Guarding the Billionaire

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Except the boss needed to be driven to some fundraiser New Year’s Eve party. Fuming and bad tempered, I asked Rachel to marry me when we were in bed that night.

  She turned me down without giving me a better reason than, “it’s too soon.” Gotta say, that burned like a bitch. But I’m a Marine, and Marines don’t give up: Improvise, Adapt, Overcome. Oohrah.

  This is the second time I’m asking, and we’re only in mid-January.

  “Justin, we’ve been through this. I can’t talk about it now.”

  “Why not?”

  “You want to marry me, but I know nothing about you.”

  “The fuck?”

  “It’s true. You’ve only once talked about your childhood; you never talk about the Marines. I only met Lilly by accident.”

  Snappy comebacks evade me. Is that what she thinks? That this is easy for me?

  But then her tone softens.

  “And because I’m busy and because you have to get your floury ass down to the garage to drive Mr. Anderson to work!”

  “Floury ass?”

  She smirks at me.

  “It is now … I’ve told you before not to interrupt me while I’m cooking!”

  I WISH SHE’D say ‘yes’, but I’m not worried. We live together, so she can’t get that far away from me. I’ll just have to wear her down with a touch of the ole Trainer charm. My cock reminds me that I like wearing Rachel down. I have to rearrange myself before I make my way to the garage and have the Range Rover ready for the short commute to DMA Tower.

  The boss’s foul mood hasn’t improved. He snarls at me when the music is too loud; he barks when his phone rings for the third time; and Howard gets a tongue lashing along with one of his newer execs from a company he just bought. I don’t take it personally: he can’t help it, and there’s a big difference between him being a miserable bastard and a bad boss.

  Besides, he’s one of the most straight-up guys I’ve ever worked for—no pun intended. For the first few months, I kept expecting to come across a sketchy business deal, a politician in his pocket—maybe one from the Farm, the palms that he’d greased to be as successful as he is—but that just ain’t his way. He’s clever and he knows how to get to and stay in with the right people, but they’ve learned that if they want to do business with him, it’s his way or the highway. The only exception to this is when he plays golf to gain access to the word on the fairways—the informal information a smart guy can always pick up and use to his advantage. At least, that’s the gist of it: it’s kinda hard to figure out in between all the swearing.

  It’s obvious that golf offers him no physical or intellectual challenge, and if it weren’t for the intel he gathers, I think he’d have wrapped his clubs around the nearest stop sign long ago.

  This lunchtime, he’s got a weights and reps session, followed by boxing, which is really his thing. I hope that Basqiat’s session will burn off the boss’s bad mood. Sometimes it works. Part of me, a bigger part than I’ll admit to Rachel, wishes he’d hurry up and find himself a fuck-buddy or someone from the Farm so the rest of us don’t have to walk on fucking eggshells the whole time.

  I drop him at the entrance to DMA Tower and park the Rover in the underground garage. Anderson’s execs circle like sharks for the chance of a parking permit in DMA Tower, but only a few ever get the chance of that perk. With another man, I’d say he enjoyed seeing them fight amongst themselves, but that sort of bitch-slapping is anathema to Anderson. All he cares is that everyone works, and works hard.

  When I get to my own office, next to the CCTV room, I pick up the week’s schedule from Ryan. Oh, fuck. This won’t please Anderson: first thing this afternoon he’s got interviews with three recent graduates from UVM, all hoping for an internship.

  HR normally deals with this sort of thing, but the agriculture program at UVM is his pet project.

  I flick through the details. One’s a real babe, a blonde bombshell type; the second is a jock, a guy who was on the college baseball team and in the top 2% academically, but not Anderson’s type since intel suggests he’s straight; and the third is a girl from the Bronx. That’s makes her very different from the other two who are Harvard and Yale graduates. So how did she get on the short list? The passport photo on her application shows dark eyes that are too big for her thin face. I bet she can’t cook up a storm like a certain Mrs. Smith whose name I’m working on changing to Trainer. Yep, I’ll wear her down—she doesn’t stand a chance.

