“Careful there, Mitch, or you just might find yourself alone with a psycho and no one there to stop him. Or her. Yeah, likely a her, since we all know you don’t respect women. I bet your face is super popular on dartboards across the globe.”
He chuckles like he’s won some giant prize in the world’s greatest asshole competition. “You’ve just proven my point. Sheilas don’t mix with bodyguarding. Too emotional.”
Grrrr… “Game on.”
“Last time I checked, my life wasn’t a game. Are you asking me to gamble with it so you can prove some fema-Nazi agenda?”
I. Want. To. Hurt. Him. “I’m egalitarian, not a fema-Nazi. And I’ll remind you, Mr. Guppy Bubbles, that I’m putting my life on the line here, so—”
“Sir,” Phil interrupts, “what time did you say you want to be at the fundraiser tonight?” Phil glances over his shoulder and gives me a “shut your piehole” look.
Dammit. I was crossing the line, and I know it, but whatthehell! Mitch is a cretin, and someone needs to put him in his place.
“Eight,” Mitch replies.
“Thank you, sir,” says Phil. “I need to make some personnel changes for the detail tonight and just wanted to ensure no one’s late.”
Fuck. That wasn’t a hint coming from Phil just now. That was a flat out “you’re fired.”
I turn my head and look out the window. Shit. Shit. Shit. I can’t lose this job. Sadly, I have no one to blame but myself. I let the Bulge get to me. I just don’t get why I feel so amped up and emotional in his presence. I’m over him. I’m over us.
After passing the security gate at Mitch’s house, the limo pulls up to the iron front door. It’s a two-story, modernist home with tons of trees and tall hedges for privacy. The ten-foot iron fence enclosing the property has sensors and cameras for added security, but two guards patrol the property twenty-four seven to prevent anyone from getting through. The interior is equipped with a state-of-the-art alarm system that includes retractable steel shutters on all of the windows and doors in case of the need to do a lockdown. Whoever built the home was super paranoid or just loved The Purge look, though I will say I like the full gym, large chef’s kitchen, and theater room. I got the tour during my last visit, including the upstairs, which I won’t think about. That whole night was a mistake, and now my anger over it just cost me my job.
The driver comes around to let Mitch out.
“Nice knowing you, Grape Gum,” he says as he slides out, prouder than a peacock.
I glare. “See ya, Guppy Bubbles.”
He shakes his head, annoyed. “What’s with the Guppy Bubbles?”
I narrow my eyes. “Because that’s all you’ll ever be to me. A tiny fish who farts his way through life.”
He laughs. “Good one, Blabi.” He slams the door shut, leaving me there with a snarl on my lips. Blabi is my nickname from high school. It was a joke since I never spoke to anyone aside from Georgie. I told him about it the night of the party.
Wait! What a faker! He remembers me.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Abi, you didn’t even last one car ride?” Sam growls over the phone while I pace outside in a corner of Mitch’s manicured yard complete with Olympic-sized pool, organic garden, greenhouse, outdoor kitchen, three gazebos, and a pool house. It’s like a damned resort back here.
“I’m sorry, Sam, but you should’ve heard what he said. I mean, he practically called me stupid and said I was useless. All because I’m a woman.”
Silence.
“Sam! You’re supposed to say he’s wrong. You’re supposed to—”
“What, Abi? Tell Mitch to stop being a shallow, chauvinistic prick?”
“Well…yeah.”
“This is the job,” he says. “Sometimes the clients are pigs. Sometimes they’ll be saints. It’s not our place to go around playing God, judging people, and deciding whose lives are worth saving. We protect them, and as long as they don’t cross any lines with my staff or break the law, they can think what they want.”
“I seriously can’t believe you right now,” I grumble. “What would Georgie say if she knew I was being treated like a piece of shit?”
“She’d probably chew me the hell out, and then I’d remind her that there’s a reason the job pays so damned much—it’s commensurate for the work—and that the best way for you to prove Mitch wrong is to prove him the hell wrong. Do a good job. Be professional. Show him how strong you are, Abi.”
