“Like yoga.”
“Like surfing. I need to get you out in the ocean.”
“Just get here first,” I say and hang up.
I make my way to the courts and take a seat on the metal bleachers. There’s a view of the Ocean, the Boardwalk and the Ferris wheel on the pier in Santa Monica a few miles away. So pretty. I think about Dr. Keim’s presentation. He’s a powerful speaker. He had some good points and didn’t seem like a bullshitter. On the other hand, his bodyguard was a dick. But then again – aren’t bodyguards notorious for being dicks?
And I realize mine’s not.
Max isn’t just a driver. He’s my unofficial bodyguard. He’s kind and caring. He’s hot and take-charge without being obnoxious or pushy. He’s not bodybuilder muscled up with steroids or too many hours at the gym. He’s a tumble of lean muscles and sun-kissed skin. And his eyes – don’t get me started on his eyes.
The twinkle wrinkles around them, the way he waggles his brows in that the naughty way. Oh yes, I fantasize about all the fun things we could be doing if I just let my guard down. The more I’m around him the more I’m tempted. I haven’t had sex since my diagnosis. I have this feeling that sex with Max would start with kissing, touching, caressing. All those romantic moments from every romantic movie. And then it would turn into something hotter.
Why not just have some fun with Max? It’s summertime. He’s young and gorgeous. I’m young and well – he thinks I’m pretty. Why not let him guard my body in any way he sees fit? But where’s that going to get me? Where’s that going to get him? I’m back to Wisconsin after summer school and the stem cell procedures. And unless I find my miracle or combinations thereof, I’m still going to have MS. I’m not going to be the healthy girl he needs to have any long-term relationship with.
A familiar voice breaks through my thoughts. “Hurry up, you pussies. Not every day we score a game on these courts.”
A shiver runs down my spine and I glance around from my perch on the bleachers. A pack of bald young men with trousers hanging halfway down their asses huddle around a bench ten yards or so in front of me. The skinhead from the day I visited Lizzie Sparks jogs onto the court, spits, and passes a ball to one of his friends. His pals pour onto the concrete and dive into a pick-up game.
Something goes cold inside me and I turn away from them. Surely, they wouldn’t recognize me. It’s been weeks since I saw them. Besides, Max has got to be just around the corner. He’ll take care of me. It’s probably best if I wait until he gets here. I can’t help but glance over my shoulder.
The gang bangers are working up a sweat. “You hit a basket the same way you hit your toilet,” one says.
“You mean the same way I hit your sister,” he says.
My heart beats a little faster, I feel sick to my stomach, and my body makes the decision for me. I’m out of here. I’ll go to that cute lemonade stand. I’ll text Max and tell him I parked it there. I stand, keep my head low, let my hair fall over my face and don’t look in their direction. I make my way down the bleachers. I manage to walk a few yards and already I’m feeling better when someone clamps onto my arm and spins me around.
Chapter Thirteen
“Yo, Tourist Girl. Nice to see you again.” Skinhead runs a finger across my cheek. “Still looking for the dead president?”
I think I’m going to throw up. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’m just saying hello. Just being friendly. Being nice to the girl from out of town.”
“Oscar,” his friend says. “You’re still on parole. Not worth it.”
“Not yours to call,” Oscar says. He clamps down on my arm harder.
“Get your hands off me!” I try and shake him off but the more I struggle the tighter he squeezes. People around me watch like it’s theatre. Then they turn their backs, and shrink away like they’re scared of him.
The sun’s dropping toward the horizon, and courtside’s emptying out as folks grab their belongings and their kids and leave even though a skinhead with gang tats and his beater T-shirt and his sloppy shorts has his hands on me. And I’m feeling even more panicked because Max isn’t here and I don’t think anyone’s going to step up to the plate.
“Oscar Price, you son-of-a bitch.” Javier. Approaching. Twirling a baseball bat. “Get your greasy hands off that girl. Now.”
“Back off, Javier,” Oscar says.
