Guarding the Billionaire

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “Thought it might be an idea to get some of the rust off it first, Bill.”

  “Oh, right. Yes. Whatever you say, Justin.”

  After a few blows, I decide to take on the turkey.

  I look at the turkey, where the head would have been: the headless turkey looks at me.

  You lookin’ at me? Hey, turkey! You lookin’ at me? Then who the hell else are you lookin’ at? You lookin’ at me? Well I’m the only one here. Who the fuck do you think you’re lookin’ at? Oh yeah? Eat this, turkey-head!

  And I aim the axe at its right leg. The axe catches at an angle and slides off.

  “Fuck!”

  “Still got all your toes, Justin?” asks Bill, quietly.

  Fucker!

  I wrestle the turkey back into position and show it who’s boss. This time the axe lands in the middle of its chest and there’s an odd splintering sound.

  I hit it again, and its left leg is partially severed. I hit it again and again and again.

  THWACK! BIFF! KER-CHANG! BOING! PING! KER-POW! THUD!

  That fucking turkey is fucking laughing at me! You’ll be laughing on the other side of your giblets, mother-fucker!

  I can feel the sweat starting to run down my back as I axe that bird into the next life. It’s one helluva Thanksgiving turkey massacre.

  Finally, I get the legs off and Bill carries them into the kitchen like trophies from a war.

  There are chunks of frozen turkey spewed across the garden like some macabre splatter gun.

  I drag the battered carcass inside, feeling a sense of achievement as well as pity for a vanquished foe.

  The turkey fought well, but I am The Victor. Eat that, turkey-brains.

  Rachel looks appalled at the mangled meat and Allison swallows like she’s about to vomit. Or cry. Or both.

  “Got the legs off, baby.”

  “So I see, Justin.”

  I shrug and wander off to the den. Kimmi’s watching ‘Chicken Run’:

  “So laying eggs all your life and then getting plucked, stuffed and roasted is good enough for you, is it?”

  “It’s a livin’.”

  I can relate to that. Kinda reminds me of working for Anderson.

  “Hey, Justin.”

  “Hey, Kimmi. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Thanks.” She pauses. “Everyone’s shouting.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Is the turkey dead?”

  “It was frozen, Kimmi.”

  “So it’s dead?”

  “Yeah, very dead.”

  “Did you shoot it?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mom says you carry a gun. That’s pretty cool.”

  “No, I didn’t shoot the turkey.”

  “So, how did you kill it?”

  “Well, it was already stone cold dead, but I hit it with an axe.”

  “Cool.”

  “Frozen.”

  “You’re funny.”

  “I know.”

  Celia shuffles into the room.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Granny!”

  “You, too, Kimmi-kins!”

  “Justin killed the turkey with an axe.”

  “Really?”

  She turns to stare at me.

  Shoulda seen it, lady: poultry in motion.

  “Yeah, must have lost my head.” And then kissed my ass goodbye.

  Bill comes in to rescue me.

  “So, Justin, how about seeing my play room?”

  I can’t help wincing. Must be Freudian.

  “Sure, Bill.”

  I spend the rest of Thanksgiving morning sitting in Bill’s garage as we freeze our asses off while drinking Tequila Gold and inspecting his models. I just wish the submarines didn’t remind me of Anderson’s set of anal plugs. There are some images a man can live without.

  The doorbell rings and Bill staggers off to answer it. I take another quick hit of tequila and head to the Russian front where Rachel is doing her best to bully Allison’s cooking into something edible. But nobody ever won on the Russian front. They say Napoleon’s army ate their own officers on the retreat. Probably weren’t as chewy as Allison’s turkey-giblet burgers.

  Rachel uses a long roasting fork to poke the turkey in the oven, and I feel a certain sympathy for the poor, tortured beast. Hasn’t it suffered enough?

  “Hey, baby. Need a hand?”

  “You’ve been drinking!” she scolds.

  Fuck, I love it when she tells me off. Makes me horny.

