BODYGUARD - Part One (The BODYGUARD Series, Book 1)
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Authors: Erika Wyld
BODYGUARD - PART ONE
By Erika Wyld
the BODYGUARD TRILOGY
Copyright © 2015 Erika Wyld
Published by Swordworks Books
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
"This chick’s heading straight for my bed. We’re getting out here.”
I think my ears deceive me. I know Chester has a reputation, but not like this. I’m doing my best to focus my woolly brain, but it's not easy. I shouldn't have swallowed that last glass of wine. Nor the five glasses before that.
He’s pulling my arm, and it hurts. He snarls at the cab driver, "Gimme a hand. The stupid bitch has almost passed out."
I try to scream, to shout, but nothing comes out. I am mute, unable to speak, and it is not like me. Instead, I hold my arms around my body, as if I'm in danger of an attack from a wild animal. Which is not far from the truth. I know I put back a few drinks, but I’ve never felt like this. Did someone spike my drink?
"They told me to take her home, Sir."
The driver's voice is a pleasant, low rumble. I remember him helping me into the cab. That was outside the gym where I work, after one of those corporate events. Team bonding, dopey stuff like that. I work the juice bar, and tonight they were Wall Street traders, smug corporate types. The kind who mix a lot of alcohol in their juice; I guess they think it's healthy. I should have known better when they pressed those drinks on me.
Pineapple, coconut milk, and vodka, yum! I think the last one was all vodka. The boss said he'd get us home, but Chester has other ideas. He’s a fitness coach at the gym. The guy thinks he’s a stud, but he grosses me out. He’s one of those guys who look like they're gonna have a slimy grip when they shake your hand. In fact his grip is slimy. It is not an illusion. Nor is it nice.
I hear his angry voice. "Pal, I call the shots. You're the hired help, so help me get her out of the car. She’s coming home with me!"
The cab door opens, and I watch the driver emerge. I open the window to clear my head, and he looks down at me. Through the ball of mush that is my brain, I register his face, and it fits with the rumble of his voice. Strong, reassuring. He's a real looker. I find it weird. I thought all cab drivers had stubbled chins, thinning hair, and a world-weary gaze. Not this one. His eyes stare at me like twin lasers.
"Ma'am, do you want me to take you to your home address? Or do you want me to leave you here?”
I giggle. I can't help it. He called me Ma'am, like some old lady. I'm twenty-two years of age, all high heels, miniskirts, and attitude. I live hard and play hard. No, that's not true. I'd like to live hard, although it doesn't often work, almost never, in fact. Most often, I come across idiots like Chester Blythe. Jerks. I unwrap my arms from my body and rub my face to help me think. It's hard. I’m sure they laced my drink. I don’t recall feeling like this.
"I wanna..."
I know what I want, to go home, but the words don't come out. I feel a hand grab my wrist from the other side of the cab, and Chester is pulling me toward him. The driver gives him a hard stare, and he releases me.
"Ma'am, do you want to go with him?"
No, I do not want to go with Captain Creepo. Not now, not ever, but the words won't come. I raise my free hand to the door handle for support, and it brushes the cab driver's hand. It is not a damp or slimy hand. It is dry and strong. I want that hand to touch me. All over. I know I'm a mess, and I wish I looked better. I’d like to impress him, and I don’t care he’s a cab driver. I push the hair from my face. Oh, no, I must have smudged my makeup, so I let my hair drop back to hide the damage.
I shake my head. "N-n-no."
I can see his badge, and his name is Jamie O'Brien. I want cute Jamie to take me home. I want him to hit on me. I won't say no. He's way too good looking for a cab driver. Dark wavy hair, dark brown eyes, and the kind of strong face you sometimes see staring at you from the glossy magazines. Why is he driving a cab?
He's talking to Chester, who has once again grabbed my wrist. His voice is flat and hard. “The lady wants to go home. Please release her wrist, Sir. You're hurting her."
"No way. She’s coming with me."
I hear a grunt of pain. Through the mist swirling in front of my eyes I see Chester's arm is bent at an unnatural angle. He won't let go, and I'm twisted across the back seat. I smooth down my skirt. It’s rucked up and displaying my Victoria's Secret panties. The shout becomes a scream, and my wrist is free. Chester has fallen backward to the sidewalk. It's raining, and it’s just bad luck he fell into a pool of muddy water.
Jamie O’Brien walks around and closes the door, then returns to the driver's seat. "I'll take you home, Ma'am. They gave me the address, so you can relax. We'll be there in a few minutes."
I giggle again at hearing him call me Ma'am, and then I lay back against the seat as a delicious, warm feeling comes over me. I am safe, and my white knight is driving me home. I wish it were more. I don't run across guys like him often. Like, never. Ma'am! I giggle again, and this time it is the last time. A dark blanket descends over me.
I am in a fog. Like back home in Portland, Maine, when the gray mists come rolling in off the Atlantic. Dark, hard to penetrate. I doubt I’ll ever see the place again, and that’s the way I want it. During my upbringing, solitude was a large part of my life. That’s what they call it. Solitude. I call it being lonely.
My mind wanders, and I feel scared. I'm a little girl, pushing my dolls stroller through the high street. Dense fog rolls in, and I'm lost. I shout for help, but no one comes. It's cold, and there are goose pimples on my skin. I check to make certain my coat is buttoned up tight. I'm not wearing a coat! I touch my skin, and discover I'm not wearing anything at all. I'm naked!
My eyes flick open, and he's there, staring down at me. The cab driver, I remember now his name is Jamie.
"What happened?" I croak.
