Alpha Bodyguard

by Luke Steel

  “See you at dinner,” she calls over her shoulder. “Thanks for the physical therapy!”

  After a succulent tenderloin dinner, I talk to the head security guy for twenty minutes before joining a small crowd gathered among the leather couches and overstuffed chairs of the main parlor. The cast and crew sip drinks and murmur in friendly clusters. Sally surprised everyone by appearing at dinner and sticking around after. However, no one seemed surprised when she sank into a wingback close to the fire with a whiskey and a book from a nearby shelf.

  After a glance around the room, I choose a carved wooden chair that faces both the door and Sally.

  Jeff, the stunt coordinator, sits near me and strikes up a conversation on self-defense techniques. A few other people gather, including a couple stylists, a blonde with a minor role, and a gaffer.

  “I’ve trained in a lot of styles, and Krav Maga is the best hand to hand option, in my opinion,” Jeff says. “What do you favor?”

  “Whatever gets the job done.” A few people laugh, but Jeff’s mouth pulls down.

  “Seriously, though. What’s your background?” He sits back in his chair, but I don’t miss the challenge in his voice. Pro fighters never can resist waving their dicks around. His kind are nothing new for guys like me, and refusing to compare notes is the best way of dealing with them.

  “Nothing on your level, a little brawling in my younger days and time in the service.” By which I mean a martial arts training program for poor kids since I was five, a couple years dominating the UK amateur circuits, and my share of brutal Special Forces ops. “But I’ve enough experience to be confident I can take care of my clients.”

  “Is it really that dangerous?” a crew member named Jada asks. “Or do you get a lot of paranoid people?” She flips her purple and blue streaked hair over her shoulder and leans forward.

  Unlike the gritty, realistic makeup looks she creates on set, her personal style seems geared toward a nineteen eighties music video. I’m late to respond, distracted by the wall of glitter over her eyes.

  “No wait—who’s the worst client you’ve had?” Nathan, a slim guy carefully managed curls, puts his hand on my bicep. “Feel free to be specific.”

  “You know I can’t answer that.”

  He shrugs one shoulder and winks. “Never hurts to ask.”

  “Have you ever been shot?” Jada tries again.

  “Yeah,” I admit, watching the faces around me for micro expressions that don’t belong. “I took a bullet for a client once. Fellow’s in jail now, though, so I got the last laugh.”

  Jada, who was standing by my chair, sits on the arm and leans close. She’s got the hallmarks of someone turned on by violence. But even as Jada presses her breast against my shoulder, I’m thinking about Sally in ways I shouldn’t. Staring down at her book, her face golden in the reflected glow, she sips her whiskey and runs her tongue over her top lip. That’s where I’d start, and then I’d want to taste the rest of her.

  Dammit. I don’t want to lose my professional reputation for this woman, but Sally has flipped the script since the first time I saw her on the track. I couldn’t care less about Jada’s thing for tough guys. I angle my shoulders away from the stylist’s obvious invitation, and she stands with a huff, announcing she’s going to bed. The others filter away, until I’m left with my beer, a few blossoming on-set couples, and my principal.

  Sally finally stretches in the chair and wanders over to replace the book on the shelf. She glances around toward my chair, but I’m already standing a few feet behind her, assuming she’s heading upstairs.

  “Hello there, shadow,” she says with a grin. “You are super sneaky.”

  “Part of the job,” I reply.

  She starts toward the stairs. “How did you know I was ready to go? I could have been getting another drink.”

  “Nah, you had the look.”

  “Of a woman ready for bed?”

  “Of someone worn out by a hard day’s work,” I say gently.

  She rests her hand on the stair rail and tips her chin up. I hold a breath and let it out slowly for control because she looks like she wants to be kissed, and I’m dying to help her out. She giggles and gives a little sigh. It’s not a sloppy drunk sound—more like tipsy. Just the right amount of tipsy to feel tingly and more in control than you are.

  “You’re not wrong there.” Her limbs seem heavy, probably the aftermath of today’s shoot. As she nears the last step, her foot slips on the edge. She grabs at the handrail, and I slip my arm around her waist. The way she settles into me almost makes me groan, she feels so good. Her shirt rides up, and my thumb grazes bare skin, just over her hip. I can’t resist a little swipe over her soft skin that she’ll never notice.

