BODYGUARD - Part One (The BODYGUARD Series, Book 1) (2 page)

Nothing happens. I burn with frustrated passion. I’d jump through flaming hoops to get his hot, hard shaft inside me. He’s kept his shorts on, and I can't believe it. I lie next to him so close I snuggle into his warmth, and I can feel his heart beating out a hip-hop rhythm. He wants me bad. I know it. I want him, too; I crave him with every fiber of my body. I touch his face and give him a gentle kiss on the lips.

"Jamie, what is it? Don't you like me?"

His lips twist into a grimace. "I'd be a fool not to like you. You're very likeable, Tiffany. That's the problem!"

"Problem?" His hot, hard cock is pressing against my leg, and I'm so hot and damp down there I could grab it and ram it inside me. No problem. "What problem?"

"You were ill, and I brought you home. I've stayed to care for you, and I won't take advantage."

"But..."

"I'm sorry, but it's what I am. I take care of people. Not take advantage of them when they're down. Protect them when they’re threatened by stalkers, kidnappers, nutjobs, people like that.”

"So you really are a professional bodyguard?"

I feel something brush my cheek as he turns to face me. Where the strands of his black hair touch my skin, it's like a mild electric shock.

"Right. A bodyguard." He moves as if to put distance between us, and my fingers lightly brush against his arm. He gently touches me under my chin and lifts my face toward his. He's going to kiss me, and I hold my breath. The moment passes.

"Tell me about it, Jamie. Tell me about your work. How come you can spend time with me?"

He's thinking and unconsciously his arm snakes around me. I can live with that.

"You've seen the movie, The Bodyguard?"

"I saw the DVD. Long time ago."

"Right. That’s what I do. When someone needs protection, they call my agency, and they assign one of their operatives.”

“So, why the cab driving? Working as a bodyguard sounds so glamorous.”

He shrugs. “When I need extra money, I fill in by driving the cab at nights. Meeting pretty girls like you."

His smile widens, and I like it. His hand is on my shoulder, and I link his fingers through mine. I want reassurance, I guess. And more.

"Anyone famous? These people you take care of."

He hesitates, and I understand. He doesn't like to give away confidential details of his clients. Although I'm not any stranger he picked up off the street. Well, not exactly. I can smell the fragrance of his body as he begins to speak. The healthy tang of man sweat, mixed with a fragrance of some kind, aftershave, after shower, after something else? I do not detect any kind of feminine perfume, which is good, although he can have a dose of mine if he wants. All he need do is hug me close, and we can swap the odor of our bodies. I'd like to swap something else, but it's not happening. I can wait, but not too long.

"The singer, Judy Luck, you know her?"

"Sure. She was on tour a few weeks back. You mean you bodyguarded her?"

"I did. Some fruitcake made threats, and they called me in to take care of her."

I'm interested now. "Did he try anything, this whack job?"

"Nope. We think he hung around her hotel, but when he saw she had protection, he left. That's most of what we do. Frighten them away. No heroics, no violence. There's not much excitement."

"So why do you do it?"

He hesitates enough for me to know I'm about to hear less than the truth. That's okay. I’ll get it out of him later.

"I like taking care of people. Especially people in trouble through no fault of their own."

I'm surprised by the answer. This guy is one tough hombre, and sexier than a blue movie. He could do anything he wants. And he cares.

"People like me?"

He grins. "People like you, sure." He removes his hand from mine, and I feel it slide past my rear. I start to react, but he says, "Sorry."

What for? I like him touching me down there.

"Tiffany, I’ll stay to make sure you’re okay, but I have to get some rest. I’ll bed down on the sofa. You'll feel better when you've had some sleep. Let me call Emily, I’ll ask her to call around later."

"Okay, thanks."

I'd sleep better with him beside me. I’d feel even better with him inside me. He climbs off the bed, and I see him wince again at the pattern on the blanket. If it shouts a statement, you could hear it all the way to Long Island.

After last night, I'm wrecked. I close my eyes and drift off to a deep sleep. When I awake, it seems like only a minute later. I look at the clock, and four hours have passed by, but why did I wake up now? The noise of my front door slamming shut disturbed me. The door to my bedroom flies open, and two of my friends march in. The first is Sarah Caldwell, who is a distant relative. She's a couple of years older than me. My mom asked her to keep an eye on me. She began by weaving me the blanket I'm hiding under. She’s something of an earth mother.

