The Bodyguard

by Pamela DuMond

  “Max.”

  He circles my clit with a finger. “Does this feel good?”

  “Yes.” Heat builds in my center. Pleasure courses through me.

  He slips a finger in and I moan.

  “Delicious Bonita,” he says, playing with me.

  “Max. Inside me.”

  He stares into my eyes. “Come first.”

  He pulls my panties down and I step out of them.

  “You’re my prisoner, Bonita.” He drops to his knees, and grasps the tops of my hips with his firm hands. He buries his lips in my center, mouth sucking, teeth nibbling on my clit.

  I close my eyes, lose time and space. I grasp his hair with one hand and minutes later I come in shivers and moans, calling his name. When I open my eyes, he’s smiling, wiping his mouth.

  “Good?” he asks.

  “Very good.” I say, trying to catch my breath.

  He walks me backward to his bed. “I’m not letting you go back to Wisconsin. You belong with me.” He reaches inside the nightstand and grabs a foil package. He rips it open with his teeth and rolls it onto his thick erection. He crawls on top of me, kisses me on the lips, his fingers tracing my skin down into the hollow of my throat. He rubs his length against the v between my legs.

  I grasp his shoulders. “Inside me.”

  He lowers himself into me. I squeeze his arms and I am so tight and he is so hard.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod. “Deeper.”

  He rocks into me and we find our rhythm. And he makes love to me harder, lifting my legs so they are over his shoulders. And eventually he comes in shakes and shudders so very deep inside me.

  We lie in each others’ arms and I am amazed at how comfortable I am being with him. “How do you feel?” I ask.

  He smiles and lifts his arms, putting them under his head like a makeshift pillow. “This feels like it is meant to be. Like we are meant to be.”

  “Ditto,” I say.

  A tattoo is tucked in the curve under his chest muscles, right where they meet his shoulder. It must have been the one he had told me about earlier on Venice Beach. The one I’ve never seen.

  It consists of three words and is inked in cursive. Thin, faded scars spider web out from underneath his tat, wrapping around his collarbone. A thicker white scar jags across his ribs all the way to his shoulder. A four inch one next to it resembles a surgical incision.

  Que nunca olvidaré.

  “Max,” I say and trace his tat with my finger. “‘Que nunca olvidaré,’ What does these words mean?”

  His muscular hand flies to his shoulder like he’s attempting to squelch a bleeding wound.

  Oh, no, have I screwed up our perfect time together? “I’m sorry,” I say. “You don’t have to tell me anything.

  “It’s fine,” he says and rolls out of bed, standing up. “I should have told you long before.”

  Rough wood beams cross the living room ceiling. One wall’s glass, shored up with beams that overlook the patio we’d lounged on earlier. Terra cotta tiles pave the floor. A woven cotton rug lies in front of a Mexican artisan tiled fireplace, a few logs inside lit and burning. In the distance the surf crashes low on the beach, the fog rolled in.

  I sit on a stool across a kitchen island from Max as we graze on a platter of food.

  “‘Que nunca olvidaré’ is Spanish,” he says. “It translates to, ‘I will never forget.’”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I was your basic kid in high school,” he says, pushing food around on his plate. “Decent grades. Partied a little. Pushed my parents’ limits.”

  “Sounds normal.”

  “One night changed that. Jackson got a last minute invite to a party in the mountains off of Mulholland. We’d been friends since middle school. I told my parents I’d crashing at his place in Malibu.”

  I nod.

  “He drove me, his sister, Lauren, and her friend Danielle up the mountain in his dad’s SUV. I remember the night was beautiful. The views that high are amazing: the lights from the houses below looked like reflections of the stars above. I could vaguely make out the canyons hundreds of feet below the cliffs. There was awesome music. Good food, drinks, weed. We all had a great time. We all enjoyed ourselves a little too much.”

  “Sounds par for a high school party.”

  “It was. Problem was Jackson over did it.”

  “It happens.”

  “But this wasn’t the first time. He was on a strict curfew.” Max drags fingers through his hair, stands up and moves into the living room.

