by M. S. Parker
She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh, okay.” She walked over to the men and smiled. “Come on, sailors, and give me a kiss.”
I pulled out a hundred dollar bill and handed it to them. They both kissed Paris' cheeks and squealed and made a scene, which, for once, was the exact thing I'd wanted. I took a couple pictures to make sure we'd gathered plenty of attention and, before we moved on to our private booth, a line had formed.
As Paris and a couple other girls I sort of knew giggled and drank their expensive champagne, I watched a steady stream of women and men making generous donations in return for posed pictures with the sailors. I allowed myself a little smile and a bit of pride as I thought of Ian. That money would help young men like him recover from whatever their sacrifice had been.
“Here's to Leighton's new bodyguard,” Paris said suddenly. “May he use his fine body to keep her from harm.”
The good feeling I had faded away as I remembered my grandfather's edict. I was too irresponsible even to take care of myself. Other people were deciding to put their life on the line, knowing full well what the deadly consequences could be, and all I could do was sit in a booth and complain about one of them being paid to keep an eye on me. Paid because he'd kept my brother alive. I drained my drink and poured myself another, hoping it would make my mind as blank as my life.
12
Haze
LAX was a cluster of angry business travelers shouting into their phones, people with dark sunglasses expecting they could cut to the front of the long lines, and tourists squealing with excitement over the bright and sunny weather. I wanted to smile as widely as any of the gawking tourists, but I put on my sunglasses and reminded myself I had a job to do. I'd enjoy being here, but work came first.
I'd been telling myself that from the moment I decided to accept the job offer. The only way I could keep from feeling guilty was to promise myself that I'd keep myself focused on the work. Nothing else.
I grabbed my duffel bag and headed toward the bank of taxicabs. In front of me was a line of drivers with white paper signs, waiting to escort various people to sleek, air-conditioned cars. I was surprised when a second glance showed my name on one of the signs.
“Mr. Welch?” the driver asked as I walked up to him.
“Yes.”
I shook my head when he offered to take my duffel bag, and without another word, he led me to a glossy, black town car.
“Mr. Pope sent me to pick you up, sir.”
“Thank you,” I said. I didn't bother to tell him not to call me 'sir.' I'd find out what Mr. Pope's policy was on that first.
The driver opened the trunk of the car, carefully placed my duffel bag inside, and then opened the back door of the car for me. I slid inside, careful not to tilt my head to the right, and relaxed against the soft leather seat.
Flying had never bothered me before, but take off and landing now terrified me. Dr. Bouton had warned me before leaving Cedar-Sinai that the changing pressure could affect my inner ear. Both times now, I'd followed every piece of advice from the motion sickness bracelets to chewing gum to forcing myself to yawn. I'd felt like a fool, but somehow, something had worked and I'd been okay.
Maybe it’s gone, I thought suddenly.
I carefully tilted my head, stretching my neck little by little until the point was reached and I felt the familiar wave of dizziness. I gripped the handle of the car door and focused on the back of my hand. Even though the physical sensation was disorienting, I was training myself to be still and steady until it passed. It was taking less time now, which was a good thing. Or at least it would've been if I hadn't been wanting a full recovery.
“Not used to LA traffic?” the driver asked, obviously mistaking my actions for being nervous.
The vertigo passed, and I peeled my grip from the door handle. I relaxed against the leather seat again and looked out the window.
“Does anyone get used to it?” I asked.
“I've been driving here for ten years, the past eight for Mr. Pope. It's crazy, but you'll get used to it.”
“Eight years for Mr. Pope?” I asked. “What's he like?”
After I’d signed the lawyer’s contracts in triplicate, I'd gone straight to my computer to look up Devlin Pope. It hadn't taken me long to find out my new employer was a Midwest transplant who’d managed to work his way up from nothing to become one of the richest men in the entertainment industry. After mopping floors at an unpopular country label, young Devlin had managed to throw himself in the path of a record executive and convince him to take a chance on an eager and unpaid intern. From there he clawed his way up and traded the recording business for one of LA's largest radio stations and a growing production company.
His profile pictures showed a sharp man in his late sixties with bright blue eyes, short silver hair, and a clean-shaven face. He was always pictured in front of his private jet or some expensive car, but he was never smiling. It was hard to tell if he was modest or hard. Having grown up with a man to whom smiling didn't come easily, I was never quick to judge someone simply because they didn't smile.
“Mr. Pope is fair, direct, and very observant. Don't think you can slack off. I swear the man knows the exact mileage on every car, even though he owns a fleet of the exact same black town cars.”
Good, I thought, it would be impossible for me to work for someone sloppy or scatterbrained. My military heritage and training made me crave structure and a sense that whoever was in charge worked to get there. I wasn't the sort of man who balked under orders. I was a firm believer that respect had to be earned.
“Though I hear you're working with Ms. Machus,” the driver said.
I saw his eyes flick up to the rear view mirror and then back to the sunny highway.
“Yes, I've been hired as Ms. Machus' personal security,” I said.
The driver grinned. “Thank god for you, man. I'm not gonna tell tales, but I like driving, not running a three-ring circus. Simple, driving, that's why I like it.”