  “Seemed like a good idea at the time, baby. I was in Bill’s play room.”

  “I’m so sorry, Justin,” she whispers. “This isn’t how I imagined spending Thanksgiving.”

  “I’ve known worse, baby. And I got to wake up with you.”

  She runs her hand down my cheek and kisses me gently.

  I start to give her kiss the attention it deserves, when Queen Cock-blocker sails into the kitchen.

  “For goodness sake, you two! There’s a time and a place for that sort of thing!”

  “An empty kitchen seemed like the perfect place to me,” replies Rachel, coolly.

  I shove my hands in my pockets and leave the room whistling the chorus to my new favorite song:

  “Me and Mrs. Jones

  We got a thing goin’ on…”

  Bill introduces me to the neighbors, Douglas and Virginia, as “Rachel’s partner”.

  And it makes me think. ‘Partner’? Is that what I want from Rachel? No, she’s much more than that to me. A few months ago I would have had a different reaction: get married again? Woah! Halloween is over! I promised myself I’d never go there, not after Carla ripped my guts out and wore them for garter straps. But Rachel’s not like that and she’s sure not like her sister.

  So, ‘partner’? No. I want more. Me and Mrs. Smith are going to have a conversation about that.

  But not today.

  We all take our places at the dining table and the sacrificial beast is wheeled in. Jeez, it looks so … flat. Kinda deflated and humiliated.

  And the image of hacking its legs off, chunk by icy chunk, surges to my mind. My stomach lurches in sympathy.

  “Turkey, Justin?” asks Allison, looking for all the world as if she’d like to do something violently unpleasant with my giblets. Maybe I should introduce her to Anderson.

  “No, thanks, Allison. I’m vegetarian.”

  Rachel looks at me, and I shrug.

  Chapter 17

  Trainer versus Trainer

  LANDON CREEPS ME out. I may have mentioned that before.

  The more I see of him, the more I don’t like him. He’s always watching: watching the boss, watching me, just watching. Whenever I turn a corner, there he is, all glassy-eyed like some pornographic Stepford-bot.

  I caught him in the CCTV room one of the first weekends he was here, and I wasn’t fucking happy about it. When I questioned him, he sneeringly said that thinking was beyond my pay grade and that he was looking for the boss. I didn’t believe him then and I don’t trust him now.

  The boss doesn’t care. He seems to think that Landon is trustworthy, part of the inner circle. But I’m not so sure. I think he’s one accordion short of a polka band.

  To the point where I had to initiate a conversation with the boss.

  And it went something like this:

  Me: Sir. [Pin your ears back, dickwad.]

  Anderson: What is it, Trainer?

  Me: I have some concerns about Mr. Landon. [He ain’t got all his dogs barking.]

  Anderson: Such as?

  Me: I found him in my off— the CCTV room without authorization. [Creepoid factor infinity.]

  Anderson: I’ve given him authorization to go anywhere except my bedroom or office.

  Me: Does that include the staff wing, sir? [You bastard.]

  Anderson: No. Has he been in there?

  Me: Not that I’m aware of. [Probably.]

  Anderson: Then what’s the problem?

  Me: As your head of security, I
must insist that the CCTV room is off limits to everyone. [So shove that up your ass, asshole.]

  Anderson: You insist?

  Me: Yes, sir. [Raising your eyebrows and flaring your nostrils means jack-shit.]

  Anderson: Fine, I’ll tell him.

  Me: I want to install fingerprint locks on the CCTV room and your office, sir. [And it should have been done before you let him in, asswad.]

  Anderson: No. This is my home. I’m not having locks on the inside.

  Me: Your guest has access to areas that contain sensitive information. When we’re not here, I can’t stop him looking at…

  Anderson: He won’t.

  Me: [Hobble the bastard.]

  Anderson: Besides, Freddi— Mr. Landon is a family friend. As for the Senator, you can trust him implicitly.

  Me: [You fucking idiot.] We’ll have to agree to disagree. Sir.

  Anderson: Noted.