  The blonde arrives first, looking confident in a dark red skirt suit and matching lipstick. Mason’s background check tells me that she’s the daughter of a broadcasting mogul, someone that Anderson would very much like to have owing him favors. I rank her chances highly until she tries flirting with the boss during the interview.

  I cringe, watching her crash and burn as the boss pulls her résumé apart sentence by sentence, then sends her packing.

  The guy is next. He’s cool and impressive, doesn’t crumble under Anderson’s pressure. I think he may have aced this test.

  The final candidate is running late. Anderson hates that, but when she finally shows up, she’s a mess. She’s got holes in the knees of her pantyhose and cuts that are still bleeding. She mutters something about slipping in the ice by the subway steps.

  I check her out on the CCTV while I run a quick profile check, accessing the private data from UVM. Ah, so that’s her in—Anderson funds a ton of agri-bio research there.

  If she wasn’t so sweaty and disheveled, she’d be quite pretty: slim, with long black hair. Nothing in her college file gives serious cause for concern. She’s not a member of any radical groups as far as I can tell, and she hasn’t protested the Agriculture Division’s GM crop research. She’s a good student, with a 3.9 GPA and SAT scores in the high 1500s, but less qualified than the other two. And Barbie definitely didn’t make the cut.

  I watch her twitching in Reception. The poor kid is nervous as fuck. She reminds me of Bambi’s mom before she got shot. There’s something vulnerable and almost endearing about her. I hope the boss doesn’t give her too hard of a time: she looks like she’d break in two if he tosses so much as a harsh word in her direction. I’d bet money this girl doesn’t stand a chance.

  I let Reception know they can send up Ms. Alvarez.

  She looks lost and pathetic with her grazed knees and blotchy face. She tries to answer the boss’s questions but she’s flustered. Jeez, the music for Terminator should be playing.

  Anderson frowns and I can tell that he’s decided to wrap this up.

  “Why do you want to intern in my Agriculture Division, Ms. Alvarez?”

  Anderson is bored, glancing at his Rolex.

  “I believe that the future of farming is in the wider distribution of genetically modified crops as well as core assets, such as soils, are protected and improved and um…”

  She stumbles to a halt, her words drying as she licks her lips nervously.

  “Other agri companies are doing that,” he says impatiently. “I’ll ask you again: why do you want to work here, Ms. Alvarez?”

  “Because you’re also working with renewable energy and have the first anaerobic digestion plant.”

  That catches his attention, but not for long and he glances at Pam who is only slightly less formidable. Time’s up.

  “Ms. Alvarez, I found your résumé interesting. You say you have a good sense of humor.”

  I wonder where Pam is going with this as the girl’s cheeks turn fire-hydrant red.

  “Um, yes?”

  “But only on Tuesdays. That’s what it says on your résumé. Why might that be?”

  Anderson leans forward, slightly interested at last.

  “Um, well…”

  The silence is painful and the girl is blushing so hard I can feel the heat from here.

  “Idostandupcomedy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Her head jerks up and she meets Pam’s confused frown.

  “I do standup comedy. At
a club. On Tuesdays.”

  Pam’s mouth quirks up like she’s trying not to laugh.

  “You enjoy doing standup comedy? As a hobby?”

  The girl wrings her hands.

  “Actually, I hate it.”

  Pam rubs her forehead, like she’s trying to erase a headache.

  “Let me get this right: you do standup comedy at a club on Tuesdays, but you hate doing it? Do I understand you correctly?”

  The girl nods.

  “Might I ask the reason for this curious use of your time?”

  The girl blows out a long breath.

