Mister Bodyguard

by Ivy Oliver

  “Oh, fuck her,” Sandy says, sucking on her milkshake. “I'm done.”

  After we eat, I take Sandy down to the lobby and we get her a room of her own, so Matt and I will be alone for a while. After she's taken up residence down the hall, we go back to the room.

  Matt turns the air conditioning all the way up and flops on the bed.

  “I don't know how this is going to end,” he says to the ceiling.

  “It ends how it ends,” I say.

  “How are you always so calm?” he demands.

  I shrug. “Been through some things. Changes perspective.”

  “Perspective,” he says, musing. “I don't have any perspective. When I look into my future, you know what I see? A howling blank void. I must sound like an ass.”

  I part the curtains and look out over the city.

  “How's that?”

  “Rich silver spoon asshole kid complains about ennui to grizzled ex-marine.”

  “Former Marine,” I correct. “I'm grizzled?”

  He looks over. “Is grizzled bad? I thought it suits you.”

  I shrug.

  His phone rings again. He lifts it and sighs.

  “It's Nick.”

  “Answer him,” I say.

  The two of them talk for a while. I look out over the streets, watching people far below go about their business. We slept into the afternoon and the shadows are getting long. Revelers are out and about on the streets, and music from the bands on the pedestrian mall wafts up from below.

  “Yeah,” Matt sighs, speaking to Nick. “Yeah, I know.”

  When Matt hangs up, I move to sit beside him on the bed. He drags his hand down my back, drawing me closer. I shift around and lay beside him.

  “What'd he say?”

  “My dad gave him the third degree. I think it's over, Lucas.”

  “I'll be getting a call soon. I'm probably fired.”

  I roll onto my back.

  “So is your career over?”

  I shrug. “Maybe, maybe not. I should be able to take some personal time. I'm a freelancer. Not really hurting for money. Most of my jobs provide three hots and a cot. I have a place, but the rent is a few hundred a month. Split it with a guy who's glad I'm never there.”

  “Whereabouts?” he asks.

  “Philadelphia. Home.”

  “What do we do now?” he says.

  “Rest up. Get some sleep. I have a feeling you're going to have to deal with this sooner rather than later.”

  Matt dozes off. Once he's asleep, I grab the room key and head downstairs to the casino floor. I spotted an Internet terminal for guests near one of the poker tables. Seating myself there, I do a quick Google search and bring up my siblings on social media.

  I don't have any memberships. I'm a ghost, not even a LinkedIn. Drumming my fingers on the desk, I gape at what I see. One of my brothers, Ash, is getting married. Aiden and Larissa have opened their bakery. Julian looks like he's doing alright, he's found someone. Justin is still working on his degree.

  Biting my lip, I navigate over to the home page. If I start an account, it's just a matter of time until they find me.

  Fuck it.

  I fill in the details and start the process. It takes all of twenty minutes, including uploading a picture from the webcam. Just thinking about them fills me with shame. I ran out. I don't deserve family.

  Before I have the chance to delete it all, I close everything out, log off, and head back up to the room.

  Matt is sleeping soundly. I can't. I pace, I walk, I mutter to myself. I realize that I need to do better.

  My phone buzzes.

  Victor.

  I take the call downstairs, with the sounds of revelry and slot machines dully playing in the background.

  “So,” he says, “You must have quite a story.”

  “Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard.

  “So this Margot woman calls up and bitches me out something hardcore,” he says, “totally dissatisfied with you. Wondering why you didn't drag the little twerp back to work on this movie or whatever.”

  I'm quiet for a moment.

  “He's not a little twerp.”

  “Come on, Lucas. I've read the file.”

  “That file doesn't represent who he really is.”

  Victor is quiet for a while.

  “Things got complicated, sounds like.”

  I'm quiet for a while.

  “Yeah,” I finally say.

  “So, lay it on me.”

  I leave out the best parts—that is, all the sex—but I give him the gist of things. I was hired to take care of the kid, and to keep him safe, and make sure he didn't get hurt. I did those things. I make my case and Victor is so quiet I have to check to see if he's still listening.