  I haven’t seen Landon in my office since, but I make sure that I keep all my files locked away and I’ve changed the passwords on my desktop, laptop, phone and personal wall safe. I insisted that Anderson do the same.

  Why hire fucking security if you’re going to leave your life wide open to some Scary Mary? And trust Landon over my instincts?

  There is something seriously fucked up here, and I think I might set up a little covert op of my own.

  What a fucked up way to live.

  So I bug the landline that guests use, and then suggest to Mason that it would be totally illegal to also record Landon’s calls on his cell phone. Very illegal. Completely illegal. So he shouldn’t do it. At all. So far: zilch. But I can feel it in my gut—he’s up to something. I can be patient.

  Rachel

  I’VE HAD ANOTHER lovely weekend at Allison’s. I made gingerbread with the girls, and Allison and I went Christmas shopping. It was good to get away from everything and just have some girl time. But I’ve missed Justin. More than I should. I’m falling too fast and it’s not safe. Caring about someone … loving someone … it’s dangerous.

  Over the last few months, coming back to Wolf Point feels like coming home. After Brian died, I couldn’t bear to keep the house, so Allison and Bill took me into their home. I’ve been there ever since in between jobs, but now everything has changed and…

  “Hello, Mrs. Smith. How nice to see you again. Baked any cookies lately?”

  My spine stiffens as Frederick Landon’s sly voice hisses in my ear. I didn’t hear him walking up behind me. I’ve only just locked my car in the underground garage—I certainly didn’t expect to see him this evening.

  Justin will be mad at me: he’s always telling me that I should be more aware of my surroundings.

  I meet Mr. Landon’s icy gaze and ignore the implied insult. I won’t let him know how much he bothers me.

  “Good evening, Mr. Landon.”

  We stand in chilly silence as the elevator seems to take forever.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing out on,” he says suddenly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Devon. You should give that stallion a ride sometime. Or maybe you prefer fucking the hired help.”

  He laughs softly as my mouth drops open.

  The elevator doors close, and I’m left with a very uneasy feeling.

  If I tell Justin, he’ll be furious and do something that could get him fired. So I say nothing.

  Trainer

  I FUCKING HATE Christmas. It reminds me of everything I’ve lost: a family, a home, my daughter.

  I’ve had to fight like hell to be able to see Lilly for even one afternoon over the holidays. The ex blocks me every step of the way: it’s never convenient. Yes, I got some visitation rights in the divorce decree, but the nature of my work makes it very hard to stick to a schedule, and Carla knows that. Her lawyer used my service history against me, making me look like some crazed monster who could snap at any moment, even bringing up medical records where the Corps doctor mentioned PTSD. How the fuck he got access to those, I’ll never know. But it all weighed against me during mediation.

  I’m pacing up and down the living room, my cell phone clamped in my hand, trying to resist the impulse to hurl it against the wall. I can see Lilly on December 23 for three hours, and that’s the last and final offer.

  I’ve never seen my daughter at Christmas, never sat with her to watch snow fall on Christmas Eve while we look for reindeer in the sky, never been there to see her wake up, never seen that magical moment when she realizes that Santa has visited in the night.

  Carla has all the power, and she loves to use it.

  “Justin! Justin, sit down, darling, please.”

  Rachel’s voice breaks into my furious thoughts.

  “Wearing a hole in the carpet won’t help. Come and sit with me.”

  She reaches up to me, holding out her hand. And I want to go to her, but I can’t taint something so fucking perfect with all the rage that I have inside. I won’t do that to her.

  Instead, I turn on my heel.

  “I’m going to the gym.”

  As I leave the room, I see the hurt on her face. It’s the opposite of what I want, but I’m too wired to explain. I wouldn’t find the words.

  I throw on old sweats and running shoes, then take the stairs because waiting for the elevator takes too damn long.

  I jump onto the treadmill, pounding out every frustration, every furious thought, every bitter word that I want to spit out. I set a fast pace and soon sweat is pouring from my body. I keep going, keep running, trying to find some peace or … I don’t know … make some sense of the shitty hand life has dealt me.