  “I’m tired of being scared all the time. I have three younger brothers so I’ve always had to be the sensible one. You know, don’t climb the tree in case you fall, or don’t eat candy before dinner or you’ll get sick. No sense of adventure and then after … well, I decided I was done being scared of everything. I hate speaking in front of crowds and, um, my brother says I can’t tell a joke to save my life, so I do standup comedy every Tuesday—face your fears. It’s not so bad. Skydiving is on the list. Maybe ziplining—there’s this Treetop Adventure thing at the Bronx zoo … I’m, um, afraid of heights.”

  Pam’s mouth is hanging open and the boss looks … I have no idea what that look on his face means.

  At that moment, Ryan knocks on the door, interrupting us, and the girl stops talking instantly, her eyes worried.

  “What is it?” Anderson snaps.

  “Something that requires your immediate attention, sir,” says Ryan, clearly on edge.

  This is unusual. Ryan is the calmest dude I know, and tolerates all Anderson’s bullshit, letting it wash over him like water off a duck’s back.

  Anderson raises his eyebrows the smallest amount, then turns to the UVM student.

  “My apologies, Miss … Alvarez. Thank you for your time. My office will be touch.”

  She’s dismissed, blinking and confused, but I see a flash of annoyance, too. There’s definitely more to her than meets the eye.

  Once she’s gone, Anderson turns to Ryan.

  “Well?”

  “I received an email to my personal account,” Ryan begins, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “It suggests … it shows … ah … film footage of … of…”

  And now I know where that sentence is going. Anderson has been found out.

  And this time, it’s blackmail.

  Chapter 20

  The Glass Web

  ANDERSON RISES SLOWLY, his face rigid, and follows Ryan to his computer.

  The footage is grainy, but clearly shows two men fucking while a woman masturbates as she watches. The camera is positioned capturing a side view, a profile, and the boss’s face is unmistakable. The guy being fucked is the husband of the woman—rich socialites from the Hampton Sex-party Set. He’s a top divorce lawyer. Oh, the irony.

  Ryan is side-eyeing the boss with interest, and I can almost see the tickertape of comments underlining his expression. Sorry, Ryan. Your theory of ‘asexual’ just dove out the window. He changes his mind and the shutters come down when the boss starts whipping himself as he fucks the other guy in the ass.

  I can’t say gay porn has ever been on my must-watch movie list, although I definitely need to get out more. But it appears to show three, consenting adults. Wouldn’t go so far as to call it sane.

  Ryan looks appalled and Pam just seems sad, her face full of pity.

  Anderson is harder to read, his dark eyes clouded with secrets.

  “Get Howard up here,” he says, his voice cold, hard, impassive.

  Ryan jumps as if 1500 volts just hit him in the butt—not that I’ve ever seen that happen, not even on Netflix—and dials Howard’s number.

  Pam is focused on business.

  “How much? What’s the blackmailer asking for?”

  “Ma’am, Sir, I think we should … consider the options in your office,” and I raise my eyes to the CCTV cameras in the outer office.

  Yeah, I’ll make sure that any record of this conversation is erased from the tapes, but I need time to do that, and right now any of the security grunts could be, should be, watching.

  Anderson nods abruptly and we all file into his office, waiting for Howard to slouch through the door.

  The atmosphere thickens and Ryan surreptitiously tugs at his necktie, sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip.

  Anderson stares out the window, looking down on the ant-like people below.

  I wonder what he’s thinking? He’s built his business from the bootstraps up. A scandal like this could see it all go away. How much is he prepared to pay to make it stop?

  “So what does the blackmailer want?”

  My question is directed at Ryan, but everyone turns to hear the answer.

  He licks his lips.

  “Two hundred and fifty million or the tape is released.”

  Pam swears, her words hot enough to burn my ears. Not since I was a Marine have I heard such fucking atrocious language, but Anderson doesn’t even blink.

  A minute later, Howard ambles through the door, his eyes popping when he sees us all assembled in Anderson’s office looking like Wyatt Earp just found himself in the OK Corral.

  “Woah, heavy duty vibes!”

  I step forward.