  “You there?”

  “Wow,” he says. “Scorpions? Lord Monstrothis? Hell of a story.”

  “Hell of a story,” I say.

  “You think the kid's mom had it in for him?”

  “Then why hire me?” I say.

  “You ought to look into that, maybe,” he says. “She's terminated the contract, but you'll still get paid your share of what she paid in so far. It sounds to me like you need time to get shit sorted.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “You gonna come back? I've got some serious work you could do.”

  “I don't know,” I say, and I truly mean it.

  “Alright, man. Your call. You let me know.”

  “Roger.”

  I hang up and head back up to the room.

  When I get there, Sandy and Matt are seated across from each other at the small table by the window. She has a small pair of half-moon reading glasses that I didn't know she had perched on the end of her nose. With minimal, if any, makeup and loose-fitting clothes, she looks more like a librarian than an adult film star. She's hastily scribbling something on a legal pad.

  The two of them were talking and stop when I step up.

  “What are you two doing?” I ask.

  “Jotting down ideas. For a script. Nick had this idea, called me,” she says.

  Matt nods.

  “What about?”

  Sandy leans back and nods at Matt.

  “This,” he says.

  I blink a few times and start laughing.

  15

  Matt

  Lucas sits beside me at a wrought iron table outside a Krispy Kreme, set in the first floor of a casino hotel. An iron fence, lower than waist height, separates us from the open area of the Freemont Street Experience, a section of Old Las Vegas street cut off from the rest of the roads and open as a pedestrian plaza. It's fairly cool here. Overhead is a massive light show display. At night, it's alive with color and movement, pulsing to live music or blasting recorded soundtracks from speakers all around. During the day, it acts like a huge pergola, letting the wind through while shading the ground below.

  This isn't the most kid-friendly part of town, but during the day there are more parents about and more kids with them. The neon signs, still lit during daylight hours, look strangely pale. Up the street, a neon cowboy waves a neon lasso and a neon stripper leers with pushed up neon cleavage and winking neon eyes.

  My mother, Margot, approaches from inside the casino, looking at the girl running the donut counter like she would look at a particularly loathsome insect. She sweeps outside, pale skin sheltered from the sun by a broad hat, eyes cloaked behind oversized, round sunglasses. Breakfast at Tiffany's, but too tacky. She sweeps into a chair and tosses her ludicrously expensive designer purse into another and pulls her sunglasses down to flash big blue eyes at me and glower.

  “What are you doing here?” she snaps, furious. “You're supposed to be working on your movie.”

  “It's not my movie,” I say calmly, “it's your movie.”

  Lucas shifts uncomfortably, slowly eating a glazed donut.

  “Well, at least you're doing your job,” she snaps at him, her voice cracking like a rawhide whip. “Or are you? How did
you let him wander off when you were explicitly told to—”

  “Ma,” I say, calmly, “I've had enough. The movie production is a joke. The whole thing is ludicrous. If it was just pointless that'd be one thing, but it's been dangerous, too. People have been hurt. I was almost hurt. It's over.”

  She grimaces. “So what are you going to do with yourself, then?” she hisses. “I'm not going to let you just waste your life when you have talent—”

  “I'm not an actor,” I snort. “I can't deliver a line to save my life. I have no training. This was your idea, and let's just put the cards on the table, Mom. This was never about making a movie or starting a career. You knew from the start this would be an expensive fiasco with no end in sight and that it would end up folding, all the money wasted. Except it's not wasted, is it?”

  She frowns. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Those sets and equipment were awfully expensive.”

  “Well,” she snorts, tipping her nose up. “I only pay for the best. I didn't want some ridiculous clown show production.”

  Lucas smiles thinly but says nothing.

  “You pay for the best because you're paying yourself,” I say, leaning on the table.

  She draws back slightly, uncomfortable to close the distance.