  I reluctantly let my arm drop at her door.

  “Mind if I use the bathroom first?” she asks.

  “Take your time,” I say. “I’m a night owl anyway.”

  When her door closes, I spin on my heel to retreat to my room. Out the window, a few crew members straggle back to the guest cottages, cell phones lighting the way. The shower turns on in the bathroom. I strip off my jacket and tie, hang them up, and stretch out on the bed with the small volume of Yeats. Reading something that reminds me of my mother seems like a good idea.

  The shower turns off and I decide to wait a few extra minutes to avoid another accidental encounter.

  “Quinn!” Two quick taps on the bathroom door accompany Sally’s low call.

  I cover the distance in two strides and open the door. A curl of steam rolls out, carrying the scent of lavender. An only slightly apologetic looking Sally holds up an open jar of some kind of cream. She’s wearing a thin cotton tank held up by strings and a pair of cutoff sweatpants, and it might be the sexiest outfit I’ve ever seen.

  “Would you mind putting this on my back? I’ve got some sore spots from the lake scene, and this stuff really helps.”

  I take the short, squat jar from her, and she presents her back to me.

  “I wouldn’t normally ask,” she says, her head half turned. “But I mean, you’re here, and this will give you something to do at least. I’m pretty boring, so you won’t get a lot of excitement on this job.”

  If only she knew.

  After considering the task, I set the jar on the vanity counter and sweep her wavy hair up off her neck with one hand. A few strands at the base of her neck cling to the damp skin. The tank top bares most of her upper back, and I lick my lips. My eyes cut to the mirror, where the fog has cleared in the middle. She’s looking down, waiting patiently.

  I scoop a dollop of the herbal-smelling stuff and locate the faint purple of a bruise over her shoulder blade. She sucks in air when the cool cream touches her warm skin, but relaxes as I smooth my palm over her shoulder blade. My fingers slide under the strap and along the edge of her shirt, just inside the fabric. I dip into the jar again and trace the line of her shoulders before trailing into the shallow valley along her spine.

  My balls tighten. Her breathing quickens almost imperceptibly. The herby salve mingles with a sweeter scent. Something earthier. More feminine. I’m fighting to keep my own breathing steady, but the slickness of the cream, the heat of her skin, and the curve of her neck threaten my control. And then she steps back until her tight runner’s ass brushes against the hard-on that’s getting really difficult to hide. Does she feel the erection swelling in my pants?

  Does she want to?

  Her hips begin to sway as she shifts her weight from side to side, almost dancing against me. Could be the alcohol. Might be something else. Only force of habit keeps me still. My thighs scream with the urge to swivel against her. To make sure she feels how hard I am.

  I close my eyes as my palm rubs circles over the middle of her back. Then I reach for more cream and check the mirror again. Her eyes are open this time, watching me. Her reflection sports a long, thin smudge from her collarbone to the ridge of her shoulder. I start at her neck, the place where tendons flex just unde
r the skin, and inch lower. My fingertips glide along her collarbone. Lower. Her lips part, so slightly you might miss it if you weren’t looking.

  In the mirror, I watch her nipples harden under the clingy fabric. My dick swells and presses further against her ass. Her eyes hold mine. We both know I see her body’s reaction, and that she feels mine, but she doesn’t break contact with my gaze in the mirror. Aching desire builds in my balls and radiates outward.

  It might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done to step back and look away. This woman’s going to be a star one day, and I don’t want to tank my career for something as fleeting as moonlight. Be a professional, man. Her hair fans over her back as I release the dark waves.

  “I think I’ve covered them all.” I hand her the jar. “Good night, Sally. See you in the morning.”

  Her eyes crease ever so slightly at the corners, but her face is a placid mask.

  “Thanks, Quinn. Good night.”

  3

  Sunday dawns sunny and mild after several days of the same. Yesterday Sally stayed in, but I’ve got a hunch about today. I’ve been awake for an hour by the time I hear Sally in the bathroom. Not sure what she’ll choose to do today, so I opt for dark jeans and a slim fitting polo shirt, casual attire that fits multiple environments. I head down for breakfast without her after a few minutes. Don’t want her to slip out without me, but I’m not eager for an awkward hallway meeting either. Cast and crew filter in and out of the room, some opting for food and others for portable breakfast from the table set up in the corner.

