But when I open it, two things fall out: a thick wad of paper that turns out to be a permanent contract, and a check for a ridiculously large amount of money. It’s far more than I’d agreed with Mason. I don’t get what’s going on. Is he paying me for several months in advance? Is it a mistake? That seems unlikely. Anderson doesn’t make mistakes. I decide it must be a test. He wants to know if I’m honest and that I’ll point out the error to him. I’m slightly disappointed that he’d try such an obvious tactic. Usually, clients test me by leaving out their fucking Rolexes.
I can see from the CCTV monitors that Anderson’s workout with Basqiat has been concluded and he’s soon strolling through the foyer. I decide to wait until Rachel has fed him before I ask what’s the story. I’ve already figured out that feeding the beast puts him in a slightly better mood. It’s not saying much—the guy smiles less than I do.
Thinking about Rachel irritates me. I still haven’t asked her whether or not she’s married—still married, separated, divorced, or it’s complicated. We’ve talked some and I know she’s got a sister somewhere outside of Philly, but she hasn’t mentioned a husband. I know that I could just look her up in Anderson’s files, but somehow that seems like an invasion of her privacy. I’m getting soft.
When Anderson heads for his office after dinner, I wait a moment then knock on his door.
“What?” he snarls.
So much for him being in a better mood after eating.
I show him the check.
“I wanted to ask you about this, sir.”
“Well? What about it?”
“It’s more than we agreed.”
He frowns.
“For your daughter’s schooling.”
He turns back to his computer screen as if that’s obvious enough.
“Could you explain that, sir?”
He runs his hand through his hair in irritation, a gesture I’ve become familiar with over the last week.
“To pay for your daughter’s elementary education, Trainer.”
He hands me another piece of paper.
“A list of the three top elementary schools in your ex-wife’s district. Choose whichever you think is the best fit.”
And I’m lost for words.
“But … I haven’t signed the permanent contract, sir.”
“Will you?” he frowns up at me.
“Yes, sir,” and I see an expression that I can’t identify pass across his face.
“Thank you, Trainer.”
He turns back to the screen again. I’m being dismissed.
“Thank you for the tuition, sir.”
“Okay.”
He doesn’t turn to look at me, but carries on studying columns of minute figures.
I’m … surprised. It’s not just the money—although I really appreciate that—it’s the fact that he’s researched and printed out a list of suitable schools.
I’m about to sign the contract when I remember what Rachel said about his weekend habits. I think I’ll hold off signing until I’ve been to his farm, although not this weekend apparently. Still, I’m a cautious man.
“Justin?”
Rachel’s soft voice interrupts my dour thoughts. She’s not wearing her usual uniform of skirt and white blouse. Instead she’s dressed in blue jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt—and she looks damn fine, the way the denim clings to her hips and…
“I’m going now,” she continues.
Shit! I forgot she doesn’t work here on the weekends.
“I’ve left some cold cuts in the fridge and a list of frozen dishes by the microwave if you want a hot meal. And there’s a bunch of menus from places nearby who’ll deliver take-out if the microwave proves too much of a challenge.” Her teasing smile takes the sting out of her words. “I’ll be back Sunday evening. You have my cell number?”
“Oh, sure, Rachel. What about food for Mr. Anderson?”
“I think you’ll find that he’ll take care of anything he wants,” she says kindly. “Le Bernadin delivers.”
“Really?” A three-star Michelin restaurant does takeout?
“Well, they deliver to Mr. Anderson,” she smiles, raising her eyebrows.
I’m impressed that there’s no hint of condescension in her voice. Whatever she thinks of Anderson, it doesn’t affect the way she does her job, or the way she talks about her employer.
“Okay, see you Sunday.”
She waves and leaves, and I find the thought of rattling around the soulless mansion, with just Anderson for company, an unpalatable prospect. If I liked being stuck alone with a weirdo, I’d have been a spotter for snipers. But I’m not paid to enjoy myself. So I pull some more personnel files and go to work.
