At first I think it’s got to be some kind of guerrilla marketing tactic for an upcoming film, but the kid is screaming her head off and both Kenner and the guy with the gun look scared shitless. Next to them is a pretty woman in a beaded silver gown and an expression of horror and confusion. The people in the background scramble to get some distance except for a couple of security guys who are rooted to the spot, afraid to move.
Holy shit, this is real.
The two men shout at each other, and though I can’t hear them clearly over the screams and gasps, it’s obvious Kenner is negotiating for this child’s life. I start to think Theo called me over to watch some kid get murdered, which is just the kind of sick shit he’d feel compelled to share. Then out of nowhere, this massive bald dude emerges from the side of the frame and in a split second grabs the gunman’s arm and fucking breaks it in half. I mean, this dude’s arm is left dangling at a gross angle, then the big guy grabs the gun and knocks him off his feet. In maybe three seconds, the bad guy is on the ground screaming like a little bitch and the kid is in Kenner’s arms.
What the actual fuck have I just seen?
“Goddamn, what a badass,” Renee says, and I have to agree. Wow.
“Okay, you guys grab some donuts and get out there.”
Renee puts an Anna Nicole and a River Phoenix on napkin and heads out to the reception desk. Theo grabs four donuts, piling them on a a paper plate.
“You’re gonna watch it again, aren’t you?” he asks, grinning like a lottery winner.
He knows me too well. Theo and I have been close friends since we worked together at a previous shop, before I decided to go into business and started Chaos Ink. We were even roommates at one point, with our tiny two-bedroom apartment in Los Feliz. Theo’s more than a friend, we serve as confidants to each other and share almost everything that happens in our lives.
“Hell, yes, I’m gonna watch it again. But I own this place. You, on the other hand, need to get your station ready.”
Theo laughs and leaves with his donuts.
As soon as he’s gone, I re-cue the video and watch it five or six times in a row. I’m spellbound by this giant of a man, his moves so fluid and economical, not a motion wasted. How can any man be so confident when jerking a loaded pistol away from the head of a little girl? It’s mesmerizing. Logan Kenner is a tall movie star, probably six-two, and very well-built. Next to this other guy, though, he looks small. It’s like watching the Incredible Hulk, minus the green skin. When the camera zooms in on his face, I pause the video and stare. Not only does he not look scared, he doesn’t appear to be ruffled in the slightest. He’s just saved at least one life and maimed a man, yet he’s standing there in his black tux and bow tie, as if he were calmly walking the red carpet.
Who the hell is this James Bond on steroids?
I Google “Oscars Logan Kenner” and look for a link to a news article, finding several. I read them all and learn that the gunman is an unknown actor by the name of Rafer Harrison, who evidently had landed a small role in a big Kenner movie, only to be replaced at the last minute by a friend of Kenner’s. That kind of shit happens all the time in Hollywood, but Harrison took it very badly because he was nearly broke and apparently felt this would have solved all his problems. The guy was obviously at the end of his rope to try something so stupid, because there was no way a stunt like that could end without him going to jail, even if he never fires the gun.
The little girl was Kenner’s daughter, and the pretty black-haired woman is the head of Trident Studios. Nobody seems to know much of anything about the man-beast who came to the rescue. The only information the police released was that his name is Lincoln Ramirez and he was employed as personal security that night.
This guy is seriously hot, though. Not looks-wise, but something in his face really appeals to me. He’s not traditionally handsome, but I’ve never gone for that male model kind of guy anyway. Other than that, this man is a total mystery. But he’s a mystery that stays on my mind while I’m trying to work.
3
Link
The next morning I have a splitting headache. Since I only had three healthy tumblers of high-end bourbon at Jackie’s house, I chalk it up to stress. Sure, the two orgasms and the three full hours I spent in Jackie’s bed should have relaxed me, but the truth is that shit like what I went through at the Oscars really tweaks me mentally. In the moment, I’m calm and can process information rationally, swiftly calculating the best actions to take for a situation. But there’s always the chance that things will go south on me. One small slip-up on my part and Logan Kenner would be planning his daughter’s funeral, and I’d be the most hated man in America. It’s only after it’s over and I have time to think about it that I realize what a dangerous spot I was in.
Making my way downstairs to my kitchen naked, I get the coffee going, then crack open a cold Budweiser while I’m waiting. It’s almost noon. I’m not surprised, since I got home from Jackie’s at three and was so amped that it took me a couple of hours to fall asleep. Good thing I didn’t schedule any work for today. I check my phone and see a shitload of texts and voicemails, but I ignore all of them for now. Then I notice a text from Logan Kenner and open that one. He thanks me again, and insists I join his family for dinner soon.
Setting my phone aside, I remind myself to call Drake later. He was up for Best Actor for “Texas Flood,” but the award went to that guy who lost eighty pounds to play a cancer patient in that other movie. Drake will say he doesn’t care, but I know he was hoping.
After I finish my beer, I fill my coffee mug, then grab another bottle and head out to my back patio. I don’t have a mansion with a big pool like the other guys in the Bad Boys Club, but then again, I don’t have their money. Those dudes make millions every year. Drake will be worth a billion dollars one day, and Marcus won’t be far behind. Mason is only worth thirty million or so—for now.