  Then Rachel’s face floats in front of my eyes and I wonder how long I can keep her. She’s come to mean a lot to me, more than I could have hoped for. And that thought alone gives me the clarity I need.

  I have savings now. Anderson pays me well and housing is covered. I can afford to take Lilly’s mom back to Court. It’s time.

  I dial back the speed of my run, surprised to find that I’ve been damn near sprinting for the best part of an hour. I’m going to feel it tomorrow. I slow to a walk, coming back to my surroundings.

  I’d really zoned out on that run in a way I never do when I’m outside, because then I’m constantly scanning passing cars, other pedestrians, the skyline, behind me, using windows and shiny objects to amplify peripheral vision.

  So the treadmill is a quiet place. The only other thing that shuts off my brain is being balls deep inside Rachel.

  I glance over and I’m surprised as hell to see Anderson by the weights, lifting some serious poundage. How long has he been here? I get my thoughts in order, put on my game face and stroll over to spot him. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but he’s aware I’m there.

  After another few lifts, he sits up and runs a towel over his face. Then he reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants and passes me a business card.

  “My lawyer. Call her.”

  I frown, wondering what the hell this is about.

  “Sir?”

  “See your daughter at Christmas, Trainer.” He pauses, looking away. “Family is important.”

  He stands up and exits the room, leaving me stunned and speechless.

  I run my finger over the thick paper and fancy embossed print. Any lawyer Anderson uses won’t be one I can afford. But he’s right. I can’t take this on without professional help.

  Deciding that the least I can do is get a referral for a good family lawyer, I make the call to Anderson’s tame shark.

  “My name is Justin Trainer and I…”

  The woman answering the phone interrupts me.

  “Ms. Addams is expecting your call.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She pauses, talking slowly as if English might not be my first language.

  “Mr. Anderson’s assistant emailed to say that you’d be calling. May I put you through?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  A moment later, the line clicks and I hear another woman’s voice�
��this one with the nasal tones of a New Jersey native.

  “Mr. Trainer, I’m Moira Addams and I’ll be your lead attorney when we take your wife back to court. My assistant will liaise with Mr. Anderson’s P.A. to schedule an initial meeting. I can assure you that you’ll be seeing your daughter on Christmas Eve. Any questions?”

  My jaw is dangling and I wonder if I’ve slipped into an alternate reality. Then reason catches up with me.

  “Ms. Addams, I was calling to ask for the name of attorney that I can afford. No offence, but if Ander— Mr. Anderson retains your services, you’re out of my price bracket.”

  There’s an impatient huffing at the other end.

  “Mr. Anderson has asked that all bills pertaining to my services be settled directly by him. I thought this was understood? My office will be in touch.”

  She hangs up, and I’m left irritated and grateful at a ratio of about 50:50. I don’t like it. I don’t want to be in Anderson’s debt again, but I do want to see my daughter on Christmas Eve. This woman says she’ll make it happen. Guess I’ll suck it up … and then figure out a way to pay the bastard back.

  I head to the elevator, and stand dripping with sweat and stinking like a dead skunk, wondering what the hell just happened. I wish the boss would stop being so goddamn nice—it’s freaking me the fuck out.

  Rachel’s standing in the staff kitchen when I walk in. I know that the smart thing to do would be to apologize, but there’s something raw and painful inside me. Why didn’t I meet her first? Why isn’t this amazing woman the mother of my child?

  She turns around and the expression on her face slays me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  My voice cracks on the words.

  She doesn’t hesitate and she doesn’t make me say it again. She walks toward me and wraps me in her arms.

  “I know,” she whispers.

  I kiss her hard, claiming her, because I’m a little lost right now, and the words won’t come, so I tell her with my body.

  We make it as far as the shower when I pull her into the steam with me and fuck the anger out of my body, filling it with the calm she gives me.

  Hearing her call my name when she comes soothes me in ways I don’t understand. I just know that I don’t want it to stop.