But my mind wanders. I keep asking myself, what is it about Anderson that makes him beat the shit out of himself until he bleeds? What kind of person wants to hurt?
I wince, thinking of the blood I saw on Anderson’s back, but then again, there were guys in the Marines I knew who liked to push the limits of what their bodies would take physically, believing literally in ‘no pain, no gain’. Even so, real masochism is not something I’ve thought about before. If that’s what this is. I wonder if the boss gets off on the pain—or was my first guess right: it’s punishment?
I’ve certainly never met any women into BDSM or who would agree to do exactly what I tell them when I tell them. Although having been married to the bitch, I’m kinda wishing … but, no, not even then.
It’s a long, boring weekend. We go nowhere and nothing happens. Seeing Rachel return on Sunday evening is the highlight of my week. She’s surprisingly pleased that we didn’t visit the boss’s farm this weekend.
Strange.
MONDAY MORNING, MY phone buzzes, interrupting my thoughts.
“Trainer, I’m leaving in five minutes.”
And the phone goes dead. I get with the program, and Rachel waves goodbye as I haul ass down to the garage.
Once we’re at DMA Tower, Ryan gives me Anderson’s schedule for the coming week. Jeez, could it get any more dull? More meetings, more business dinners, a gala night at the opera. Okay, that might be his idea of a good time as he’s into that whole classical music shit, but come on! The guy’s twenty-nine! And this week there’s another fundraiser, this time at some other rich dude’s house in Scarsdale. Anderson’s family will be there and I groan to myself. I’ll need a week to prepare for my next meeting with Miss Abigail Anderson. Full body armor, perhaps? She looked like she might tackle me at any moment. Are all the Andersons this intense?
I sit at my desk and read some more personnel files, then check out the schools that Anderson recommended. They really look amazing. I’ve no idea how to choose between them—the one where the kids are the happiest, I guess. I wonder when I’ll get the chance to visit them. If the money’s coming from my bank account, I’m not leaving it up to my ex to choose.
The only person at the office who stands up to Anderson is his number two, Pam Russo. From what I can work out, they’ve been together from the start of DMA Solutions and he relies on her, as much as he relies on anyone. She’s good at calming him down when no one else dares go near him. Although Ryan must be tougher than he looks to have lasted nine months as senior assistant, or maybe he’s just damn good at his job.
There’s one other guy who seems to be part of Anderson’s inner circle. But when I met him this afternoon, he looked more like one of those perma-students you see near campuses, always studying and never graduating. His shirt was untucked, his pants were halfway down his ass, and he walked around like a stoner in a house of mirrors.
When he wandered into my office, I thought he was lost.
“Dude, you’re here.”
“We haven’t met.”
“No shit! You’re the man.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Howard.”
“Great t-shirt.”
“Yeah. The Lone Gunmen were soothsayers.”
“Are you lost?”
; “Philosophically, yeah, dude. It’s the twenty-first century.”
What? I’d better speak slowly.
“Do you have a job here?”
“Yeah, man. Epic. I’m head of IT: network security, upgrades and configurations, hacking.”
Are you kidding me? This is the boss’s brainiac head of IT for one of the most successful new energy and comms companies in the US? Or maybe I was just abducted and aliens are messing with my frontal lobes.
Howard scratches his ass while he stares at me.
“Great meeting you, T. Later, dude.”
Then he walks out.
I pull up his file on the personnel system. Apparently Howard joined MENSA when he was six. He graduated high school at twelve and finished his education with a PhD from MIT when he was seventeen. He’s worked for Anderson for seven years. Epic doesn’t even begin to cover his brain power.
And suddenly, I’m feeling very much like a dumb grunt.
AT 1800 HOURS on Friday, I’m waiting in the underground garage for Anderson. He seems more pissed than usual. I wonder whose head he’s bitten off today. He needs to chill or the guy’s gonna explode.
His phone rings for the third time on the short journey back to Wolf Point. I feel sorry for whoever’s calling.