I, on the other hand, make a decent living, pulling in a hundred grand a year for working three or four days a week. But that’s because I’m good at what I do. In a decade of security work, I’ve yet to have a single bad mishap. Having a couple of A-list celebrity friends doesn’t hurt, either.
The air is cool and crisp and I consider putting on some clothes, but it seems like a lot of trouble, so I just lay back on a lounge chair and think about the last twelve hours, ignoring the near-constant buzzing of my phone. I have a sneaky suspicion that this Oscars incident is going to be great for business. Free publicity like that is a rarity, where you draw attention merely by doing your job well around famous people and lots of news cameras.
When I finish my coffee, I open the other Budweiser. My headache is starting to clear, and the sun is warm on my face. Life is good. A little girl gets to go back to her posh Beverly Hills private school today because of me. And I’m Logan Kenner’s new best buddy, apparently.
I start to reminisce about fucking Jackie and just as my dick starts getting hard, my phone buzzes again. Glancing at the screen, I see it’s Mason, so I pick up.
“Dude, we need to talk. Now.” He’s way too excited for a Monday.
“What’s up?”
“What’s up? What’s up?! You’re a social media star, that’s what’s up. You’re all over the place.”
I laugh at his exuberance. “Like on the Internet and shit?”
“Yes, on the Internet. Facebook, YouTube, Instagram, Twitter—all of them. And every major TV news network as well. You had no idea this was going on?”
“Sorry, but I’ve been too busy thinking about how I saved a kid’s life last night. Besides, you know I don’t do that social media shit.”
“Yeah, congrats on saving Kenner’s daughter. Great job, seriously. Now back to your career… Link, we can use this as a springboard to something bigger. Just say the word and I’ll get working on it immediately. We can’t sit on this.”
I don’t respond because I’m thinking about whether I really want to be famous in any kind of way, e
ven if it means lots of money.
Mason grows impatient. “If you’ve ever had aspirations of being anything more than a bodyguard, now’s your chance.”
I hesitate another few seconds, then say, “All right, sure. Whatever. I trust you. Just don’t agree to anything until you’ve run it by me first.”
“Of course. You really should stop by my office this afternoon and talk to me and Claire about your options. This won’t wait.”
“I’ll try to make it,” I tell him.
“Don’t try. Get your big ass in here around four. We’ll get drinks afterward.”
“I said I’ll try.”
“See you then. And hey, one more thing… I assume Jackie was thrilled and wants to hire you again?”
“Yeah, she said something about a full-time position. But that was before we fucked.”
Silence.
Then Mason says, “Let me get this straight: You fucked the head of Trident Studios?”
“Three times, at her house. She said she wanted to repay me for the thing with Kenner’s daughter.”
“Jesus Christ, Link, that’s more amazing than you probably realize. If Jackie likes you enough to let you put your cock in her, she’ll definitely be up for putting in a good word with you at any studio or production company in town.”
“I suppose.”
“Trust me. Was she any good?” he asks.
“Yeah, she was all right. I’ve had better.”
“Maybe so, but you haven’t had richer or more influential. If she asks you again, don’t say no. In fact, keep fucking her as long as she keeps inviting you to.”
That’s not gonna happen. I have a rule against fucking clients, but I waived it for Jackie because last night was so fucking strange.
4
Raven
Theo bursts through the front door when he returns from lunch, a manic expression on his face. I’m working on a large back piece, a stupid tattoo of an image from an Iron Maiden album cover, of some kind of ghoul with a skeleton face and long stringy white hair. I would have never agreed to work on a piece this idiotic, but I relented because the back belongs to a friend of mine and I was unable to talk him out of it. Now I’ve got him face-down on my table, which is really an expensive tattooing chair that opens to make a decent-sized flat surface.
Theo heads right for my station.
“Raven, I have a brilliant idea.”
Theo has brilliant ideas every few days, most of them having to do with promoting the shop. Only a few are actually brilliant, but I listen to all of them because I don’t want to temper his enthusiasm. Plus, some of his previous ones have worked out pretty well.
“Let’s hear it,” I say, adding a sliver of green to the side of the ghoul’s profile.
“While I was eating, I found a news story that had the name of that badass guy in the video. Then I Googled it and uncovered another video, this one of him teaching some kind of self-defense class. Shirtless.”
So far, this isn’t shaping up to be brilliant.
“And?”
“And he’s tatted up like crazy. Both sleeves, and most of his chest and back. The dude has some serious ink.”
“I still don’t hear an idea in this, Theo.” His flair for the dramatic always gets in the way of his point.
“So, we publicly offer him free ink. Tattoos for life, or something like that. He probably won’t accept, but even if he does, all it costs us is time and materials. But if we jump on this now, while the story is still hot, news reports will tack that on to the end of the story. You know, ‘…and already offers of gratitude are pouring in to Mr. Ramirez.’ That’s his name. ‘Local tattoo shop Chaos Ink has agreed to give him free tattoos for the rest of his life.’ See?”