The other girl is Emily Blake, my co-worker at the gym. We've been friends for more than a year, since I started working there. We go shopping together, and she's a girl I can let my hair down with. She's also the last person I want to see. I wonder about her relationship with the handsome, hunky Jamie.

"Tiffany!" they squeal in unison, like a ladies’ choir.

I give them a wan smile, kind of a sick person thing, too weak to give them a proper greeting. At the same time, I run my fingers through my hair, knowing I must still look like crap. Emily looks like a million dollars, as she always does. Makeup perfect, hair perfect, clothes perfect, and with an arty scarf tied in an artful way.

Even her smile is perfect, as if airbrushed on by a professional. Maybe it was. She's also very slim. No problems with a thigh gap with this girl. Wearing shorts, it's like her legs are thin rods, too thin to carry the admittedly tiny weight of her body. Whatever she wears, miniskirt, leggings, evening gown, sports kit, she looks like a model. Everything looks amazing on her. I bet she looks sensational naked. Of course, there’s no way I'm jealous. Me?

"Emily, Sarah, thanks for calling around."

"No sweat."

Sarah has a parcel in her hands. She always has a parcel in her hands. She's like a professional gift giver. She is also the opposite of Emily. Short, rounded, cheery, and wears little makeup. She works to bring good cheer to those around her, whether they want it or not. I suspect many do not. Her good cheer is a unique experience.

"I brought you something to make you feel better. When Jamie called, I baked you some cookies. Chocolate, just the way you like them. The last lot I made you finished off in an evening.

I recall the most recent offering. Unlike most of Sarah’s cooking, they were edible. They also contained enough calories and sugar to start a Statewide obesity epidemic. If I put on a pound in weight, or get a zit on my face after sampling her cookies, I'll move away and not leave a forwarding address. She comes to my bedside, leans over and kisses me on the cheek. "I hope it's nothing serious. Is it catching?”

"You'd need to swallow a few drinks to catch what I've got. After someone's spiked them with some drug."

She stares at me, and then she comprehends. "No!"

"Yes."

"They're pigs, these men. Scum. They'll do anything, even poison a sweet innocent girl like you."

When she isn't baking cookies or distributing parcels, Sarah is a paid up member of the feminist movement. Most of us are in favor of feminism, sure. Sarah is something else, a fanatic. She'd march down Fifth Avenue with bare breasts for the world to see, with a painted a slogan in red felt tip. She's wholesome and healthy, in a corny sort of way. So corny, people even call her the Jolly Green Giant. She does eat a lot of sweet corn, and she's jolly. But she's not green. Not last time I looked.

She's also a very passionate person. Then again, I'm passionate, too, but in a different way. I like passion. Passion is good.

Jamie sticks his head around the door. "So long, girls, I have to go."

I look up in dismay. "I thought you'd stay longer."

"Until your friends came. It looks like these two wonderful people will take care of you. I'll check in when I have a moment."

He's gone before I can reply. My face must show my dismay, for Emily gives me a sweet smile and says, "I like Jamie, too. It looks like you've fallen for him."

She likes him, too? Hell, what does that mean? I thought he said they weren’t dating. Still…

She keeps the smile on her face as she lifts my hands and grimaces at the nails. "I know how to cheer you up. I'll make them look nice."

"No, that's okay."

I may as well have written it down on a piece of paper and tossed it in the trash, for all the notice she takes. Her purse is one of those expedition-size things, all leather and straps, with about a zillion pockets.

She snatches out her mass of equipment, like a magician producing an elephant from a shoebox, and grabs my hand.

"There, you see, I can feel you relaxing already. I can always tell. It's my job."

At first I’m not relaxed, but I start to feel better. My nails are starting to look feminine again, not like a bunch of road menders’ shovels. All the time I'm working out what to do about Emily, someone I thought was my friend. Is she interested in the man who's stolen my heart? Stolen it and locked it in a steel box.

I have unfinished business with a hunk named Jamie. I'll make it worth his while, in spades.

I’m still in bed when he calls me on my cellphone. I don't know how he got my number. I guess Emily gave it to him. Sarah comes into my bedroom and hands me the phone. Her face wears her habitual worried expression, and she gives it to me like it’s a used vibrator. My cell is pink, and it does vibrate, so it's a simple error to make.