I spot Max in the distance racing toward me. He jabs a finger in the air. “I’ll fucking kill you, skinhead prick, if you hurt a hair on her head.”
Javier’s just yards away.
I elbow Oscar. He grunts.
Max races toward us. “Let her go!”
“You think you’re special?” Oscar says, then lets me go with a shove and I stumble, landing on my knees on a patch of scrubby grass. “You’re not all that special.” He holds his hands up in the air and skips backward. “Pussies.”
I burst into tears.
He rejoins his crew and they stride down the Boardwalk, away from the courts. Away from me.
My hands are trembling. I feel weak. I feel stupid.
“Maia,” Javier leans down next to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” But I can’t stop crying.
“Maia,” Max reaches my side, and drops to his knees. He cradles my face in his hands. He’s angry, breathing so heavily his nostrils flare. “Are you okay? Are you all right? He stands back up and searches the crowd. “You fucking prick, if I see you again I’ll fucking kill you.”
Javier puts a hand on Max’s arm. “We’ll handle it. Take care of your girl right now.”
Max drives me home. “If anything had happened to you, I’d take that banger out.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I let you down. I shouldn’t have let you go on your own. I didn’t show up in time.”
“You’re not supposed to be glued to my side. You’re just supposed to drive me.” Part of my heart cracks open. “That thing with the skinhead had nothing to do with you, Max.”
“How can you even say that?” He slams his hand on the steering wheel. “That Oscar asshole’s the scum of the Earth. Drugs, robbery, assault. The whole thing tonight was completely my fault.”
“No, it’s not. Remember the first night I asked you to drive me?”
“Yes.”
“I had an appointment with a healer in Venice that day. I got lost. I ran into those guys. They scared me.”
“Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?”
I shake my head.
He grinds his teeth and his jaw muscles pop.
I place my hand on his arm and soothe it, stroking up and down, feeling the muscles clench under my fingers. “You did good. You’re sweet to me. You take care of me. You’re the best driver ever, Frank Farmer.”
“You with the nicknames.” The edges of those fleshy lips quirk up on a smile.
Mission accomplished. “I’m hungry. Let’s grab a bite.”
“Yes,” he says.
We meet his friends, their friends, and Javier at the Grill. It’s busy with old faces and new. We hang at a table in the back. I chat with Javier.
“How long has Max has been your driver,” he asks.
“Since the first night I landed in town.”
The waitress deposits platters on our tables. “Nachos. Caesars. California burger. Sliders.”
“He took me to the E.R. He’s the best Frank Farmer ever.”
“When I figure out her ‘Frank Farmer’ nickname,” Max says, “I win our first kiss.” Max says.
Javier dips into the platter of nachos. “Your first kiss? So, this is a bet kind of situation?”
“Yes,” Tyler says and tips back a beer.
“I know who Frank Farmer is,” the waitress says, dropping off the last of the plates.
“Get out,” Max says and slams his hand on the table. “Tell me.”
“No,” she says. “If it’s a bet, you’re supposed to figure it out on your own.”
“Bonita
,” Max says, and stares at my lips. He smiles, those twinkle wrinkles around his eyes making his hazel eyes prettier if that’s even possible. “I’m so close. Throw a guy a bone.”
I feel my face flush and my heart starts pounding in my chest, but in a good way. The waitress looks at me. I shrug.
“It’s from a bodyguard movie,” the waitress says.
“Who knows bodyguard movies?” Max asks.
“Taken,” Ethan says.
“Not Liam Neeson,” I say.
“Ronin,” Jackson says.
“Not Robert DeNiro,” Tyler says.
“Stop with the testosterone,” the waitress says picking up a few empties. “Think romance.”
“The Whitney Houston movie,” Jackson says.
“Oh my God, the Whitney Houston movie with Kevin Costner when he was still super hot,” one of the girls at the table says.
“What was his name?” another girl asks.