  After fifteen minutes, I’m on my second cup of coffee when Sally breezes into the room wearing a red and white halter sundress and strappy flat-heeled sandals. She goes to the craft service table on the far wall, grabs a banana and pours black coffee, and then scans the room as she sips. Her eyes stop on me, and I raise my paper cup in salute. She pauses. Then she flips her hair off one shoulder and walks around the table to pull out the chair beside me. She peels the banana.

  “So I’m headed into town for a bit, just some errands to run. Completely mundane, so there’s no need for you to come. I’ll be back in like a couple of hours.” Her face is mostly clean of makeup, giving her a fresh, relaxed look. She leans back in the seat and peels the banana.

  “Nice try, but that’s pretty much the definition of my job. I thought you weren’t going to fight this?”

  “But it’s Sunday. We don’t have to work, so why should you? Take at least part of the day off.”

  “Sorry, not the way it works. I’m going to need to go with you.”

  Her lips tighten as she chews, and her shoulders tense subtly. She widens her eyes, the expression in them at odds with the defensive posture. “I’ve really been looking forward to a little time for myself.” She laughs. “Just let me breathe a little bit. Besides, evil deeds are done at night, not ten AM on Sunday morning.”

  “I won’t get in your way, promise. Being inconspicuous is also part of the job description. You’ll barely know I’m there most of the time.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re the biggest distraction around.” She bites off another mouthful of banana. “In more ways than one,” she mumbles in a low voice.

  I want to replay that, see if I heard what I thought, but she’s up, the dress twitching over her ass as she sashays toward the door. What other ways does Sally relax on the weekends? Maybe she had something planned that didn’t involve a watchdog.

  On the ride to town, Sally plays the Alabama Shakes and turns the volume up. We don’t speak, and I watch the road so I know where I am. At the grocery store and pharmacy, I wait a full ten seconds after we exit the car before following, to give her as much space as possible. She bustles down the aisles without loitering, picking up items as if checking off a list. The final stop is a bookstore housed in an old Victorian-style house. Two floors of cramped rooms, twisty hallways, and breathless readers there for a signing with some obviously well-known author. It’s a nightmare.

  Sally lingers at a display of books with dark covers featuring spunky heroines, usually carrying a weapon and backlit by a colorful mist. It’s easier to pretend to browse here, but the crowd has me on edge. I hover by the mystery section as she threads through the bodies to another room. Even though she’s relatively unknown and the Tahoe area gets plenty of famous visitors, people still watch her pass. Looks like I’m not the only one who sees something compelling in her. A bald guy with a gray goatee stares after her, then squeezes between a trio of teenage girls as if in Sally’s thrall. Fucker.

  Through two more rooms, I tail her red dress. She finally stops long enough for me to catch up at a shelf of historical romances, the kind my mum would call “bodice-rippers.” Gray Goatee disappeared, but I’m still fuming. I tap Sally on the shoulder, and she winces. Shit, her bruises.

  She whirls, The Problem with Princes held in front of her defensively.

  “Can you give me a break here?” I cross my arms. “Sally, I am not your enemy. You don’t have to make it hard for me to do my job.”

  She lowers the book and sighs. “I’m actually really sorry. I didn’t mean to skip out, I just got excited. It’s been intense on set—I don't know if Ronette told you, but everyone seems to think I’m make or break for the film, and the film’s make or break for me. I’ve been looking forward to downtime away from that creepy house all week.”

  “It’s not a problem mostly. I just can’t keep tabs on you very well here. Please go ahead and finish picking out a book. Just maybe browse a little slower.”

  “You know, I think I can do better than that.” She sets the book back on the table. “Let me buy you a drink.”

