Vanguard Security

by S. J. Bishop

  Mac’s grin widened, and Caz’s muscular throat worked to swallow. He took a sip of water and shrugged again. “You go after the wrong women, dude. Like, all the time.”

  I stared at Caz. What the hell was he talking about?

  “Bimbos,” Caz clarified.

  “Trust me,” I said sourly. “Yvette Delacroix is not a bimbo.”

  “Maybe not,” Caz shrugged. “But she’s a model, right? So what do you like about her?”

  I didn’t need to go pouring my heart out to an idiot like Cassidy Woods.

  “B,” said Mac. “That’s his point. You like her ‘cause she’s hot.”

  We were eating at Garcia’s Table in the South End. It was a local spot that served thirty dollar lunch entrees but had a damn good selection of on-tap beers. It was Mac who’d invited us both out for lunch. He’d wanted to throw some new business venture past us – and we’d both turned it down. It’s not that the prospect wasn’t an appealing one, but Mac’s a tough dude to get along with, and the idea of partnering with him for business… Thanks, but no thanks.

  “Fuck you both,” I said, leaning back and crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re telling me you don’t purposefully date women who are attractive?” I glared at Mac. “Do you even date women? I thought you just fucked them.”

  “I told you,” said Mac with his mouth full, waiving his fork at me. “He can dish it out, but he can’t take it. Bro: We don’t go out of our way to date ugly chicks, but models, man? Caz can tell you all about dating models.”

  “They’re crazy,” said Caz, shaking his head. “Here. Look.” He took the cloth napkin off of his lap and laid it across the table. Then he looked up at Mac. “Mcloughlin, you got a pen?”

  The fullback dug one out of his pocket and handed it over. Silver Sharpie. Who the fuck carries around a silver sharpie? I had to bite back a snide comment about autographs. Mcloughlin was lucky if someone even recognized him. He was a career Patriots player, but he wasn’t exactly franchise.

  “Look,” said Caz, drawing a line graph. Along the Y axis he wrote the word “hot,” and along the X axis he wrote the word “crazy.” He gestured to his graph, labeling hot and crazy between a 1 and a 10. Then he drew a diagonal line. “You don’t want to date anything below this…” He scribbled out the section of the graph that landed between 1 and 7 on the hotness scale. “And you don’t want to date anything above this…” He circled 7-10 on the crazy scale.

  “But models fit in right here,” he said, drawing a star where 10 on the hotness scale intersected 10 on the crazy scale. “That’s the way the world works, man. That’s science, bro, right there.”

  “That’s some pretty stupid science,” I said. “Did you graduate college?”

  Caz grinned. “Stanford, motherfucker.”

  “No, man, he’s right,” said Mac. “Listen to the man. Just look at Vic.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yah, well, there’s no scale in the world that can calculate Karissa Kruise’s crazy.” Vic Ferguson, one of our safeties, was dating Caz’s ex-girlfriend, a fiery and certifiably insane Venezuelan model. I reached over and wadded up the napkin. “And this moron dated her for two years. Not the best person to be getting advice from.”

  “Listen,” said Caz, holding his hands up in defense. “I’m trying to tell you…”

  “Mmm. Look at that ass,” Mac interrupted, staring over Burke’s shoulder toward the hostess’ stand. Both Caz and I turned to look.

  The woman leaning against the stand had her back to us. She was average height but wore expensive, skin-tight jeans that highlighted a pair of high, round, muscular cheeks. She wore heeled, black boots, and her hair was braided in a French braid. Even from behind, she looked familiar, and I tried to place her.

  “Damn. Look at that thing. What are the odds, boys, that she has a face to match?”

  “Slim,” murmured Caz, who’d looked back to his plate and was cutting another bite. “But you can keep dreaming…”

  As if the girl had heard us, she turned, giving us a glimpse of her profile. Naturally tanned skin; rounded, apple cheeks; and a straight, slightly upturned nose.

  “Wrong, Woods,” said Mac. “She looks pretty damn hot from here…”

  “Shit,” I said, getting up.

  “Where are you going?” asked Mac. “Dude, I’m not buying your lunch.”

  “Get you back,” I muttered, walking over to the hostess stand. The hostess had left, and the girl was now standing by herself, checking emails on her phone.