Max looks at me and smiles. “His name was Frank Farmer. Right, Bonita?”
I nod and bite my lip.
Around of applause erupts around the table.
“Hey dude, you just won a kiss,” Tyler says.
“I did,” Max says and stands up.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Thinking.”
“Thinking?” Jackson asks. “You just won a kiss and you’re thinking?”
“If you’re not going to claim your kiss,” Ethan says and gives me a wink, “I’ll do it for you.”
“Back off poacher,” Max says and smiles at me.
I get the shivers when I look up at him. An ache grows low in my belly. I can’t help but wet my lips. He’s my dark-haired angel with mesmerizing eyes.
“Dude, what’s the problem?” Jackson asks.
“He wants this to be perfect,” Javier says. “It’s their first kiss,”
“Oh,” Tyler says.
“Too much pressure,” I say. “Max, you don’t have to kiss me just yet.”
“No, no,” Max says. “I’ve got this. Close your eyes, Bonita.”
“What?”
“Trust me.”
I close my eyes.
He takes my hand. “Now open them.”
I do.
Chapter Fourteen
He’s kneeling on the floor in front of me in Westwood Grill. On one knee.
“Will you, Maia, take me, Max —”
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Just run with this, OK?”
I nod.
“Will you, Maia take me to be your completely smitten Bodyguard.
“Uh…” My cheeks are flushing.
“Will you take me, as your Bodyguard, to transport and guard you through good times and bad? Through changing neighborhoods with gang bangers and nice neighborhoods where kind women give you peaches?”
“Go on.”
“Will you allow me, Maia, to drive you in good and bad traffic? To protect you from assholes you as well as those who simply flirt too much?” He points at Ethan.
Who shrugs.
“Will you take me, Maia to be your lawfully vetted Bodyguard?”
“Yes, Max.” I smile.
“Here, here.” Ethan lifts his beer in a toast.
“I’m claiming my kiss, Bonita,” he says. He leans in.
I smell cedar from his aftershave. I smell a hint of sweat from when he ran to rescue me. I see that beautiful scruff on his face and those full lips and the next thing I know, he lifts my hand to the back of his mouth and kisses it sweetly and gently, then puts it down.
My heart’s pounding in my chest. I’m breaking out in a sweat everywhere—just everywhere and I bite my lip. “What are you doing?” I whisper.
He reaches into his pocket. “I’m paying our tab. And then we’re going home.”
He parks his Jeep at the curb and walks me to my apartment. I stick my keys in the door. “Per usual, thanks for everything.” My hand’s trembling again. Probably the stress of the day. Hopefully he won’t see. Napoleon meows plaintively from inside. “The new kitten calls. Time to call it a day.”
He places his hand on top of mine. “Why don’t I come in? Help you with stuff.”
“You’ve helped me a lot already. You’ve helped me more than anyone I know.”
“Maia,” he says. “Go out with me, for real.”
I can’t meet his eyes. I want to say yes. But this will take us to a different place and we are so perfect right now.
“We like each other, Maia. I’m not delusional. I’m not making this up.”
“I know.”
“Go out with me for real. Not a yoga class. Not a walk on fire event.”
“I don’t want to screw up our relationship. I don’t want—”
He pulls me to him and kisses me. His large hand cradles the back of my head. His lips are full and insistent. He slips his tongue inside my mouth like it is meant to be there. He tastes sweet. I lean back against the door. He moves his lips from my mouth and draws a thumb over my lips. “Maia,” he whispers. He kisses my neck, brushes back my shirt. The scruff of his beard on the soft skin of my shoulder make me shiver. Tingles erupt everywhere, heat grows in my pelvis.
“Go out with me.” He stares into my eyes, tracing the length of my neck with two fingers. He catches wisps of my hair, twirling them, tugging on them. The heat in my pelvis grows and my nipples harden.
He kisses me again, his tongue exploring my mouth. He wraps a strong arm around my waist and pulls me flush against him. My shirt scrunches up toward my breasts. The bared skin of my stomach presses tight against his thin T-shirt.