  “Howard, we need you to focus. We have a serious security breach. We need you to track the origins of a piece of film that’s been emailed. Can you do it?”

  His eyes flick from Anderson to mine and he nods slowly.

  “Sure.”

  “How long will it take you to track him … or her … down?”

  He scratches an armpit.

  “Depends, Mr. T. Could be using a proxy server, or a virtual network. Probably the Onion Router…”

  “I think I speak for most of us when I say, what?”

  “Yeah, like a network of virtual tunnels, like simultaneously using hundreds of different proxies that are randomized periodically.”

  “Whatever. You can find him?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He gives a huge grin, then his smile falls and he addresses the boss.

  “Boss, dude, you can count on me.”

  Anderson nods curtly and Howard wanders off, his hands shoved in his jeans, forehead creased in thought.

  The boss still hasn’t spoken, but I can tell that his mind is spinning a million miles an hour.

  Pam touches his arm briefly. It’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen from her.

  “Devon, we need to talk strategy. If this gets out…”

  “It won’t.”

  “Don’t be short-sighted. Your private life is of interest to a lot of people. You’ve been this mysterious, private genius for the last ten years. People are curious. Two hundred and fifty million says there’s a lot of interest. The fact that you like … kinky sex makes the story even more scandalous, more marketable. You know this.”

  I can hear what she’s not saying: What the fuck were you thinking?!

  “Howard will find him.”

  “And then what?”

  Anderson glances at me.

  “Trainer will shut him down.”

  My expression tightens but I don’t say anything.

  Would I take someone out of the equation just to preserve the boss’s secret? It ought to be a black and white question, but it’s not.

  The boss is fucked up, but the only person he hurts is himself. He does a lot of good, and a lot of people get to pay their mortgages because of the wages he pays them. He’s invested heavily in technology to help developing countries: solar-powered laptops and smartphones, agrichems and genetically modified foods to help grow more food that will survive in harsh environments.

  He’s not a saint, definitely a sinner, at least in his own mind, but he’s not a bad guy.

  I ask myself again, would I kill for him?

  I try to imagine a guy like Howard sitting at a laptop somewhere thinking he’s going to make a cool $250 mil. Nope, I couldn’t put my Smith & Wesson to his head
and pull the trigger. If that makes me a pussy, so be it.

  And then I imagine a manipulative, sadistic guy like Landon. If it was him, could I do it?

  Yeah, I reckon I could.

  But that leaves a lot of gray area in between.

  I wait till Pam and Ryan leave the room.

  “You want Mason’s team to pick up Van Sant?”

  “If he’s behind this, I doubt he’s still at the Farm.”

  “Mason has had men following him for weeks.”

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “I don’t remember authorizing that.”

  “No, your head of security did.”

  The smallest of smiles tugs at his lips, but it’s soon gone. And I can’t work out why he’s not freaking the fuck out like everyone else. It’s almost as if he expected this.

  “Something I should know, sir?”

  “Nothing at all, Trainer.”

  He goes back to his desk.

  “Sir, why risk it? The Farm?”

  His lips flatten and I think he won’t answer.

  “‘Who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?’ Hunter S. Thompson.”

  The fuck?!

  “Hunter S. Thompson? You’re quoting the Hunter S. Thompson? The asshole who said, ‘I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.’ That Hunter S. Thompson?”

  And before you ask, I haven’t read his shitty brand of journalism, but I caught the movie with Johnny Depp.

  Anderson answers in a clipped tone.

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  I pause, anger filling my voice.

  “You wanted to get caught? Because that’s gonna fuck up a lot of people’s lives.”

  His eyes flash as I push the boundaries of employer/employee, but now I’m seriously pissed off.

  His shoulders lower a fraction and he looks away.

  “Those parties have always been part of a certain select membership of the Hampton elite. I learned that very early in life. You’ll probably find it hard to believe, but they were much less regulated than they are now.”

  “Prostitutes? Drugs?”