“Abigail. What do you want?”
Oh, the sister. We should have sent her against Saddam Hussein, it would all have been over much more quickly.
“No, you can’t … because I’m busy … oh, for fu— ! Okay … what? No, you can’t … No!”
I did some research on the sister after I met her. I haven’t changed my opinion and I really pity the nineteen year-old guys she must meet. Carnage won’t even come close.
Anderson ends the call obviously annoyed, but beneath the irritation I can see that he’s fond of his little sister. Maybe she reminds him of him.
Rachel is already gone by the time we get back. She’s been quiet all week and I’m not sure why. But because I’m me, and a bona fide idiot, I don’t ask.
I don’t sleep well either, but neither does Anderson. At some point during the early hours, he goes to ‘meditate’. The thought makes me shudder. I roll over and try to ignore what he’s doing to himself.
When the alarm on my phone goes off at 5:15AM, I’m tempted to hurl it through the window. Instead, I drag on my sweats and running shoes, shave so quickly I nearly cut my throat, and am standing in the foyer at 5:29AM.
Anderson appears on time, as usual, and apart from the fact that he’s unshaven, he looks like he’s had eight hours of blissful sleep in his mommy’s arms, when I know for a fact his bed is barely on first name terms with him.
I wonder if this morning’s run will be shorter than usual but no, the same punishing pace for six miles, this time north to Greenwich Village, then back through Washington Square Park. He hasn’t made an appointment with his personal trainer for a few days.
I slink out quickly, then skulk around in the staff quarters having a shower, and eating a bowl of granola until I think it’s safe to head to my office without being spotted. There’s a knack to being invisible when you live with your employer. But Anderson is so unpredictable, it’s harder than usual for me to achieve wallpaper status.
I’m halfway there when I hear the door of the meditation room bang shut. I mean, slam shut. Again? Un-fucking-believable.
When I slide behind my desk, I start scanning more personnel files.
Three hours and forty-seven files later, an alarm on one of the monitors indicates that the fire door on the second floor has been opened. I’m up the stairs two at a time with my gun in my hand, but there’s nothing to see and the door is firmly closed. Knowing how recently Mason’s team have been over the joint upgrading the security, I suspect it’s faulty wiring. I holster my weapon and make a note to get someone to look at it asap.
I turn when I hear soft footsteps behind me. Anderson is wearing the same sweatpants from last night.
“Problem, Trainer?” he’s frowning at me.
“The monitor showed an alarm going off at this stairwell, but it’s secure. I think it’s faulty wiring. I’ll have it fixed.”
He nods and stalks off down the corridor. And I see the scars on his back close up, this time decorated with long red marks. Fresh ones.
Poor fucked up bastard.
Chapter 6
The Farm
“TRAINER, WE’LL BE going to the Farm this weekend. A private function.”
“Yes, sir. I’d like to drive out there to do a sweep since I haven’t had the opportunity before.”
“No, Mr. Van Sant manages security at the Farm.”
“Sir, as head of your personal security, I…”
“There won’t be any trouble this weekend, Trainer. Do your sweep when you get there.”
I don’t like this. It’s fucking stupid. Why hire someone like me and tie one hand behind my back?
“Yes, sir.” You asswipe.
I’m still in the dark about the boss’s farm. Maybe it has something to do with his interest in agricultural technology. I don’t know. But it’s strange, when I looked up Van Sant in the personnel files, the details were sketchy. I only know that he’s paid some serious bucks to manage this farm out on Long Island.
It’s been a busy few weeks with trips to offices, factories, farms and shipyards all over the US, as well as Canada, Mexico and Taiwan—all part and parcel of being the CEO of a multi-billion dollar business empire.
The overseas op required a lot of background intel and organization which Mason and his team take care of, and I’m the guy on the ground, liaising with local security. Anderson hates all of that, but the richer he gets, the bigger the target on his back. He knows it, understands it, loathes it. He tolerates my presence. Just.