I’ll be damned. It’s not bad at all. I mull it over for a few seconds while he waits expectantly. The idea doesn’t have much shelf life if this Ramirez guy declines or ignores the offer, but if he accepts, we can get it back in the news whenever he comes in for his first piece with us.
“But then we’re on the hook for who knows how many free tattoos.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Theo replies. “He doesn’t have much open real estate left. There’s only so much space on a human body, even one that big, and probably half of his is already inked.”
Theo beams with pride. That’s a solid point he made, though.
“I really can’t see a downside to this,” I say with surprise.
“It’s fucking ingenious,” says my friend, lying on his stomach.
Theo is all grins. “And we can get Kammy to help.” Theo’s ex-girlfriend is a media savant who can tell us how to get this offer publicized.
I have to admit, the idea is inspired. “Okay, let’s do it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
I tell myself it’s a chance at lots of nearly-free publicity. That may be true, but part of me knows it’s also a chance for me to meet this guy in person.
For the rest of the afternoon, my mind keeps drifting back to that Ramirez guy, and when I take a break later, I re-watch that video several more times. The way this Lincoln Ramirez guy breaks Harrison’s arm with a single quick punch is jaw-dropping, even if it makes me flinch reflexively every time I see it. I can’t help but wonder about the muscles hidden under that tuxedo. I quickly Google his name and look for the other video that Theo mentioned, eagerly clicking on the link.
And there he is, shirtless as he goes through some self-defense moves in front of a half-dozen women, every single one of whom seems to be mesmerized by that huge body. I can understand, because I feel the same way myself. He’s simply massive, with giant muscles on every exposed surface except his face and fingers. Every technique he demonstrates causes movement somewhere in his back, chest or arms, with muscles shifting sexily just under the surface of his skin.
And that skin! The guy has ink all over, with major pieces on his chest and back—a dragon in front and a winged woman in the back, seemingly unfazed by the fact that she’s surrounded by demons. A tribal tattoo flows from his right shoulder down his arm, and the other arm has at least a dozen smaller tattoos all over it. It’s impressive work, at least most of it. A few of the tattoos are old and shitty, and I can see where other old ones have been covered with newer, better ones. Every one of them is done in black and gray, and he looks totally badass.
Lincoln Ramirez is the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a real-life superhero.
As I head back to my station a few minutes later, I realize that Ramirez had served as the perfect distraction to keep me from thinking about my ex all day.
Ricky who?
5
Link
The meeting with Mason and Claire is a lot of hot air about nothing of any real interest to me. Claire wants to set me up with their agency’s “social media coordinator” so they can “build my brand.”
I told them I’m “not really interested.”
They both think I’m being unreasonable, but so far Mason has ignored me long enough to line up a guest spot on a local LA morning TV show. I don’t like talking to people I don’t know, and I don’t have much to say about the Oscars incident, so what’s the fucking point?
We talk for about an hour and they try to get me excited about the possibilities, but the truth is that if this Oscars thing can lead to more personal bodyguard work and better pay, that’s enough for me. More pussy’s good, too, but I never seem to have much problem with that anyway. I get laid a lot for someone as butt-ugly as I am.
After the meeting, we all go to Gordon’s, the famous steak place, where we meet up with Drake and Allie, and Marcus and his girlfriend, Rashida. These chicks are pretty cool and we get along well enough, but damn, I miss the times these three guys and I would get drunk and see who could take the hottest girl home. Drake always won, of course, but it’s not fair because he’s a fucking movie star. Same with Marcus being a star jock. The real contest was between Mason’s handsome looks and my gigantic muscles.
In a c
ouple of hours, we’ve finished eating and our little private corner of the restaurant is getting louder because all of us have had a bit to drink. I thought the conversation would eventually drift away from what happened yesterday, but they keep going back to me saving Logan Kenner’s kid.
“Face it, dude, you’re a hero,” Mason says, right before his phone rings and he excuses himself to take the call.
“Link, do you realize that every woman who saw that in the news is madly in love with you now?” Allie asks.
Rashida backs up Allie. “That’s right, and I’ll bet they all want to have sex with you.”
Drake says with a straight face, “I know I sure do,” and everyone busts out laughing.
Marcus chimes in, “Man, it’s your civic duty to intercourse as many of those women as possible.”
Rashida looks at him like he’s crazy. “To intercourse them? Seriously, Marcus? What the hell is wrong with you?”
We all laugh again, even louder this time.
Mason returns with a big grin on his face.
“I just got off the phone with Mark Bennett, whose production company is behind ‘Fast Food Chefs’ and ‘Housewife Battle.’ He wants to meet with Link about hosting a reality show about personal bodyguards.”
What the hell? Everyone is stunned for a second, then they all applaud me.
“They want to call it ‘Security God.’”
I roll my eyes. I don’t want to be in a reality show with a fucking pun for a name. Or any other kind of reality show, for that matter.
When we walk out a while later, Mason follows me to my Escalade.
“The money’s pretty good, Link,” he says. “Half a million guaranteed for the first season. If they renew, I can probably get you three times that for the next.”
Hollywood Bad Boys Club, Book 4: Link Page 3