  I follow him.

  “I had to get him home without his folks finding out or they would have ground his ass forever. Lauren and Danielle were buzzed. I’d only had two beers. I felt fine.”

  I flash to the photo of the crumpled SUV in his mom’s office and I forget how to breathe.

  He takes seat in front of the fireplace. “I haven’t told anyone this story in a while so, forgive me if I meander.”

  “Take your time.” I walk across the room and sit next to him. Our knees touch. I brush a lock of his hair that had fallen in front of his eyes and tuck it behind his ear.

  “I drove down everyone down the mountain. Malibu Canyon Road gets dicey with all the switchbacks and drop offs. The girls were singing, rocking out. Jackson was passed out in the back next to Danielle. I saw a few signs warning that the road was narrowing to one lane.”

  I frown. “On a mountain road?”

  “Right?” he says. “I stopped at the stop sign. Flashed my brights. No headlights visible from the other side. Didn’t hear other cars. I drove forward. There were chewed up holes in the road and the shoulder was barely a foot wide with scrub brush clinging to the edges.”

  I shudder. “That would have scared the hell out of me.”

  He shrugs. “Once I navigated through that one lane on that road I thought I was free and clear. The girls cheered and high fived each other. I took my eyes off the road for a second. Only one second.”

  My heart drops.

  “That was when the deer ran out in front of us” he says. “One of the girls screamed. I slammed on the brakes and yanked the wheel, hard. I felt a thud, the next thing I knew we were flying.” He hugs his knees into his chest.

  One of my hands goes to my heart, the other to his shoulder.

  He drops his forehead into his hands.

  “It’s okay.” I lean in and wrap an arm around him.

  “I slammed my arm over Lauren’s chest, pushed her back against the passenger seat. She never wore a seatbelt. She hated them.”

  “Crap.” I blink back tears.

  Max rocks. I hold onto him. Tight. Firm.

  “We landed nose down on a rocky cliff. We hit hard, the SUV rolled, my air bag deployed. I thought it was over. We skidded off the incline and dove again. I smashed into the driver’s window. My left arm twisted and punched through the glass. I felt this weird crunch. That’s when my arm and my collarbone broke. Jackson was silent. I prayed he was still passed out. Danielle kept screaming, ‘My leg, my leg!’ And I blacked out.”

  “It’s okay.” I pull him closer to me, if that’s even possible.

  “I came to in hazy pain. Like -- I knew it was bad, but there was this weird numbness. Danielle kept complaining about her leg, stumbling over her words, like she was out of breath. I saw Jackson out of the corner of my eye. He was out cold, collapsed against his seatbelt. The pain kicked in out of nowhere and it was fierce. I swiveled back and looked to the right at Lauren in the passenger seat. But she wasn’t there. She was just gone. I passed out again. The next time I surfaced was in the ICU.”

  All this time he drove me, guarded me, and I didn’t know. This sweet, strong man had been through hell.

  “The only thing the docs and my parents told me before my shoulder surgery was that everyone lived. Everyone in that car was still alive when I went into surgery.”

  “Oh, Max.”

  “I came out of the surger
y with screws and plates in my shoulder. I was messed up from the pain and the anesthesia and the painkillers. When I could finally wrap my brain around what happened, I asked my folks for details. Jackson escaped with sprains and strains, a few cuts and some bruises. He walked out of the hospital the next morning with a wicked hangover. I was so relieved.”

  “What happened to Lauren?” I asked.

  “She flew through the windshield after our first impact. She broke her back and her spinal cord was messed. She’s had surgery after surgery but she’s still in a chair. Lauren forgave me. Jackson thanked me. It took about a year, but eventually their parents forgave me, too. I think they figured if Jackson had been driving, we’d all be dead.”

  “They’re probably right.” I wipe a tear from his cheek, then one from mine. “What about Danielle? Her leg was broken.”

  “Yeah. Her leg was broken. Her spleen was ruptured. Her liver and kidneys were torn. She had emergency surgery.” He crumbles in front of me, his breath dissolving. “She died on the operating table. She didn’t make it. She was nineteen years old.”