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. If you paid for the best you'd hire reputable carpenters and set builders and all that, but you didn't. You hired new companies, staffed by amateurs, offering the cheapest work with the shoddiest materials.”

  “So I've been ripped off,” she sniffs. “You should have brought this to my attention sooner—”

  “Ma, cut the bullshit. You're paying yourself. This is all about funneling money out of Dad's accounts into ones you control, so if he ever cuts you off, you get off scot free. Right?”

  She fumes, biting her lip, tugging her purse as if she's ready to swat me with it. Lucas grunts and shifts his position, staring her down through his sunglasses.

  “Alright,” she says, “Fine. You want me to admit it? I admit it. I've funneled a couple of hundred million into a few shell companies here and there.”

  “Here and there being Switzerland and Cyprus, or something like that, right?”

  “Oh so fucking what?” she says. “So what. So I took care of myself a little. Who wouldn't? It's not like he misses the money. Do you know how much money he spent outfitting that room in the house to look like an 80's arcade? He spent enough on a Mortal Kombat arcade cabinet to pay tuition to a good private school for a year. Besides, I just skim a little here, a little there. He'd buy me the things anyway. He makes up the difference in a few hours in interest. He'll make tens of millions in the time it takes me to have this conversation with you.”

  I sit back in my chair.

  “You really don't see anything wrong with that, do you?”

  “Of course not,” she snaps.

  “So it never occurred to you to help out Sandy. Did you know she's having trouble with her house payments?”

  “Well, living in the Valley is expensive.”

  “She doesn't live in the valley, Ma. She lives in a trailer park. I checked.”

  “How did you—”

  “He didn't,” Lucas says, calmly. “I did. Background checks are child's play when you know who I know.”

  Margot eyes him like she would a particularly dangerous snake, but says nothing, preferring to talk right over him as if he hadn't spoken.

  “Her financial problems aren't my problems,” she says.

  “They aren't? Why not? You two used to be like sisters.”

  “That's life. I married up, she didn't.”

  “You could have helped just one person, you know?” I say. “It's not like I'm asking you why you didn't start the Margot Laurel foundation and cure polio.”

  “She made her own bed, she can lie in it,” Margot snaps derisively.

  “Funny how it wasn't like that when you two lived together or you needed her to babysit.”

  “When did this turn into you haranguing me?” Margot hisses.

  I sigh. “Alright. Let's get to the point. I'm provided for. In six months, the money my father set aside for me is mine to spend as I see fit.”

  “So what,” she says.

  “It's enough to last a dozen lifetimes.”

  Her lip curls as if the word “enough” is deeply, morbidly offensive to her.

  “So we're done,” I say. “I'm going to school. Pursue my interests. Live a good life.”

  “I'm your mother,” she snaps.

  “Yeah, you are, but you can take care of yourself. It's what you're best at.”

  She narrows her eyes.

  “If you breathe one word about this—”

  “What, your schemes?” I say. “Worried you'll be cut off?”

  “That money is yours because your father forgot he put it aside. If I reminded him and put the right words in his ear about his lay about, embarrassing stepson…”

  “The right words,” Lucas says, sitting up. “Let's talk about the right words.”

  Margot gives him that look she always gives The Help.

  “Let's talk about the scorpions,” Lucas says, coldly.

  Margot shudders, as if a chill wind momentarily cut through the mid-morning heat haze.

  “I—”

  “You hired me to do a job. I did it. Bodyguard the kid. I body guarded him. I know what you did.”

  “I,” she starts, “I… I…”

  “Tell me you weren't planning what I think you were planning, Ma,” I say. “Tell me this wasn't because you're the named beneficiary on my trust.”

  “I swear it wasn't,” she says, hoarsely. “I never wanted to hurt you. Just delay the production to keep the money rolling in…I only needed a few million more to make it a nice even hundred, watch it grow…”

  “He could have been killed,” Lucas says.

  “I told him to use the ones that aren't dangerous,” she mutters.