  “It’s Sarah, right?” I asked, smiling apologetically as she jumped, startled, and looked up at me. Honestly, if Mac hadn’t said anything, I might not have noticed her. I had been so keyed up the last time we met – but it was Sarah, Yvette’s assistance. And Mac was right, she was pretty. She wasn’t Yvette pretty, but she was really good looking. When she saw me, her eyes widened, and I saw that they were an interesting shade of brownish-green, with gold rings around the outside of them. “You’re Yvette’s assistant?” She was staring at me as if I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had the wrong girl?

  “Yah, I am. Hi,” she said, shaking her head and regaining her equilibrium. I get that reaction a lot, honestly. I’m a big dude, and I had startled her.

  “You having lunch?” I had half a mind to invite her over to our table. I wanted to know more about Yvette, and I also wanted to prove those other assholes wrong. If anyone could vouch for Yvette, it would be her assistant.

  “No, picking up. Busy day.” She wore a form-fitting, navy blue top and a black blazer that stopped at her waist, highlighting how lean it was. She was remarkably fit. I recalled that she had played a sport in college. I wondered how many years out of college she was. She still looked pretty young.

  “So, what’s the deal with your boss?”

  Sarah blinked. “Wow,” she said. “That’s really blunt.”

  I shrugged. Why beat around the bush? Yvette Delacroix had given me the write off, but I wasn’t willing to give up yet. I was willing to bet that Sarah whatever-her-name-was could help me. “Yah. So? What’s her deal?”

  “She’s really busy,” said Sarah.

  “We’re all really busy. And we all need to eat. She’s blown me off now, twice. I want to know why. Am I not her type?”

  Sarah looked around as if there might be someone to rescue her from the third degree. I should have felt guilty, but I didn’t. My sisters have always told me I’m like a dog with a bone, but I’ve found that you’ve gotta be persistent to get anywhere in life.

  “Come on. I’m a big boy,” I said, and for some reason, I don’t know why, I couldn’t resist flexing for her. I saw her eyes land on my bicep and watched her lick her lips. I smiled inwardly. Too easy.

  “I guess she’s just not that interested,” said Sarah, tilting her chin up so she could meet my eyes. Her expression was a bit hard to read. She had these thick, almost black, lashes that fluttered down to obscure her gaze. “And yah, you’re right. I don’t think you’re her type.”

  “Bullshit,” I said. “I’m everyone’s type.” It was true. I’d figured it out in college. Girls were attracted to the body and the face – just not the brain. If I gave them what they expected – hot, blond, and dumb – I found I could get anyone I wanted.

  The hostess, a plump young woman with dyed black hair, came back, carrying a cloth bag that clearly held several to-go containers. “Here you go,” she said, handing the bag over. Sarah reached up and took it, turning back to look at me as she backed up toward the door.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, flashing a nervous, apologetic grin. “I’ve got to get this to Yvette while it’s still hot. If it helps, she is really busy….” And before I could stop her, she turned around and left.

  Fuck. Of all the fucking useless bits of information. What was I supposed to do with that? I wasn’t Yvette’s type? What was her type? What did I need to do to gain her attention?

  “Dude, you know her?” asked Mac when I came back to the table. His e
yes were following Sarah as she passed by our window. “You have got to introduce me!”

  I don’t know why, but the thought of Mac and Sarah together made my stomach turn, so I shook my head. “No way,” I said. “She’s nice. I’m not hooking her up with a player like you.” Mac was loose as fuck. “Use ‘em and lose ‘em” was his motto.

  Mac frowned and opened his mouth, no doubt to rip into me, but Caz held a hand up.

  “Now that’s a girl you could date,” said Caz. “She was hot. And she wasn’t a model. How do you know her?”

  I rolled my eyes and sat down. “Cool it, both of you. She’s Yvette’s assistant. She’s nobody. I'mma finish my lunch. I’m done talking about this shit.” No offense to Sarah. She was pretty. But I was after bigger fish.

  The two subsided, Mac looking annoyed and Caz looking resigned. I didn’t care. Fuck them both. I wanted Yvette Delacroix, and I was going to have to up my game. I just had to figure out what my next move was.