  “Oh my God, Max. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

  “I’ve been living with this knowledge every single, waking moment since the accident,” he says. “I didn’t just break one person—I killed another.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Max’s face is grim. “I was arrested when I was still in the hospital and charged with DUI and involuntary manslaughter. Sentenced to probation and community service. The best part of my fucking up was meeting Nick, Tyler and Ethan. They’d been through something similar.”

  And it finally makes sense why his friends and he do what they do.

  “We talked about a grassroots ways we could make a difference,” he says. “That’s why we started the Drivers. It’s a way to make amends. So now you know my story. Feel free to make a run for it.”

  He had been through so much. He owned it. I shake my head. “I’m not going anywhere. Everybody screws up. Everybody has secrets.”

  “I never planned on meeting you, Maia,” he says. “I hook up but I don’t really date. But you were different, you weren’t from here. There was a crazy part of me that hoped, that you could just get to know me, not already see or know me for the stupid asshole that I was. There was a part of me—I guess it was my heart—that hoped you wouldn’t look at me with disdain or disgust and think—Max Levine—what a monster.”

  “I would never think you were a monster.” I run a hand through his hair. “Look at me.”

  He looks up at me: regret, fear, humiliation, sadness play across his beautiful face. “I break people.”

  “You can’t break me, Max.”

  He shudders and clings to me like I am his refuge. We lie on the rug in front of the fire. He traces my face with his fingers. I wrap my leg over his.

  “Maia?”

  “What?”

  “You give me shelter.” He wraps his arms around me, buries his face in my neck.

  I hold him until he falls asleep. I walk out of the room, make my way down the hallway to a bathroom at the other end. I enter it, close the door, and turn on the overhead fan. And I cry. I know the real reason he can’t break me. But I didn’t know if I have the guts, or the courage to tell him:

  I’m already broken.

  The next day we park on a side street in the middle of a ramshackle, non-touristy section of Rosarito. Max holds my hand as we walk up the narrow lane.

  “About last night,” I say. “Thanks for telling me. I know it must have been difficult.”

  “I don’t want us to have secrets.”

  I squeeze his hand. “I have things I need to share with you as well.”

  “I want to hear everything,” he says. “Last night stirred up stuff. Maybe wait a day or two if that’s okay. We can process it all in chunks.”

  “I’m good with that.”

  Better than good – I’m relieved.

  There are no T-shirt or surf shops in this part of Rosarito. Just tiny, mom and pop stores selling food and groceries. Laundry hangs on thin, fraying lines outside simple apartments, waiting for the sea breeze to dry it.

  A one-story, cinder-block building carves out its own block in this neighborhood in large part due to the fierce fence that surrounds it; eight feet high, chain-link with barbed-wire coils on the top. We approach a blood red metal door with laminated photos of saints glued to its front. A hand-written sign reads,

  “Por favor llama a este número para hacer una cita.”

  “What does it mean?” I ask.

  “Please call this number to make an appointment.”

  “Do we need to—”

  “Already done,” Max says.

  I peer through the fence at a long, narrow back yard – concrete, broken up by skinny patches of grass. A weathered, plastic jungle gym, a basketball hoop and a dilapidated dollhouse fill out the property.

  “We’re here,” Max says.

  “Interesting,” I say. “It looks a little—”

  “Magical.” Max checks his watch. “It’s noon. They run a tight ship around here. Three, two, one…”

  As if on cue, there’s a loud creak. A metal security door swings open and a crowd of kids race out into the yard jabbering excitedly. A few girls make a break for the dollhouse. A group of kids kick a soccer ball back and forth. The youngest children head to the jungle gym.

  An older woman with a kind face follows them. She wears a knee-length gray skirt, sensible shoes, and a thick cross hangs over a T-shirt with an image of John Lennon. “Back inside in one hour,” she says. “Practice your English.”

  “Sí Hermana Lennon,” a boy says.