“Ms. Machus doesn't lead a simple life?” I asked carefully.
The driver sized me up as we stopped in traffic. “You look tough, you can take it.”
Great. I'd intentionally not done a lot of research into the family. I'd seen a headline from a few years back where it said that Mr. Pope had gotten custody of his grandchildren after their parents died, but I hadn't read the article. It seemed too personal a thing for me to know about my...what was the word for her? Guardee? Because she wasn't my employer, her grandfather was. The papers Mr. Davis made me sign had made that clear.
As for the girl herself, well, I'd gotten Mr. Davis's assessment of Ms. Machus, or at least what he'd claimed was her grandfather's assessment. And while I knew that the sort of young woman who grew up with that much money and prestige wouldn't be a picnic, I hadn't wanted to go into this with preconceived notions. While I understood that Mr. Pope would know his granddaughter, I also understood that parents – or any sort of parental figure – would also see her through their own perspective. While I loved my own parents, their reaction to my announcement about my new job had proven that.
“Still.” The driver's voice pulled me from my thoughts. “She is Mr. Pope's only granddaughter. He's not going to let her get too far out of hand.”
“That's where I come in?” I asked.
“Sounds like you came very highly recommended. Special Forces?”
“On medical leave,” I said.
The lie felt like dust in my mouth, but I couldn't bring myself to admit my honorable discharge. I swallowed hard. That was the point of this little exercise, I'd told myself. I figured a few months of working on my feet would prove I could handle myself. Then I'd demand to be reevaluated. Perhaps Mr. Pope would help me get back in to see Dr. Bouton and get my diagnosis changed. I would come out of LA with a healthy bank account and a clean bill of health, ready to get back to my real duty.
“Mr. Pope's grandson was in the army,” the driver said. “Honorable discharge
. Don't think it made him too happy, but Mr. Pope just wants to make sure his family is safe.”
Shit. I felt for the kid.
When the tall gates opened on an artfully paved driveway about twenty minutes later, I felt myself get dizzy and it had nothing to do with vertigo. The scale of the gates spoke of the wealth hidden at the top of the driveway, and I suddenly realized I was out of my depth.
I knew how to invade and neutralize enemy forces without ever being seen. I knew how to speak multiple dialects, and communicate with hostile strangers in many different lands. I knew how to broker peace negotiations and lay the groundwork for diplomacy. I had medical training that allowed me to assess and treat wounds while under fire.
What I was completely unprepared for was the lavish lifestyle in front of me, and the people who lived in such a world.
The house was a silver screen mansion covered in a bright Technicolor display of flowers. Lush bougainvillea covered the stone walls and spilled over the archway to the garage courtyard. The driver pulled into the circular drive and stopped the car in front of a splashing fountain.
I'd just landed on a fucking movie set.
I got out before the driver could open the door for me, and I grabbed my duffel bag as soon as the trunk lid popped up. He smiled and led the way to the house.
I thought about the hundreds of hostile villages I'd walked into without feeling as unsure as I did approaching the mansion. Lost in the differences between my past and my present, I ran into a tangle of low-hanging flowers. I brushed my hair roughly and hoped no blossoms still clung to my head. The feel of hair under my fingers was one more reminder of how far I was from home. It'd grown out over the last few months.
I ducked underneath the bright pink flowers and followed the driver to the servants' entrance.
“Most of Mr. Pope's household staff lives on the property. I heard a rumor this morning that you've got one of the guesthouses. Big time.” He grinned, dark eyes dancing with humor.
“Mr. Pope probably just wants me closer to the house to keep an eye on his granddaughter,” I muttered.
“Still damn lucky. That place is luxurious with a capital L.”
I stopped walking and took a deep breath. I so wasn't ready for this.
“I'm just joking, man,” he said, quickly. “Everyone's got luxe accommodations. You should see the butler's place. I've got an apartment above the garage that's bigger than the house I grew up in. Stop by some night if you ever get to stay in.”
He laughed at his own joke and left me in the kitchen. A surly-looking chef pointed at me with her knife, and I went through a wide set of double doors. One thing the army had definitely taught me was not to piss off the people who made the food.
I hadn't gone more than two steps when a tidy man in a gray suit appeared. Butler?
“Mr. Welch, I presume? Mr. Machus is waiting for you in the front parlor.”
I stepped carefully across the gleaming floor of the foyer and took a wide path around a delicate table that held a large flower arrangement. I was more comfortable walking in minefields than trying not to knock over anything in the mansion. Everywhere I turned, I was sure my duffel bag was going to knock over some million-dollar piece of artwork.
It was a relief when I reached the door the butler indicated. It was the size of the renovated barn's entire first floor, and I got the impression that it was about average here. Arched windows were open to the warm breeze, and I saw the bright bougainvillea flowers drifting in and out.
“Sergeant.” A young man I hadn't seen snapped to attention when I walked through the door.
“At ease, kid,” I said automatically.
Then I stopped and gave the young man a second look. His auburn hair and bright green eyes caused a bright flash in my memory. A rapid-fire replay of the events went through my head, making my stomach clench and my mouth go dry.
The young man blinked at me, and I knew the same thing had just happened to him.