Dammit! Sam has a point.
He adds, “As long as Mitch sticks to our protocols, then I have no reason to cancel the contract.”
Ugh. The contract. It’s more like an encyclopedia that outlines liabilities, waivers, the client’s responsibilities to follow safety procedures, and such. It also spells out the rules of conduct between the client and staff. Basically, no touching unless it’s to safeguard the client’s body. Don’t be a dumbass and run into an unsecure location and then expect the detail to protect the client, yadda yadda. Oh, and absolutely no fraternizing.
“The rules say the client can’t verbally abuse the staff,” I point out.
“He was being an ignorant jerk, not abusive, but if it makes you happy, I’ll terminate with Mitch.”
“Really?”
“No! If I do that, you don’t get paid. I don’t get paid. My company folds before it’s even started, and Mitch will be dead by the end of the week. All because you couldn’t handle a little macho stupidity.”
Suddenly, it all hits home. This isn’t a regular job. We aren’t playing dress up and running simulations like in Alaska. This is life or death.
“Abi, I don’t have anyone else who can blend in seamlessly with Mitch’s social circle, so you need to ask yourself which is more important, your ego or his life? Because while I understand your feelings, the guy I know also has a good heart and doesn’t deserve to be sentenced to death.”
I pause and whoosh out a breath. “Can you at least talk to him? I mean, it’s in his best interest not to piss me off when I should be keeping an eye on everyone around us.”
“I’ll talk to him, but don’t get your hopes up. For whatever reason, he has a thing against women guarding him. You specifically. So just stick to your training and everything will be fine.”
True. I had to sit five, six hours at a time under a frozen bush or up in a tree. The trainers said that while I would likely never be posted on a branch like a real owl, behaving like one would teach me two things: One, to endure extreme discomfort, and two, how to stay present and alert while literally dying of boredom. The thing about being a bodyguard is that you spend a lot of time doing absolutely nothing. You stand outside a door. You sit in a car. Even when you know you’re in the safest place possible, it’s your job to resist whipping out your phone to catch up on that latest romance novel you’ve been dying to read. Sigh… Fanged Love, Part Three. When will I get to read it?
“Okay. I’ll behave,” I say.
“Promise?”
“This is the last time we’ll have this conversation. I swear.”
“All right,” Sam says skeptically. “But no more slipups. The situation is far too dangerous.”
“Got it.”
“And try to keep conversations with Mitch to a minimum. You’re an owl, so there’s no real reason to talk to him anyway. Just hang back behind the other girls. Look like you’re too in awe of him to speak.”
Eesh… “Will do. And, Sam? Thank you for giving me this chance.”
“You can thank me by being careful. Keep those eyes and ears open.”
“Hoo hoo,” I sing like an owl.
“Good bird. Oh damn. I gotta go. Someone’s calling on the other line.” He ends the conversation, and I stand there in Mitch’s backyard, growling at the wind.
I got this. I got this. I store my phone in my magic cleavage and head into the house. Obviously, I’ve been here once before—the night of the party—so I kind of know my way around, but after I enter the huge kitchen with two larg
e fridges, two dishwashers, and two sets of ovens for entertaining, I make a wrong turn. I stop and look over my shoulder. This is the hallway that leads to the garage. I think?
I’m about to turn back when I hear Mitch’s deep voice rumbling on the other side of a door that I assumed was just a closet. Must be a den or home office.
“Sam, I’m not spending the rest of my life running from that wanker. If he wants me, he can come get me.” There’s a long stretch of silence and then, “All I’m asking is that you find a bloke. I don’t want that damned sheila guarding me.”
Oh…you… I want to sock him.
Mitch adds, “Yeah, mate, I get why you picked her, but she’s more likely to bloody leave me cactus than protect me. I was a complete asshole to her.”
Cactus? I really need to get up to speed on Australian slang.
Long pause.
