The Bodyguard

by Pamela DuMond

  I smiled for the first time since I got the dreadful text at Jackson’s party. Since the night I said heartless words to Max. “I’d say, ‘I’m your only granddaughter, Nana.’”

  Mom cracks a smile, reaches out her hand and I take it.

  Fall’s hitting Oconomowoc early. A sudden gust of wind swirls, raining down jewel-colored leaves. We wind down the hill around family plots and tombstones. Down below us the men who installed Nana’s tombstone are packing up their truck.

  “Out of all your exotic experiences, all your adventures? What made the biggest difference?” Mom asks and takes my hand. “What was the most healing?’”

  I think about all the therapies. The ones I liked. The ones that were uncomfortable, or even dangerous. And then I think of Max. He gave me shelter.

  A worker starts the truck’s engine. “Gimme Shelter” by the Rolling Stones plays. And my heart clenches as I realize I will never feel sheltered like that again.

  Back in L.A., I stand on the curb across from my old sublet, one hand on my suitcase as my cab peels off. The sweet scent of oranges wafts through the air and I gaze at the apartment complex with a pinch of homesickness.

  A wave of memories washes over me: the sting from the slivers of glass when they hit my face. How hard I laughed when Max and I were in Chinatown and he was covered in acupuncture needles. How incredible I felt when Max kissed me for the first time and carried me to bed.

  It seems like a lifetime ago.

  I knock on Cole’s door. He opens it and Gidget bursts out barking in her signature soprano. She scratches at my shins.

  I rub her ears and her sloppy little face. “I missed you, goofball.”

  Cole gives me a smooch on my cheek. “Welcome back, lady. I’m so sorry about your grandmother.” He grabs my bag and wheels it inside. “My house is your house. You talk to Max?”

  “Nope.”

  “That will sort itself out. I’ve got just the ticket to distract you. I tracked down Clark Gable’s old house. It’s in the hills above Sunset and it’s for sale. There’s an open house this weekend.”

  “I wish I could. I’m just in town to tie up loose ends.”

  I hand in my Genetics term paper to Professor Schillinger the next morning. He granted me an extension when I contacted him about my grandmother. Next up is the stem cell study.

  I sit in a hospital room while a nurse draws blood. Dr. Winkler flips through my chart. “I’ve got good news and bad news. Where do you want to start?”

  I couldn’t save my Nana. She lies deep in the ground on top of a pretty hill, a carved marble angel rested on top of her plot, guarding her journey to Heaven. I’ve screwed up Lulu’s relationship with Max. I’ve messed with the same beautiful man who would always have trust issues. The guy I miss with every breath and every beat of my battered heart. “Let’s start with the bad.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I trudge down the UCLA hospital corridors for the last time, my heart and legs feeling heavy. Nerves? MS? I don’t know.

  The good news. The stem cells aren’t hurting me. The jury’s still out on whether they’ll help or not. New medical breakthroughs and discoveries happen all the time for people like me: folks with weird diseases and perplexing medical conditions. But new drugs and treatments take years of clinical trials before they’re approved.

  The bad news. I’m kicked out of the stem cell study for non-sanctioned drug use. My post-fire draw found its way back to the research program’s powers-that-be. My blood showed traces of hallucinogenic plant medicine. I’d signed paperwork promising not to do anything that would interfere with the study’s rules and regulations.

  My tests are null and void. I cost UCLA time and money. I apologize to Dr. Winkler and try to explain my reasons but he’s a busy guy. I can obtain follow-up MRIs performed at the facility of my future doctor’s choice. My participation here is over. “Good luck, Maia,” he says.

  I feel like an ass. I came to L.A. with hope and determination. I leave for the second time, grieving and hopeless and I have no one to blame but myself. I blink back tears, keep my head down, and make my way past the receptionists manning the central desk.

  “See you in a few days,” Phil says.

  “No, Viking scum. I’m out of here.”

  “Oh.” He raises an eyebrow.

  I pause. “Find me on Instagram.”

  “I don’t remember your last name.”

  “Pilfer it from my chart.”

  “That’s in violation of—”

  “Whatever.” I sigh and scrawl my name on a piece of scrap paper. “Follow me or I’ll sign you up for every Green Bay Packer fan page I can find.”

  He smiles and pockets it. “I knew you were trouble the minute you walked in here. Good luck, Maia.”

  I’m feet from the elevator when a magazine skims my scalp, landing with a smack on the floor.

  “Hey,” Blue says. “You don’t return my texts. Then you move. Now you’re back in town and you’re still not returning my texts.” She parks on my foot. “Did I piss you off?”

  “I’m sorry.” My heart plummets. “My grandmother died.”

  “Oh, Maia. I’m sorry.”

  Lulu wheels around the corner toward us. “Hey.”

  “I need to talk to Lulu,” I say. “Privately.”

