how we’re going to get out of this room.”
I look up at the ceiling, my heart skipping a beat.
“What?” I ask, incredulously. “What do you think this is-- a Bond movie?”
“No, of course not,” he replies simply. “If it was a Bond movie, I’d be wearing a suit, and you’d be wearing way less clothing.”
“You can’t--”
“No time to argue. Are you coming with me or not?” he interjects, looking at me expectantly. I close my mouth and just stare at him for a moment, silently seething. Wherever Arthur found this guy, he’s getting his ass chewed all the way out once all this is over.
“Feel free to hang out here until the mercenaries show up, if you’d rather do that.”
“Fine. Fine! Whatever. Let’s just go,” I say, throwing up my hands in surrender.
“Great,” he says, smiling roguishly. He offers me a hand and I push it away, walking around him to get up on the chair. He swivels around, saying, “Oh, come on, I know you’re not going to be able to--”
His words fall short as I bend at the knees, jump up, and with my hands gripping the inside of the ceiling tiles, I carefully hoist myself up into the air vent. I look down through at the hole at him, just in time to see the look of shock and awe on his face before he swiftly wipes it away. Satisfying as hell.
“You coming or what?” I snap.
I can tell he’s fighting a grin. “Well, back up a little so I have room,” he says. And a moment later, he’s swinging himself up into the cramped, dusty space with me. Suddenly we’re face to face, only inches apart in the near-perfect darkness.
I swallow hard.
After a beat, he says quietly, “Follow me.”
“How do you know where we’re going?” I ask in the same muted tone.
He turns and starts crawling through the vent, his perfect, taut ass a few feet in front of me. At least I’m going to have a nice view for this awful, doomed-to-fail plan of his.
He glances back over his shoulder. “I memorized the blueprint of the hotel.”
“Uh-huh. Sure you did,” I murmur.
“Do you really think I would put you-- or myself-- through this shit if I didn’t know where I was going?” he retorts, his voice echoing ever so slightly in the metallic surroundings.
“Honestly? Maybe. I don’t know you. Maybe this is fun for you,” I say, admittedly a little more venomously than I planned.
“Oh trust me, sweetheart. I may have a wild idea of fun, but this sure as hell ain’t it.”
Thankfully, he can’t see me rolling my eyes, and for the next several minutes or so, I just follow him dutifully in silence. I try not to focus too hard on how dumb an idea this is, how screwed we both are, how inevitable it is that the mercenaries-- if that is in fact what they are-- will find us. What will they do with me? Threaten me? Tie me up and intimidate me? Kidnap me and take me back to Eddie’s office?
Kill me?
No. Nope. I can’t think about that right now. So instead, I focus on the perfectly-sculpted ass in front of me, leading the way. As much of a dick as he is, I can’t pretend for one single second that Mr. Wes Jameson isn’t ridiculously, annoyingly attractive. That scruffy face. Those crystalline-blue eyes.
And damn, that ass.
We keep moving, sometimes shimmying up through vertical piping, hosting ourselves onto the next level, until I have no earthly idea where the hell we are. We could be in another world by now, as far as I’m concerned. And as much as I don’t want to admit it, the tight quarters are starting to make me nervous. Really nervous.
Nervous enough that I start breathing heavily. I can feel the panic settling in. I try to remind myself that even though it feels like I’m trapped, it’s going to be okay. We’re going to climb out the other end of these vents at some point and breathe freely again.
Suddenly, Mr. Jameson speaks again, softly. “Hey, you okay back there?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, of course,” I answer quickly. Damn it, my voice is trembling.
He stops and looks back at me, genuinely concerned.
“Your breathing sounds different. You’re not getting all panicky on me, are you?”
I shake my head vigorously, which only makes me feel dizzier. Oh shit.
He turns back to face me, but keeping a short distance away so as not to crowd me and make the claustrophobia even worse. There’s a note of reassurance in his gruff voice. “I’m serious. Are you alright? We can slow down if you want.”