  “The venom could cause a reaction with that many stings no matter what species it was,” Lucas says calmly. “Who did it?”

  “I have a few of the production assistants working for me. Slowing things down, fixing things if they're not shoddy enough.”

  “It ends now,” I say. “It's over. Nick is leaving. You shut the whole thing down or I go to Dad, and to the cops. You want to rob him blind? I don't care, trust me. I won't have you risking anyone else getting hurt.”

  “Go to him with what?” she says. “I covered my tracks.”

  Lucas sighs and takes out the recorder he'd pocketed earlier.

  “Nevada has a one-party consent in-person recording law. We have your confession on tape.”

  He stops it and plays it back.

  Margot's own voice comes back, shrilly.

  “I told him to use the ones that aren't dangerous.”

  “Does my voice sound like that?” she mutters.

  We both stare at her.

  “Fine,” she says. “I'll shut it down. Give me the tape.”

  “Nah,” I say. “Insurance. Besides, it's digital. There's no tape to give. Already in the cloud, Ma.”

  “You kids with your fucking cloud,” she mutters.

  Sandy walks out with a donut and an iced coffee. She sits next to Margot and takes a big bite, sinking her teeth into pink frosting and sprinkles.

  “These are orgasmic,” she says, “want one?”

  Margot looks at the donut like it might bite her.

  “We're done here,” I say. “Go home. Remember, my credit cards stop working, or there's any trouble with that trust fund, you're in deep, deep trouble.”

  “Right,” she mutters, grabbing her purse. “Goodbye.”

  “One more thing,” I say.

  She freezes.

  “What now?”

  I look at her levelly.

  “Explain the scorpions.”

  The color drains from her spray tanned face
.

  “Goodbye,” I say sadly.

  Margot walks through the Krispy Kreme and out of my life.

  Sandy looks over and wiggles the donut at me.

  “Seriously, want one?”

  Lucas sits beside me, anxiously fingering his phone.

  “Well?” I say.

  “So far, only one of my brothers has answered my friend request,” he says, “but it's a start.”

  When people say film premiere, they're usually talking about a glitzy gala affair. Red carpets, velvet ropes, designer dresses, the works. We have some of those. There is a red carpet, and I am dressed in a tuxedo. It was hard to find one that looks good on me. I'm not really a suit person.

  Lucas, on the other hand, fits a tuxedo like a hand fits a glove. Freshly shaven and groomed, he's the dapper secret agent of my dreams. As the car pulls up to the curb, he steps out and opens the door for me, always scanning my surroundings for threats.

  I told him to stop doing that, since he's not a bodyguard anymore. He doesn't listen.

  There's not much in the way of flashing lights, no press. This is more of a private event, before we take the film on the road to some festivals. Nick is working on a distribution deal for a theatrical release. The festivals will help with that.

  Nick and Sandy are waiting for us in the lobby of the theater. Nick is in a tux, and Sandy in a floor length, seafoam green gown that brings out her eyes. She carries herself with a stunning elegance, even when she rubs my arms and kisses me on the cheek.

  “Are you excited?” she says.

  “I am.”

  “Thrilled,” Lucas says, deadpan.

  Sandy jabs his chest with her fist.

  “I hope you're treating him right.”

  “He is,” I say.

  “What do you think?” Nick says, indicating the poster.

  It shows Jim the ex-stuntman (now in costume as the Star Prince) going sword-to claw with the Lobster Lord, surrounded by crew and a boom mike while part of the set burns in the background and their costar lies prostrate on the desert sand.

  Battle For the Star Prince: Or, Desperation in the Desert

  Directed by Nick Santangelo

  Written by Matt Laurel and Cassandra Pinelli

  That's my aunt Sandy. Sandy Pinelli. Sandy Pines.

  Turns out the story of our attempt to make my mom's movie is more interesting than Maury's script. He made out, though. We paid him a fee for the rights to his creation and he's shopping around a new script, an epic about a sexually frustrated pizza shop owner who copes with his divorce by turning to a life of crime.