“Yeah, yeah,” Mitch says. “I’ll let you do your job, eh. But if I end up looking like a Swiss cheese, it’ll be your nuts. Cheers,” Mitch says, and the door swings open. His shock from finding me standing there is quickly eclipsed by outrage. “You were listening to my conversation?”
“No.” I shake my head, likely looking guilty as sin. “I was just passing by and got turned around.”
He narrows those vibrant eyes, which seem more like a mosaic of honey browns and sage greens than a solid color I could call hazel. “I have that piss-up at eight. Stay away and we won’t have any trouble. Right?”
“Piss-up?” I ask.
“Party.”
“Oh. Got it.” I bob my head.
He struts off and leaves me standing there, wondering why my existence offends him. I wasn’t the one who acted like a coldhearted ass. I didn’t pretend I was genuinely interested and then say I never wanted to see him. So why is he being so hostile?
I make two fists and take a soothing breath. I got this.
CHAPTER SIX
Around six o’clock, after giving Phil my location assessment—which he said was flawless because it included all of the windows on both floors as points of possible entry (pats self on back)—I leave Mitch’s house and head home. I need food, a nap, and a long hot shower before I’m sent back out into Mitch-world for another round of Abi bashing. Thankfully, I barely saw him all day, though I did spend a few hours in his private living room, just off his bedroom, while he did whatever. Like Phil said, spending time near him would create the illusion of being his sex-pet.
Blech!
I used the time to do research on my business plan. I suppose that’s going to be the silver lining out of all this; over the next year working as a bodyguard, I am going to make enough money to cover almost everything—my mom’s debt and my final semester of tuition. Maybe I’ll even have a little left over to start up my nonprofit to help widows with financial problems, though most of that money will have to be funded through donations and small grants. I hope? It’s going to take a lot of cash to help people refinance their lives. Still, knowing exactly what my goals are will help me get through this.
And prevent me from throttling the Bulge. Seriously, what a ridiculous nickname. So what if the man is hung? Don’t see ladies with big clits going around calling themselves Clitzilla. How about big-breasted women? Even famous actresses or musicians, like Dolly Parton, known for ample bosoms don’t refer to themselves by their body parts even if they’re proud of what the good Lord gave them. But Mr. Shlongaconda? Total attention whore.
I want so badly to tell Georgie, my best friend and Sam’s fiancée, how peeved I am that Mitch is my first assignment, but I can’t talk about our clients. Not even to her. Still, I need a friend to lean on, and she’s my nerd-sister from another nerd-mister.
With one fluffy towel wrapped around my wet hair and the other around my freshly moisturized body, I grab my cell from my white comforter, where I tossed it along with everything when I came home. I need to hear Georgie’s voice.
“OMG! Abi! How’d it go with Mitch?” Georgie screams through the phone.
“Wait. You know?”
“Sam told me at Christmas. I’ve been dying to talk to you about it, but he made me promise to wait until he had a chance to spill the beans.”
“I can’t believe you knew…” I say under my breath and start digging through my closet—the section with my new tacky work clothes. “You’re my best friend, and it didn’t occur to you to break your promise to your fiancé?”
“Ohellno.”
“Traitor,” I grumble and pluck out the purple dress. It’s super short with a deep V in the front. Guess I’m going braless tonight.
“But if I’d broken my promise to Sam, then you’d be wondering what sort of promises I’d break to you. Can’t have that. Especially now that you’re working for my fiancé. You both have to know you can trust me.”
True, but… “How the hell do you do that?”
“What?” she asks.
“Make your betrayal sound like loyalty to me?”
Georgie chuckles. “It’s a gift. But don’t let that detract from the truth. I’m a trustworthy person.”
“Says the woman who used a fake name to get an internship and hide it from her siblings.”
“Whoa. Whoa… Those were extenuating circumstances.”