  “This place is an orphanage,” I said. “The world-famous curandero works out of an orphanage?”

  “Yes.” Max nods and takes my hand, brings it to his lips and kisses it. “What do you know about Padre Morales.”

  “Nothing really,” I say. “Except your mom said he was a healer.”

  “At age fourteen, Padre Morales, was a drug dealer. He got arrested. Went to prison. Found his version of God. And soon thereafter realized he had a gift.”

  “Which is?” I ask.

  “He sees energy blockages. He prays to the saints. His prayers are powerful. Local legend has it they are heard. He gives herbs and performs the laying on of hands. He helps people heal,” Max said.

  “Did he help you?”

  “After the accident, he helped my mom. So, in a way, yes.” Max knocks on the red door and a small, wizened man answers it.

  His eyes light up. “Max! So good to see you. You’ve gotten so tall. You need to come visit us more often. How is your mother?”

  “She’s great Padre, thank you.”

  “You must be Maia.” He takes my hand and smiles. “Pleased to meet you. We have work to do, yes? Come with me.” He leads me inside the building.

  “Padre,” Max says. “Can I take the usual suspects surfing?”

  “Great idea, Max.” The Padre digs in his pants pockets, grabs a key ring and tosses it to him. “Thank you.”

  Max hands him the keys to his Jeep. “Meet up later?”

  The Padre nods.

  Max walks to the fence and hollers in Spanish. A few older kids squeal in joy, disappear back inside the house. They came running out the entrance carrying beat up surfboards. They strap the boards on top of an ancient VW van, and pile in.

  Max coaxes the engine to start on the third attempt, cranks the window down and waves at me as they sputter away. “You’re in good hands, Bonita.”

  “He gives the older kids surf lessons whenever he comes down here,” Padre says and leads me inside the building. They adore him.”

  “Funny,” I say. “So do I.”

  We’re in a small room with a fan located next to an open window with bars on it. I lie on a thin massage table on a cotton sheet. Across from me is a small altar, draped in richly colored silks and cotton fabrics. Framed pictures of saints, gurus, and Buddha st
atue share space on the shrine. Freshly cut flowers adorn rest in a blue vase on the corner. Votive candles are lit, flames flickering.

  The Padre chants in Spanish, dabs scented oil on my forehead, presses his hands light to my head. He barely touches me but heat pours off his hands. He repeats his prayers and the laying on of hands to my neck, and my back. Around an hour later he says. “We’re done. Sit up when you’re ready.”

  I blink my eyes open and sit up. I feel little light-headed but filled with energy.

  “How do you feel?” He stands next to the altar, selects flowers from the vase.

  “Amazing. Warm. Energized.”

  “Good. This is for your heart.” He hands me a red rose. “For love and kindness. Caring and truth.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This is for respect.” He hands me a white flower. “To remember life changes but souls never die. I’ll say prayers for you, Maia Marie Priebe. But I think you’re on your way.”

  The Padre parks Max’s Jeep tires on the edge of a small beach.

  I hop out. Max is in the water, helping a boy kneel on a surfboard. Around him children are in various stages of surfing. Some lie on their stomachs on boards bobbing in the water. Others dog-paddle next to friends. One teenage girl squeals with excitement as she catches a wave and pulls herself to standing.

  And then there’s Max. Happiness shines on his face. And in this moment the rest of my heart cracks open and I know I’ve found my healing.

  It doesn’t take the form of acupuncture or aura cleansing. My healing is six-foot two-inches tall, has dark hair, hazel eyes and is the embodiment of kindness. My healing is Max.

  “Bonita.” He grins. “Isn’t this magical?”

  “The best, Max.”

  He falls asleep after sex and I think I’m going to doze too, but my session with the Padre has released endorphins or who knows what because all I can do about is how everything has changed in the last two days.

  The most gorgeous guy in the world is not only my bodyguard, but he’s including me with his family, and he’s making me laugh, and he’s making me come, and when he’s inside me I feel whole. Like there was part of me missing before I met Max and that part is now filled. Complete.