"It's him."

I take it from her. "Who?"

"That guy who brought you home. That man.”

She makes it sound like 'your rapist is on the line.'

I put it to my ear and hear his voice. It’s pure therapy, like a warm massage at a luxury spa.

"Tiffany, I called to find out how you are."

"I'm better, and thanks for what you did for me last night.”

I automatically touch my hair and look in the mirror. Crazy. Sarah is hovering, and I wave her away. She gives a shake of the head and stalks out of the room, as if I'm about to be enticed into a life as a sex slave.

"It’s no sweat, it’s what I do. I was going to call around earlier, but a contract came up. I can’t make it.”

I swallow my disappointment and ask him who he's guarding.

"Just another celeb with too much money and not enough brains to stay out of the limelight until the cops track down their stalker."

"Anyone I know?" I wonder who this mystery celeb could be. Not that I’m into gossip.

A pause. "You know I can't say. Listen, if you're better, I wondered about a date. I know this little bar. It's real cozy."

My spirits soar. Under the blanket, I'm hugging my breasts, pretending he's holding me. It’s a good feeling, and I feel guilty, but then I remember he can't see me.

"That would be nice. When?"

"Friday, I'll pick you up from your apartment at nine. It'll give you a chance to recover."

Today is Tuesday. It's a downer, and I slide an arm around my stomach to give myself a hug. I don't feel any better. Then I put my hand on my upper leg and stroke it, as if he was toying with me. I feel a slight warmth inside my body, and my clit is sending me urgent signals. Now I feel better.

"Fine."

"Good. Say, why not come back to my apartment afterward? Coffee, some supper, you won't need to get home."

"I won't?"

There is a slight hesitation. "No."

Just one word, 'No.' There's a world of meaning in that two letter word. At least, there is the way he says it. Like, 'I'm going to rip your clothes off and fuck the living brains out of you.'

"Okay. By the way, what kind of bar is it?"

I'm thinking of some trendy little place, all hipsters staring into their craft ale and looking at the bookshelves decorating the walls.

"A Karaoke bar. It's a lot of fun."

"Uh, right, but there's no need to pick me up. I’ll meet you there, just give me the address."

I wrote the details down, my hand shaking.

"I'll see you Friday, Tiff. Take care."

He hangs up, and I am plunged into catastrophe. I toss aside my cellphone and wrap both hands around me. I wish I could disappear into a dark hole and never emerge into daylight. I move one hand away to wipe away a tear, and it's an automatic reflex that makes me grab for my purse to tidy my makeup. But I'm not wearing makeup, so I drop the purse. Right now, I'd like to drop out of this world.  

At that exact moment, the Jolly Green Giant re-appears. AKA Sarah.

"My darling, you look as if you've had a shock. Was he horrid to you?"

I can tell her. She knows about my issues. "He wants to take me on a date."

Her eyebrows dart up in suspicion. She doesn't think all men are rapists, just most of them.

"A date? You just met him on the street, how can you trust him?"

"Emily knows him."

"I'll be she does. Where's he taking you, a bar?"

I meet her eyes, and mine are filling with tears again. She reaches down and gives me a hug. I'm gasping for breath as she almost smothers me. "Karaoke."

She shivers. "Oh, Tiffany, how could he?"

"He doesn't know," I mumble through the ample folds of her blouse. She's a big girl. It's like hugging a small tent.

How could he know? A long time ago, I had a couple of problems, a childhood stutter, and even a touch of asthma. Someone came up with the idea of singing lessons, and they were right. It helped a lot. Mom and Dad encouraged me. They were great. Paid for a good teacher, and some people thought I might have a career ahead of me as a singer, a vocalist, fronting a band maybe, or even a solo career.

When I was sixteen, they wanted me to sing at an event, nothing major, a concert to raise money for a 'Save the Polar Bear' charity. I was in favor because I love animals. All animals, real ones, dogs, cats, horses, you name it. Even stuffed toys, my closet is still overloaded with them. I was happy to oblige, although very nervous. Then came THE DAY. Everything happened at once, and it was all bad.

My parents had problems, real problems. Arguments, rows, stuff like that. Their marriage had been getting worse for months, but I didn't know how bad it had got. On the morning of the event, the divorce papers came through. It was no surprise to them, although it was to me. Dad was so angry, he packed his things and stormed out of the house. Mom said he was never coming back.