I haven’t gotten a chance to go out to his farm yet, but from the hints Rachel has dropped and the fact that Landon is in on the big secret, it makes me both curious and wary.
Mason tells me is that the farm produces around 500 tons of hay a year and also sells energy back to the grid from its solar farm and wind turbines. There’s also a small desalination plant, making it self-sufficient for water, too. But the interesting part is that the farm manager, Aston Van Sant, seems to work as much for Landon as for the boss. Fifteen years ago when he was twenty-three, Van Sant was arrested for soliciting. And that fact was very well hidden. Mason wanted to look into Landon’s background, too, but Anderson refused point blank—something else I find interesting. It suggests to me that Landon also has secrets that Anderson is aware of but wishing to keep hidden.
I doubt Mason obeyed that order, but if he found anything, he’s not sharing. Yet.
One other little factoid that Mason did share, although the boss says he uses the farm for private functions, none of those expenses are passed over the business accounts.
Using my highly honed investigative skills, I track down Rachel in the kitchen, and don’t even have to ask for a cup of joe before the bitter, black elixir of life is put in front of me.
“You have but face,” Rachel says, turning back to her food prep.
“Butt face?!”
That stings. I’ve always been popular with the ladies—no one has ever asked me to put a bag over my head. Until now.
She laughs quietly, glancing over her shoulder.
“Not butt face, BUT face—like you want to ask me something.”
“Oh, right. Yeah.” I gather my straying thoughts. “What do you know about the boss’s farm?”
Her shoulders tighten immediately and she looks away.
“I’ve never been there,” she bites out.
Interesting reaction.
“Okay, but you clearly have an opinion on the place.”
Her shoulders sag and her head droops.
“I overheard Mr. Landon talking about it. He wanted me to overhear. Mr. Anderson was very angry with him.”
“And what did you hear?” I ask, trying to sound gentle as this is clearly upsetting he
r.
She sighs, her hands stilling.
“The Farm is used for entertaining—special guests of Mr. Anderson. Lots of special guests.” Her voice drops to a whisper and a faint blush creeps up her neck. “Sex parties.”
I blink a couple of times.
“You mean orgies?”
Her cheeks turn scarlet.
“Yes.”
Huh. Should have guessed. No wonder the place is shrouded in secrecy. But as the boss’s wealth increases, so does public interest. He’s playing with fire keeping up this lifestyle.
And then I remember something else that Rachel said.
“What was Landon talking about that made the boss angry?”
Rachel looks away, her lips pressed together in an unhappy line.
“He said…” and she takes a deep breath. “That Mr. Anderson should bring me along as I probably would enjoy a … a threesome. He knew I was there—he looked right at me as he said it.”
Fucking bastard! Landon was trying to embarrass and humiliate Rachel, and it sounds like it worked.
“I would have walked out, then and there, but Mr. Anderson apologized and said that he wouldn’t tolerate me being harassed like that. It was quite a while before I saw Mr. Landon again. Now, he never speaks to me; he just watches.”
Rachel looks up at me with her big blue eyes.
“Are you going there, Justin?”
I want to tell her no, but I can’t.
“Yep, the boss said we were headed there this weekend.”
She looks down again.
“Oh.”
“Rachel, this weekend is work, that’s all. I have zero interest in the boss’s twisted version of relationships, if that’s what you can call them.”
She still won’t look at me.
“I thought all men liked no-strings sex,” she says sadly.
I don’t know how to make her believe that I’m not interested in dipping my wick in anyone’s sloppy seconds, and definitely not at a free-for-all. Free to catch STDs, and all for nothing.
“Rache, does the boss seem like a happy guy to you?”
“What?”
She faces me at last, her expression puzzled.
“Anderson. Does he seem happy? You know, singing show tunes, tiptoeing through the tulips, hell, I don’t know, maybe even smiling on occasion?”
Jane Harvey-Berrick Guarding the Billionaire Page 7