  5

  Sarah

  I had a ton of things to do before the end of day tomorrow. I needed to solidify the booking with Givenchy. I needed to make sure we had first class tickets to Abu Dhabi for next week. I needed to make certain that the samples Vogue had sent for their upcoming cover made their way back to NYC…

  “À demain!” I called to Yvette. See you tomorrow. Yvette said something back, but it was muffled by the closed door of her apartment. I hit the elevator button and rode the elevator down to the lobby, thumbing through my texts and making sure I’d left everything in order. There was a text from Roz, checking in and letting me know that she’d be at her boyfriend’s tonight…

  The elevator doors dinged open, and I stepped out.

  “Have a good evening, Sarah!” called Phillipe from his position behind the front desk. I waved back, noting that Phillipe was in the midst of dealing with a customer. Whoa. Not a customer. Burke Tyler.

  Burke looked up when Phillipe called my name, and he smiled at me, waving a friendly hand. My heart fluttered a bit, and I waved one back, feeling nervous and excited at the same time. What was he doing here?

  Burke turned to say something else to Phillipe. The concierge nodded to him. Phillipe was not a small man, but Burke made him look tiny.

  “On your way home?” asked Burke as I passed the desk. We were both heading for the door. God, he looked great, like he’d just come from a business meeting. He wore crisp black pants and a soft, blue, button-up shirt with a black silk tie. The sides of his head had been freshly shaved, and his braided Mohawk glinted gold beneath the dim lights of the hall.

  “I was, yes. What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Dropping off a letter for your boss,” said Burke. “She’s not responding to texts, so I decided to go old school. Will that get her attention?”

  A letter? I shrugged. “Maybe.” Luis wrote her letters all the time. They came to the apartment sealed with red wax – like he was some medieval lord writing his lady. It made me slightly queasy, to be honest. Burke Tyler didn’t seem to me like the kind of guy who wrote letters. But what did I know? In just the two short conversations I’d had with Burke Tyler, he’d upended every single idea I’d had of who he was.

  “Maybe,” Burke repeated, frowning. “Is it, me, Sarah, or is Yvette an enigma?”

  “It’s not you,” I said, pushing open the door and exiting out into the chilly April evening. “It’s part of her appeal. I’ve worked with her for three years. Even I don’t get her.” It was true. She was inconsistent. I had no idea what motivated her. In her more petulant moments, she was impatient, crabby, and sullen. She seemed to thrive on drama and strove to create it. In her brilliant moments, she was focused, friendly, funny, and magnetic. She refused to tolerate fools, cut past all bullshit, and understood the bottom line. She had a great mind for marketing, and she was her own best product.

  “Hmmm,” Burke mused thoughtfully. He stopped and stared out across the street. While we were gradually coming out of the winter blackness, at 7 p.m., it was fully dark and the streetlights lit up Boston like stars floating in the night sky. God, I loved this city!

  “Have you had dinner yet?” he asked suddenly, turning to me.

  My stomach plummeted into my feet, and I swallowed. “No.” I shook my head.

  “Come back to my place,” said Burke suddenly. “I want to talk somewhere where people aren’t going to be taking pictures of us.”

  It wasn’t a request; it was a command, delivered with the confidence of a guy who knows you’re not going to say no. Ugh, why does that bullshit work? A part of me just melted, and my brain chose that moment to remind me of ESPN’s Body Issue: Burke Tyler, stark naked and chiseled, a football in front of his crotch. Eyes blazing and intense.

  “Is that a good idea?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  Burke looked at me as if I’d grown another head. “Sarah,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m not going to have my way with you on my kitchen table.” The graphic image that erupted before my eyes had me wet. I was in trouble.

  “I just want to pick your brain…” Burke continued. Why was it guys just wanted to pick my brain? Was there something wrong with my body? I ran. I did Pilates. Burke was still talking. “I want to know more about Yvette. I’ve got lobster in my fridge. I’ll fry it up with some buerre blanc and scalloped potatoes? Who says no to potatoes?” His smile would have melted an iceberg.

  “Okay,” I said, and I knew I sounded as dazzled as I felt.

  Burke had parked in a nearby parking garage and, as we walked to his car, I asked him why he was dressed up. Apparently, one of his sisters was in town for a medical conference, which had culminated in a fancy dinner, and she’d asked Burke to be her date.