“I can’t. I’m only here for the summer. The time – it’s too short.”
“Life is short, Maia.”
Beat-beat. My closed heart starts cracking open.
“Something special’s happening between us. Something we shouldn’t pass by.” He traces the curve of my neck, slides his hand under the edge of my T-shirt, pulling back the neckline, and kisses my shoulder. His warm breath and the brush of his full lips brings a flush to my skin. He stares, his hazel eyes so hungry. “I am officially asking you Maia to go out with me.”
And I am falling all over again, but this time in a good way. “Yes.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“I thought I was going to have to get down on one knee again.” He cracks a smile.
I smile back. “You looked super hot when you did that.”
Gidget barks.
“Take it inside,” Cole my next door neighbor says, glaring at us out the window before he slams it shut.
Max promptly gets down on one knee.
“Mm,” I say and bite my lip, stifling giggles. “So hot. Irresistibly hot. Yes, you should definitely come inside, Max.”
He stands. “I thought you’d never ask.”
I wiggle the key in the lock and crack open the door. “Gimme Shelter” blares from his phone.
“Crap,” he says. “Not tonight.”
“What?” I scoop up Napoleon as he tries to race past me.
“Someone needs a driver.”
My heart sinks. “Can’t someone else —”
“Sorry, I wish. I’ve gotta go.” He leans in and kisses me, his lips lingering on mine. Then he pulls away.
“Be safe,” I say, feeling disappointed.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.” He hops into his car, fires the engine, and drives away.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’ High up on the list of worrisome phrases along with ‘It’s probably nothing,’ and ‘Try not to think about that.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow ‘can mean someone will call you tomorrow, same person could call you next week, or possibly you will never hear from that person again. I don’t know. I’ve never been good at predicting this.
What I do know is that it’s been a long day chock full of good and bad and I am utterly exhausted. I feed Napoleon. After his fat belly’s full we play a rousing game of ‘Catch the stri
ng.’ I sprinkle nip on the cat scratcher pad, lie on the floor and watch as he attacks the cardboard, rolling around on it with glee. “You’ve landed in cat Shangri-la, you adorable opportunist.”
He falls off the scratch pad and with a thunk and meows, wide eyes staring up at me.
“What? Do you want more food? More nip? You are too…” the room goes gray. My heart beat-beats in my ears. I break out in a sweat and shivers prickle on the backs of my arms. The world stands still for a bit. I’m not sure for how long.
When I focus I register that I’m still lying on my side with a black kitten climbing on top of me. I’ve just experienced an MS related seizure. It was a petit mal, not the more dramatic grand mal. Petit looks like you’re just blanking out. Yes, they can still be dangerous. Another reason I don’t drive. Another reason I don’t date.
But why now? Nothing like this has happened in at least six months. Well before I landed in L.A. Are the stem cells turning dangerous? Is it my MS? I’m scheduled for an MRI at the hospital later tomorrow. I don’t go to the ER for a petit mal seizure. I down a glass of water, then settle in on the couch with a kitten on my legs. I replay how Max’s lips felt on mine. How he tasted. Remember how my heart felt like it was opening.
And feel it oh-so-quietly tighten back up again.
I tell the doctors about my seizure. Today’s MRI is a close up of my brain. I ignore the machine-gunfire noises as I lie in the tube for forty-five minutes. I ignore the cage over my head, ignore the ache in my heart. I exit the changing room, walk down the hallway, and practically trip over a wheelchair and the girl in it.
“Keep your eyes on the road.” Blue wheels down the corridor.
“Sorry! How are you doing?” I follow her.
She shrugs. “Do you know anyone in a wheelchair?”
Nana has been in a chair for five years now. She transitioned from walking with a cane, to using a walker, and then the chair. I nod. “My grandmother. It’s not easy.”
“It’s not. What are you in for today?”
The Bodyguard Page 7