She took me to the event, and to my horror, they had the news cameras lined up inside, as well as some of the industry big shots. Smooth, media-tuned faces, more glitzy, capped tooth smiles and spray tans than you'd see strolling along Hollywood Boulevard. It was scary, and I knew I had to get tough. Except this time, the tough didn't get going. I was up there, on stage, and I froze; lights, camera, action, except there was no action. Something died inside me, and I couldn't sing a note.

It made the news. 'Local singer more frozen than the polar bears.'

My parents tried to make light of it, and my singing coach worked hard to persuade me not to give up. I didn't give up, not entirely. I take a lesson whenever I find the time, and I work on the vocal exercises. It beats the alternative, a stuttering asthmatic. That'd be a downer to beat all downers. Or worse. But as for singing, no way, Jose! This babe sings in the shower when the water's running hard, and no one can hear. Otherwise, N! O!

"It may not come up," she says, "He may want to take you there to have fun. Just to listen to folks making total idiots of themselves."

I shake my head, and I know I have wiped my tears on her blouse, as well as some of my spit. "I think he expects us to do some singing."

"Oh, dear. You'll have to alter the arrangement."

I nod, and more spittle transfers to her blouse. "Yeah, I'll...oh, no!"

The tears come again, and I pull away from her. I need a box of tissues before I drool any more over her. She passes me the box. She's already worked it out. Maybe she can feel the damp oozing through to her skin.

Gross!

"What is it, Tiffany? There's nothing stopping you fixing up another venue."

"I can't. I don't know his cellphone number, where he lives, anything." 

She shakes her head in sympathy. "That may be a problem. One moment, there's someone at the door. I'll be right back."

She leaves the bedroom. Should I give up on making out with the most handsome guy I've met all year, or the year before that, or the years before that even? I'd be better off with a good vibrator. They don't expect you to sing. Emily walks through the door, still carrying her monster purse, and she smiles.

"Hi, Tiff. You're looking better. That's good. I thought I'd come back and have another go at your nails."

I look down. I've messed up the job she did earlier. The varnish is chipped, and my hands look like hell. She takes both of them in her hands and examines them. "Not good, little lady. Let's get to work."

She's halfway through, using an airbrush to apply a pattern of multiple stars, when the idea comes to me. Emily and Jamie, they know each other. She must know how to contact him. I try to keep my voice casual.

"How well do you know Jamie?"

She keeps working and doesn't look up. "On and off."

What does that mean?

"Do you have his cell number?"

She pauses to think about it. Why? "No."

"His address?"

"Sorry."

"So how do you contact him?"

A slight shrug. "We bump into each other from time to time, that's all."

"At these celebrity junkets?"

"Something like that."

I give up. I sense a hidden meaning in her words. Of one thing I'm sure. Jamie O'Brien has kept something from me. Apart from that hot, iron hard shaft I felt through his pants. How can I find out more? Do I need to know more?

Yes, I do. Even in a short time, I've fallen for him in a big way. What girl wouldn't? It's frustrating, and I wriggle my body in irritation.

"Hold still, or I'll paint your fingers."

"Sorry."

I notice a blob of blood red varnish on the cream-colored area of the weave of the Navajo blanket. I'll have to get it off. Sarah will go crazy. I ask her to use nail varnish remover, and with a cotton bud she rubs at the red spot, while I think through the problem. If I fail to show on Friday, I'll never see him again. A man like that won't settle for a girl standing him up. If I do go, I'll humiliate myself.

I rack my brains for a solution but don't come up with anything. Emily has wiped away the stain, and she pronounces my nails are done. I admire them. They look good. I slide out of bed and pose in front of the mirror, nails facing out. Yeah, good enough to eat, would you like to eat me, Jamie? How will I ever know if I don't go? What to do?

Sarah bustles in, carrying a tray of hot cookies. So that's what the odor from the kitchen was. Oh, dear, I can't put on another ounce. I'll look like a pig. I tried vomiting my meals once. I needed to lose weight. I was desperate. Maybe I'd better check out the bulimia sites. It looks like I might need them.

Oh, Jamie, why didn't you just fuck me when you had the chance? Why so many complications?