  “We’re all friends,” Lulu says. “You can share with the both of us.”

  We sit next to a pathway between brick buildings. There’s a smattering of fall colors on the leaves. Delicate hued yellows, oranges and reds. As if the California trees can’t commit to the change of seasons.

  Students walk past, checking their cell phones. Fall semester’s in full gear. A new journey begins for them. My journey here’s almost over.

  “I had no idea you had feelings for Max when I met him,” I say. “If I had known I wouldn’t have gotten close to him, Lulu. For what it’s worth, we haven’t talked since the party.”

  “About that,” Lulu says. “My brother doesn’t speak for me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Blue rolls her eyes. “Tell her the whole story.”

  “The three of us were friends growing up. Same schools. Same crowd. Max and I made out a few times in high school.” Lulu chews on her lip. “I think Jackson always wanted Max and me to be a couple.”

  “I think Jackson hero worships Max,” Blue says.

  “After the accident, everyone assumed that we’d fall for each other. But we didn’t. We won’t We’ll always just be friends.”

  “So…, you’re not in love with Max?”

  “No,” Lulu says. “If you care about him, go for it. I’m sorry I didn’t make this clear at the benefit. But that night was nuts.”

  “It was,” I say, my mind swirling.

  “Are you just going to sit there?” Blue asks.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Go find him,” she says and wheels toward me. “Or this time I will break your toe.”

  Where to start? I go back to Venice. I walk along the sand, but don’t spot any of Max’s friends in or out of the water. I make my way to Ink Baby on the boardwalk.

  “Hey, Maia,” Javier says. “How are you? Where have you been? It’s like you disappeared.”

  “Wisconsin. Have you seen Max?”

  “No. He pulled a disappearing act too. Have you talked to one of the other drivers? Nick?”

  “No. Great idea. Do you have his number?”

  He pulls a “Driver” card from his pocket and hands it to me.

  “You’re the best. Thank you.”

  The ride share drops me off at Max’s house on Copa del Oro. I hit the call button next to the closed gates and wait. A few windows in the front are open. A lawn mower rumbles in the near distance. I hit the button again. A short man marches from the side of the house toward the front gates.

  “Hi,” I say. “I’m looking for Max Levine. Is he here?”

  “No, miss.”

  “Mr. or Mrs. Levi
ne?”

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  My heart sinks. “Can you give this to Mr. or Mrs. Levine?”

  He nods.

  I scribble my info on a piece of paper. “Thank you.”

  I make my way down Copa de Oro, past the mansions attended by the gardeners and maids and pool service trucks. I pull Nick’s card from my purse and dial.

  He picks up.

  “It’s Maia. You’ve got to help me.”

  I sit in the passenger seat of Nick’s immaculate truck and watch the heat simmer in waves off the pavement lining the entrance to Union Station. Folks of all races and ages pass through the doors of the Spanish-style depot.

  “Max said he needed to leave town for a bit. Chill. Find shelter,” Nick says. “He was torn up. I haven’t seen him like that in years.”

  “Shit,” I say, my heart dropping into my shoes. “Has he called?”

  “No.” Nick shrugs. “I wish I could drive you farther, but it’s a new semester. Frat parties. We’re training new Drivers, but we’re missing one of our best.”

  “Thanks for helping.”

  “You’re welcome.” He stares out the window. “Just promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t mess him up more than you did already.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I take the train to San Diego, then catch a bus to Rosarito. It drops me at La Mar Hotel where I grab a taxi. I try to explain to the cabbie what Max’s parents’ house looks like — a gorgeous beachfront hacienda in a gated community with security guards. Sadly, there are probably hundreds of houses that match that description.

  We drive to community after community, guardhouse after guardhouse. “La casa de Levine?” The guards just shake their heads. I’m frustrated, but it’s not their fault. They’re paid to protect, not offer up private information.

  And here I am again, thousands of miles away from home. Feeling those glass shards from the broken beer bottle digging back into my face, migrating down through my chest and piercing my heart.

  The sun’s making its way toward the Pacific Ocean. I still haven’t found Max. I’m past tired, and my hand’s trembling What am I thinking? Why do I keep journeying so far away, all by myself? And then it hits me. I race down paths most people won’t tiptoe because it’s out of their comfort zone. I travel thousands of miles, cross mountains, deserts and fires because I have hope. And if you have hope, maybe you can conquer a disease. Maybe you can save a life.

  I journeyed here the first time for my Nana. I journey the second time for Max. No matter how we end up—together or apart—I’ll always love him. He’ll forever hold a piece of my soul because he sheltered me. And I start to think about what shelters him.

  “Quiero ir a la escuela de Padre Morales,” I tell the driver in faulty Spanish.

  He nods and turns onto a road that leads back to town. Fifteen minutes later we make our way through Rosarito’s non-touristy neighborhoods. Basic apartments line streets sharing space with mom and pop stores. He slows to a stop next to a plain two-story concrete building rimmed with a barbed wire fence. “La Escuela de Padre Morales.”