“Ian Machus.” I'd known Mr. Pope's grandson had been the reason I'd been hired, but I hadn't expected to see him here.
“Yes, sir, Sergeant Welch, sir,” he said.
“You can stop all that.” I grabbed for his hand as it started to go up into another salute. I shook it. “Please, call me Haze.”
“I can't, sir,” Ian said, his cheeks bright. “You saved my life, sir.”
“Just my duty,” I said and grinned. “And stop calling me 'sir.' Every time you say it, I think my father's in the room. You're making me jumpy.”
Ian's lips quirked up in a smile, and he relaxed. “Was your father in the army, too?”
“He still is, training officers at Fort Riley,” I said. “Captain Welch even makes his golf caddy call him sir. I think my mom was the only reason us kids didn't.”
“He must be proud of you,” Ian said.
I thought of my father's furiously clamped jaw when I'd told him I was leaving for Los Angeles. He'd asked why I wanted to be a bodyguard to some spoiled rich kid. I knew I couldn't tell him that I needed some space, so I tried to keep it simple and told him it would keep me moving. He saw it as some sort of personal comment on the fact that he had a desk job, even though that hadn't been how I'd intended it, and then he said that I was killing my mother by choosing to move away.
We both knew it had been a low blow, and after that, there was nothing more to say. My mother hugged me tight, but hadn't shed a tear or second-guessed my decision. She'd said goodbye to all four of us boys through the years, sending us off to dangerous parts of the world. Sending me on a plane to sunny California hadn't been enough to shake her quiet strength. All she'd said was to send her postcards, which had been the same thing she'd told me when I'd left on my last tour.
The difference in my assignments burned in my chest, but I shook it off as young Ian Machus watched me closely.
“Sorry,” I said. “I'm still adjusting to being off active duty.”
The look of relief was painful, and for a moment, I thought he might hug me.
“Me too,” he said. “I'm almost fully recovered. There's still a couple things I need to work on before I can be re-evaluated, but the only permanent damage is some scars.”
I felt a stab of jealousy go through me, immediately followed by guilt. Still, the unfairness of it wasn't lost on me. He had permanent reminders of what happened written on his body, but would most likely be able to return to the life he wanted. Looking at me, no one could tell I was in anything less than peak physical shape, but I was the one being forced into a life I didn't want.
“How about you?” Ian asked.
“I'm going to work for your grandfather,” I said, trying not to let any of my bitterness seep into my words. I wasn't angry with either Ian or his grandfather.
The young man tipped his head and studied me. I knew he was trying to figure out what injury I'd sustained that would've brought me here. He was subtle, sizing me up the way soldiers did without really looking, but I felt it. Ian knew his grandfather had paid for expensive private care for me, but I knew he didn't know why. Dr. Bouton had made it clear that he hadn't discussed my injuries with anyone, and the disclosure form I'd filled out for Mr. Davis had been for Mr. Pope's eyes only.
“Mr. Welch, I trust the flight was no problem,” Devlin Pope said, striding into the room.
One look at his bright blue eyes and I knew he'd done his research on my injury. He held out his hand.
“The flight was comfortable,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” he said in return. “For everything.”
Ian's cheeks brightened.
“I appreciate the opportunity,” I said.
“Ian will show you to the guest house. Once you've had a chance to settle in, we'll meet in my office to go over the details of your job description. I've asked my chef to make a special luncheon to welcome you. You'll meet my granddaughter then.” His tone made it clear that it wasn't a request.
I nodded and hoisted my duffel ba
g back onto my shoulder. Ian led me across a marble-floor foyer and through a wide hallway to a sunny room. French doors made up the entire back wall, and we stepped out into the warm L. A. afternoon.
“The guest house is just behind the pool house,” Ian said.
The pool house was larger than the barn I'd been living in back home. We walked around it through a carefully pruned garden, and at the end of a curving walk there was a wide pergola covered in wisteria. Ian ducked under it and opened the door to the guesthouse.
He left me at the door and headed back to the house, barely stopping himself from saluting me as he went. I watched him go and noted the slight twist to his ankle as he walked. He'd easily be able to get back on active duty if his grandfather wasn't dead set against it.
I took a slow breath and walked into the guesthouse that I was going to call home for the time being.
What am I doing here? I thought.
I'd wanted to get out of Kansas, get back up to full speed. I was just like Ian. I wanted to show I was fine, get reevaluated, and return to active duty. I just had to make it through this assignment first, and I was starting to think it was going to be a lot harder than I expected.
A couple of hours later, my head was still spinning from the thorough review of my job description, the discussion of pay scale and bonuses, the activation of my expense account, and the lavish luncheon spread. I wasn't stupid, but there'd been a reason I'd gone into Special Forces and done medical training there instead of being a doctor. I was definitely more about the hands-on than the reading and discussing.
“We're not usually this formal,” Devlin said. “But I thought it was fitting to welcome you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “This is, ah, wonderful.”
I studied the wide array of shining silverware on either side of my bone china plate. Disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling service weapons in a sandstorm seemed easier than choosing the right utensil for the salad course. I never imagined I'd need to be prepared for something like this.