“I’m fine. Really. It’s just, uh, a little tight in here,” I confess, my heart beating so loudly I’m afraid even he can hear it. He smiles, and it’s such a genuine, true smile that it catches me off-guard. I didn’t realize he was capable of such an emotion.
“I know. I hate this shit, too. Once when I was a kid, I thought it would be funny to hide in my mom’s closet so I could jump out and scare her when she came home from work. Kids are such assholes. As luck would have it, as soon as I closed the closet door, a big box of old dishes fell in front of the closet. I couldn’t get out. My mom worked late that night, so I was stuck in there for probably four or five hours. By the time she came home and found me, I was a wreck,” he says, laughing gently.
“God, that sounds horrible,” I tell him honestly
He shrugs. “Yeah. It sucked. But now whenever I’m in a tight space like this, I remind myself that if I could survive being trapped in a closet for hours as a kid, then I sure as hell can handle it now as an adult.”
Against my better judgment, I smile. “Makes sense.”
To my surprise, I’ve totally stopped hyperventilating. My head is clear. It worked.
“I feel better now. Sorry to slow us down,” I tell him. He shrugs and turns back around to keep leading us through the vents.
“No big deal. Sometimes you have to stop and breathe. Besides, if I’m being honest, it’s pretty fucking impressive that you were able to swing yourself up into the vents in the first place. That takes a lot of strength that I… did not expect you to have,” he confesses.
“It’s okay. Nobody ever expects shit like that from me. I know what I look like, you know. People underestimate me all the time,” I tell him, still surprised at how civil our conversation has become.
“Where the hell did you learn how to do that, anyway?” he asks.
“Acting,” I answer shortly. He snorts. “No, really,” I add. “I do my own stunts. It’s part of my job description to be in shape, to be able to handle myself.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mr. Jameson says, and there’s real appreciation in his tone.
We continue on for awhile longer, and I have no idea how much time has passed. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, onl
y punctured by the little flashlight in Mr. Jameson’s hand. I would never, ever admit it, but my hands and knees are starting to ache from crawling along like this. I’m definitely going to have bruises. But I try to keep my mind free. I can’t dwell on the bad stuff. Not right now. I try to release all those worries and anxieties, clear my head like I do before I film a particularly emotional or physical scene at work. Andie taught me meditation a couple years ago, when she was first getting into the whole yoga thing. I can’t say it’s my favorite thing to do. I’ve got too much on my mind to be constantly erasing it all in the pursuit of some impossible calm. But sometimes it’s useful. Like now.
In fact, I clear my mind so effectively that I almost jump out of my skin when Mr. Jameson speaks up again, stopping short in front of me.
“This is it. This is the top,” he says. “This is where we get out.”
“Where are we?” I ask.
“I just said: the top. We’re going to the roof.”
“Seems like a weird place to try and hide--”
“Just trust me, okay?” he says, giving me an impatient look.
“Alright. Jeez. Calm down,” I mumble.
He takes a few moments to dislodge the grate in front of us, then he carefully lifts it up into the shaft before peering down into a hallway identical to the one outside my hotel suite. Quietly and cautiously, he lowers himself down. He offers me a hand, and I swallow my pride for the hundredth time, taking it.
When my feet touch the ground, I take a deep breath of relief, happy to be out of that tiny, claustrophobic vent shaft. Wordlessly, he gestures for me to follow him down the hall to a small staircase with a door at the top. We walk up the steps, our footsteps soft enough to barely make any noise at all, and he punches a code into the door, then opens it.
We step out onto the roof, the brisk December air hitting me and making goosebumps pop up on my skin instantly. Shivering slightly, I follow Mr. Jameson across the roof while the sun sets radiantly over the city of Los Angeles. The sky is streaked with pink and gold, the air just cold enough to remind me that this is Christmas.
Rock Hard Bodyguard Page 5