He smiles, and some of my fear vanishes. He doesn't look like a pervert about to ravish my body. He's a hunk. Does that mean he has the go ahead to ravish my body? For him, I think I could make an exception.
His voice is that same gentle, low murmur I remember from when he dealt with Chester. "You were ill, and you vomited. I had to take your clothes off, and I called a friend of mine to lend a hand. She picked up your stuff and took it away for laundering. I put you to bed and stayed. I wanted to be sure you were okay."
Deep down, I'm squirming with more emotions than I can count. Emotion number one is shame. Number two is infinitely more pleasant, the knowledge he's seen me nude. That he touched my skin. I should feel more embarrassed, but my emotions are something else. Between my legs, I feel a growing, moist warmth. I give him a long, searching look. He raises an eyebrow and chuckles.
I don’t get it. Is he laughing at me? "What?"
His grin widens. "You look like you're checking me out."
"So? You’re a stranger, and you undressed me." I wave my hand at my body under the blanket, "Maybe I should call the cops. I reckon I need a bodyguard.”
I'm teasing him, and he knows it. He glances at the blanket, and I can see him wondering. It's a Navajo weave, made by a friend of mine. Maybe she thought it would bring me good Indian magic. On the other hand, my apartment isn't that warm. I guess she thought I'd need it to stay alive in the deep winter. The pattern is not easy on the eye. To say the design is vivid is like calling a hurricane a light breeze. However, she's a good friend.
"I could help you there."
"You're a cop? Last night you were a cab driver."
"Last night I was moonlighting. But I'm not a cop."
"I didn't think so." He’s way too handsome to be a cop; eating doughnuts all day, long, big belly stretching the buttons on his shirtfront, zits. That’s not him. "So what are you?"
"What you want."
I'm startled, and I look at him again. How could he know that deep down I want him to fuck me? It’s true. I need a man, preferably one like him. I don't mind admitting I haven't been the life and soul of the party lately. Truth is, I don't get invited to many parties.
"How do you know what I want?"
"You said you need a bodyguard."
"And?" I arch my eyebrows, trying to make the word meaningful. Then I catch my reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. My mascara has run, and I look like an extra from a zombie movie. Dress me in Versace and Vera Wang, and I'd still look comical. I lower my eyebrows. Maybe he won’t notice.
"What would you know about bodyguards?"
There's that boyish grin again. He runs a hand through his tousled hair. He hasn't shaved, and he’s sexy as hell with that dark hair and five o’clock shadow.
"I’m a professional bodyguard. It’s my job. Listen, is there someone I can call to keep you company? If there isn't, I can stay with you."
I'm tempted to say there isn't anyone, because I'd like him to throw off his clothes and climb under the sheets with me. He's dreamy, a handsome, rugged face, and that lustrous, dark hair. Under his shirt, I know he’ll have a six-pack to die for. I ache to touch him. Everywhere. To fuck him. I wish.
"I have a friend, Emily Blake," I hear myself telling him. Honest Tiffany, that's me. I've got a shot at a real hunk, and I’m giving him an excuse to leave, "She runs the nail and beauty concession at the gym. Sometimes she does private work. You know, celebs, people like that. She was working late last night, a fashion shoot, I think. She won’t be in work this morning, so I can call her.
He murmurs, "I know Emily."
I've almost got this guy into bed and worked out what I plan to do with him. Until he says those three little words, 'I know Emily.'
"You dating her?"
A pause. "No."
There's more. I know there's more, but I drop it. He hurries to explain. "We were on the same job."
I wonder about this 'job.' It sounds like this guy may keep a harem.
He senses my confusion. "I see Emily at the occasional celebrity event when I'm on duty. Nice girl."
"What kind of event?"
"Last time it was a photographic shoot. Publicity photos, fashion, that kind of thing."
I know, all skinny models and grinning celebs. Pretty girls dressed and made up to kill. Emily is into that, fashion, makeup. Nails, of course. I want to blurt out, ‘they're not as nice as me, Mr. Handsome Bodyguard.’ Okay, so I run a juice bar, I’m no celeb, but I'm good at what I do. Besides, some people tell me I'm pretty, so who am I to argue?
The blanket has slipped down. He's staring at my right nipple, which has popped into view. I say, "Oh," and cover myself. Like I'm embarrassed. Embarrassed, hell! Something sweeps over me when I see the direction of his gaze. I felt cold at first, but now my body is warming up. I want to share it with him, every bit of it.
His face flushes as he averts his eyes.
"Tiffany, you were pretty sick last night. How about I stay until you've recovered. I mean, your friend Emily, she’s not here, and I am.”
I like the way he says my name. His voice is husky, and it's like he's using it to stroke me in the exact place I want him to stroke me. I decide not to sound too eager.
"Shouldn’t you get home? Someone will miss you."
Subtle Tiffany Durham, as subtle as a buffalo in a lingerie store.
"There’s no one to miss me."
"Oh,” I give him a friendly grin, “In that case I'd like you to stay."
"Okay, but why don’t you have a shower? You’ll feel much better."
"I think I will."
When I come back into the room he smiles, and I tingle where it feels good to tingle. "I need to catch up on some sleep. May I take the couch?"
It's time to get down to business. Don’t they say there’s no time like the present? I ease away the blanket and give him a quick flash of what he saw when he undressed me. "I'd feel better if you slept right here."
His eyes widen a fraction. I sense something is pulling us together. I know he feels it. It's called lust. "I'd like that."
He starts to pull off his shirt, and the tingle becomes a growing fire inside me. It won't take much for me to come, not when I can feel his body next to mine. And more. I try to keep my voice casual, and I fail. A croak of desire comes out.
"Me, too."