  Empty handed, she shoulders through the browsing readers and heads off like she knows where we’re going once outside. At the end of the block, we stop in front of a nondescript building with curtained front windows and a sign over the door that reads “Billy’s.” The place almost appears to be carved from a single giant tree. The ceiling, walls, and floor are all the same reddish-hued wood as the booths. A lone drunk slumps at a front table, staring at his drink. Sally heads straight for a stool at the far end of the L-shaped bar. This side ends against the back wall, which is papered with flyers promoting years-past music festivals. She hops onto the seat, and I settle on the one on her left so my bulk is between her and the entrance. In front of us, a wide mirror spans the length of the bar.

  The lanky bartender sets out two napkins and two tumblers of amber-colored liquid on the rocks.

  “First one’s on me,” he says.

  “Thanks, Billy,” she says, “but you don’t have to.”

  He looks at me. “This one found my dog at the park, called the number on her tag, and drove her to us. My wife nearly cried. We’d been looking for that dog for two days. I promised her anytime you came in, you get a drink on the house.”

  She smiles and raises her glass. “Well if you promised your wife, who am I to argue?.”

  “All right, then. Bottoms up, kids.” He slaps the bar and winks.

  Sally flashes a pure, joyful smile I haven’t even seen yet. That smile isn’t even directed at me, but its reflected glory is enough to steal my breath. She was beautiful before, but when she smiles like that—a word won’t do it justice. I fancifully think it’s a reflection of her somehow, a little gleam of a pure soul seeping through the carefully crafted mask of an actress. I make a note to put Yeats away for the rest of this job. His influence will wreck me on romantic notions I can’t afford.

  She touches her glass to mine, and we dutifully upend them until the last drops slide off the ice. It’s sweet going down, but as I set the glass on the bar, I give a little shudder.

  “What’s in that thing?” I ask. “It tastes like candy and hits like Mike Tyson.”

  Billy, who was watching us expectantly, grins like the Cheshire cat. “My own concoction. Little of this, little of that. I haven’t named it yet, but was thinking of calling it a Tahoe Tickler.”

  Sally cuts loose with a c
huckle-snort that she covers with a palm.

  “I don’t know, mate. Might keep working on the name, but the drink’s a beauty.”

  Billy grumbles a bit and gives us another Tahoe Tickler at my request before leaving us to go poke at a cell phone by the register.

  Sally takes a sip and licks her lips, and just like that all my hilarity evaporates. She dips her head to the side and says, “Tell me a story, Quinn. You wet blanketed my book trip, so you owe me a story.”

  The drink warms me from the inside, and I feel reckless. “Here’s a laugh. My last gig was a footballer—soccer player—in England. He’s at the top of his game and needed protection.” I stop myself short of telling her his name. I can hold my liquor, but I’ve been sober as a parson on the job lately. The second drink is fizzing under my skin, and I know I need to be careful to stay professional.

  “So—is this a story about gambling? Fixed matches and collection goons?” The corners of her lips quiver with mirth.

  “Better yet, it’s a story of unrequited love gone sour.” She makes a soft pffff noise. “See, now that Beckham’s older and a family man, this bloke’s the one ladies are mad about. The whole team got freaked out by a lady who kept showing up where she shouldn’t, writing letters making claims about the paternity of her children.”

  “What happened? Did she hurt anyone? Did they arrest her?”

  “Nah, I caught her trying to sneak into practice with a bag full of unwashed knickers, planning to chuck them at my client. I said I’d tell her husband and mum about it, and we didn’t hear from her again.”

  She lights up with laughter, and I appreciate the way the heady drinks have brought out a faint flush on her cheeks. Her gestures are bigger and her smiles more frequent.

  “So this film is a big deal, I hear. What’s the gist of it?”

  She tucks her hair behind her ear and spins her glass. “It’s an action thriller, obviously. I’m a street-smart grifter type who’s recruited by the government and put through some high- level brainwashing and badass training school and sent out to engage in global intrigue. Kind of a Jason Bourne or La Femme Nikita vibe. You think these bruises are bad, I had weeks of full-time training before the shoot even started. Advanced parkour techniques, street fighting, whatever. I was purple all over for a month.” She downs the rest of the absurdly delicious drink and signals Billy for another. “Anyway, they see this as at least a trilogy, and it hinges on audiences liking me. So no pressure. But if it takes off, then I get the chance to make the films I really want to down the road.”