  “Sister?” I asked.

  Burke frowned. “I have four of them,” he said. “This is one of the middle ones…”

  “And she’s a doctor?”

  “Cardiothoracic surgeon,” he said. He fished his keys out of his pocket and hit the unlock button. A sleek, black SUV blazed to life in front of us. I tried to figure out what kind of car it was, but I wasn’t good with cars. It looked expensive.

  Burke went to open the door for me, but I waved him off. “I’m not Yvette,” I said. “I can open my own doors.”

  Burke shrugged and hopped into the driver’s seat, turning the key into the ignition and allowing the car to roar to life.

  While he maneuvered the car out of the parking garage, I shot off a quick text to Roz, updating her on the latest turn of events. Not that I expected anything to happen between me and Burke Tyler. I took him at his word. He wanted to talk, and it was easier to do so in private. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to fantasize about all the things that might happen.

  Honestly, was Yvette insane? Who said no to someone like Burke Tyler? He was just so large, so raw, and so masculine. And dressed like he was – God, I wanted to rip his tie off of him, tie him to my headboard and have my way with him. I smiled at that. I didn’t think Burke Tyler was the type to let a woman have her way with him. He was probably all about control…

  “What’s got you grinning?” he asked, looking over.

  “Nothing,” I lied. “Where do you live?”

  I’d be dishonest if I said I calmed down on our ride to his place. In fact, I seemed to soak up every single detail, each one sending me into a continued state of excitement. Burke smelled incredible, and the car smelled like fresh leather, and I kept turning to look at the side of his face, so incredibly chiseled… Maybe I’d rewatched season four of Vikings just to see his cameo. He was like some sort of fantasy made reality: a Viking who’d stepped out of history and put on an expensive shirt and tie… I kept imagining what it might be like to take them off.

  Burke lived near Downtown Crossing in one of the gargantuan new high rises. His place was on the very top. “Bought it before they’d even started construction,” he said as we rode the elevator up.

  “You like penthou
ses?”

  “I like heights,” he explained. “Boston’s a neat city. There aren’t that many skyscrapers. Here, I’ll show you.” The elevator came to a halt, and Burke had to turn a key for the doors to open. When they did, I saw why. The elevator opened into his living room.

  “Wow,” I said. I don’t know what I’d been expecting. Maybe something like Andrew’s apartment, with leather furniture and framed posters of football heroes. But Burke Tyler’s apartment was sumptuous. Where Yvette liked raw-edged modern furniture, Burke’s home was built for comfort. The main room was enormous, an open-floor concept with iron beams and high ceilings. The kitchen sat alongside the right wall, with the room opening up into a grand living room with bookshelves and an entertainment system, and beyond all of it was a huge wall of windows.

  Burke didn’t give me much of a chance to look around. He strode toward the windows, and I followed in his wake. “There,” he said, pointing. “See?” There was a lot of light in Boston, but the moon was nearly full that evening and hung fat on the horizon, illuminating the black expanse of sea beneath. The Atlantic. He could see the Atlantic from this height. There were deeper spots of black, indicating the islands. I knew that in the daytime, this view must be spectacular.

  “There’s a balcony out of the bedroom, too,” he explained. “So you can catch the sunsets in the west.”

  “Amazing,” I said, meaning it.

  “I’m going to get dinner started. Feel free to poke around,” he said, leaving me to stroll into the kitchen. The counters were black and white granite, and the appliances were all chrome. Burke loosened his tie and unbuttoned a few buttons on his shirt, revealing his thick, muscular throat and a white undershirt. My mouth went dry.

  To distract myself, I turned my back on Burke and did as he’d said, exploring the living room and the formal dining room which sat just behind the wall of bookshelves. There were a ton of books on the shelves, and I investigated them. If you’ve seen Burke’s coffee commercials, or his Under Armour campaign, or any of his talk show appearances, you’d be shocked to discover that he read at all, let alone read books like Le Mort D’Arthur, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, or L’Etranger. He had a few old books of maps, too. In fact, the only book that seemed to have anything to do with football was a coffee table book that sat on a wide, glass table next to a pot of sprawling vanilla orchids. Oh. My. God. Someone had turned his ESPN body issue spread into a coffee table book.