  “Thank you.” I step out and glance at the crimson red door. He sets my suitcase on the pavement and I pay him. I knock on the door but there is no answer. I drag my bag around to the fence. There are no kids on the playground. A song emanates from the inside of the orphanage. “Imagine” by John Lennon. I can’t help but smile.

  The red door flies open. The Padre pokes his head out. “Dios mío,” he says. “I was wondering when you were going to arrive. Come inside.”

  I sit in the kitchen and munch on the sandwich he made me. “Thanks for feeding me.”

  “You’re welcome.” He squeezes a fresh glass of juice and sets it in front of me. “He misses you.”

  “I don’t know about that. Where is he?”

  “With the kids. At the beach. Do you know the spot?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll take you there.”

  I changed into my swimsuit, throw on shorts and a T. Now I stand on a calm patch of beach and watch Max in the ocean waves. The sun’s a few feet above the horizon. He’s helping a half dozen kids learn to surf. He’s wearing board shorts. He’s bronzed and laughing. His black hair is wet and longer than last time I saw him. He looks carefree. He looks happy. Do I even dare interrupt him?

  My first love, Max Levine, dives under the ocean waters, resurfaces, pretending to be a shark going after a kid’s surfboard. The boy screams in delight, stands up on the board and rides it to shore.

  “Raphael!” Max thrusts a fist in the air. “You did it!”

  Raphael drags his board out of the water and collapses onto the sand next to me, his wet, skinny chest heaving.

  “Max,” I say. But his attention has already turned to his next student.

  Raphael squints at me. “You’re the lady in the picture.” He sits up.

  “What?”

  “The lady in the picture on Max’s phone.” He smiles. “Max, I met your friend.”

  “Shh,” I say. “He’s busy…

  Waist deep in the surf, Max turns, spots me, and freezes. “Bonita. What are you doing here?”

  I gather my courage and walk into the ocean. Waves lap over my ankles, surf sprays across my legs. “I’m here because someone wise once told me, ‘Life is short. We are not perfect people. We don’t know how much time we’ll have together.’”

  “Hmm. That guy sounds like a pompous ass.”

  I look out at the ocean waters then gaze at Max. “No, he’s not. He’s perceptive.” I wade further up to my hips. “He’s smart.”

  “You’re scared of water. What are you doing?”

  “Remember when we first came down here? When we were on the phone with my Nana?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember when she said, ‘Just be kind to each other.’”

  “I do.”

  “Those were the last words she said to me before she died.”

  “Oh, Bonita.” One hand settles on his chest. “Nana died?”

  I nod. “That’s one of the reasons I left the night of the party.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. I didn’t follow her last words. I wasn’t kind to you. And I regret it.”

  “Don’t.”

  “I do. I regret every mean thing I said. I want to take it all back. But I can’t.” I wade toward him.

  “I forgive you,” he says. “You don’t know what you’re doing in the water. Turn around. Go back to the beach.”

  I shake my head and keep making my way toward him, the waves pushing me around a bit. “I promise to try and trust you, Max. I don’t care if you belong to the world. I still want you to belong to me.” The waves crest up to my chest.

  “I’ll always belong to you.” He dives into the water and swims toward me.

  “No matter what happens with us, Max, you and I have a hell of a story.”

  He reaches me. He wraps a muscular arm around my waist and pulls me toward him.

  I circle my arms around his neck, my legs around his hips.

  He kisses me hard and full on my lips. “I love you Maia. I’ll always love you.” He walks us into shallower waters, where the waves splash around our waists.

  “I love you back.”

  We kiss in the surf, surrounded by giggling children. And it’s magical.

  He pauses and smiles at me. “I think our story deserves a name. What do you think we should call it?”

  “Let’s keep it simple.”

  “I like simple. How about ‘The Story of You and Me’?” He asks.

  “I prefer ‘The Bodyguard,” I say.

  “I can live with that.” And he kisses me again.

  And I know in my bones that I’m home.

  I’m finally home.

  Dear Readers! Thanks for reading The Bodyguard! I hope you enjoyed Maia and Max’s story. If you did, I’d appreciate you leaving a review
on the site where you bought the book.

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  I moonlight at Ma Maison as a high priced escort to pay for Mom's pricey psych treatments. Beautiful, broken billionaires pay ungodly sums of money to be with me because I'm empathic -- I feel in my own body what they feel in theirs. I can heal what broke them.

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  As always— thanks for reading my books. I pour my heart and soul into these stories and hope they bring you some laughs as well as comfort. Sign up for my NEWSLETTER to get release info, news on sales, upcoming books, games, etc. Like my Pamela DuMond Author page. Join my reader’s group on FB at Pamela DuMond’s Dirty Darlings.