She’s actually right, and I don’t know one single person who’d argue. Last year, her father kidnapped her entire family just to make himself look bonkers and avoid prosecution for creating an artificial shortage of life-saving cancer drugs. With prices shooting through the roof, he sold the pills on the black market for full price, versus the discounted rate paid by insurance companies.
Bastard.
Thing is, before he got caught, Chester Walton was a mega-billionaire and Texas oil mogul. His wife came from one of the wealthiest families in the state. He didn’t need more money, but he cheated sick people just to get more of it. Now he’s in prison, the holdings company broken up and sold off. Georgie, her big brother Henry, the two other sisters, and their mom kept the parts of the company they believed in—cancer-treatment pharmaceuticals, biofuel, and a few others. But before the breakup, Georgie had been looking for a way to help her siblings keep the holdings company intact while they brought their father to justice. She thought that meant proving her leadership skills to her siblings so she could help run some of the business. That was how she ended up interning for Sam McDaniel under a fake identity. It was a risky idea but became the turning point in her powerless life. She found her voice. Then she found the love of her life. Now she’s working with her sister-in-law, Elle, to farm algae as a sustainable fuel source.
“Okay, G-cow,” I say. “I’ll forgive you for not telling me that Mitch was going to be my first client, so you can still be my friend. But don’t mistake my tolerance of your whorey ways as acceptance.” G-cow is one of my many, many nicknames for her. This one in particular started in high school when she went through her “I’m too fat” stage. She’s never been fat. I thought it was funny until I went through my own and she started calling me Flabi. Blabi is another version—a joke from before I learned to talk to other human beings besides Georgie.
Georgie laughs. “Suck it, crunt. You know you love me.”
“Crunt?”
“It means crusty cunt. It’s new. Just made it up.”
“Ooh. Good one.” Yes, we can get super raunchy sometimes, but what do you expect from two nerds who grew up barely saying a word to anyone but each other? Behind closed doors, we said it all. We fantasized about the lives we’d live. We cussed like two pirates at a rum festival.
“Thanks. Now tell me what happened!” She squeals.
“Stop. You’re giddying. No giddying.”
“But…Mitch.” She sighs with contentment. “So. Hot.”
“Uh, so ewww. He’s a pig.”
“I’m not defending his bewildering ways, but I saw the two of you at the party.”
“So?” I seriously don’t know what she’s getting at.
“So…there were
sparks lighting up that corner of the room where you two were making out.”
“Those weren’t sparks. They were warning flares from the universe. I just couldn’t see them because I was blinded by Mitch’s male-superiority complex. Did you know it glows neon green in the dark?”
“What glows?”
“His complex. It’s so toxic that it’s like some radioactive leprosy that eats away at the female brain. It’s how he gets so many women to sleep with him.”
She laughs. “Oh, so now he’s a disease?”
“I’m lucky to be alive,” I say as a matter of fact.
“While I couldn’t be more grateful that my best friend wasn’t turned into a phosphorescent sex doll by this well-endowed monster of epic hotness, I think she might be overvilifying the man. Just a tad.”
“Bite your tongue.” I hang my damp towel on the little hook next to the door. I like my things neat and organized, which is why when my mom redid my room a few years ago, she added an entire wall of white storage cubes with linen baskets.
“I’m being serious, Abi. Sam is an excellent judge of character, and I doubt he’d be friends with Mitch if he were that rotten of a human being.”
But Sam didn’t defend Mitch when I brought the issue up. In fact, he confirmed that Mitch has a thing against female bodyguards. In other words, Sam knows Mitch isn’t an angel.
“All I’m saying,” she adds, “is that I think there’s more to the story.”
I slide on a black lace thong. “He’s a turdler, so if you believe otherwise, then there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“No. There isn’t. Let’s just drop it.”
“Don’t do that,” I scold. “Why do you think I’m the one who’s in the wrong here?”
“I didn’t say you’re in the wrong. I just said that I don’t think Mitch is as bad as you think. I mean, remember how nice he was to us at his party? He even groveled about the slipup when I didn’t get in.”
Battle of the Bulge Page 4