BODYGUARD - Part One (The BODYGUARD Series, Book 1) (4 page)

"You want to put him on the leash and we can walk around some?"

We are in Central Park, and it's early, just after eight. I have to be at work by ten, and I'm wearing my juice bar uniform. Short, wraparound gym skirt in navy blue, a matching navy blue polo shirt with the company logo, and white trainers. We're supposed to look sporty. I feel like a referee at a junior league hockey match.

There's a reason we're here at this hour. Buddy is a two-year old cocker spaniel. Complete with wavy golden coat, dark, liquid eyes and as cute as a button. He's romping in the trees at the edge of the grass, playing hide-and-go-seek, and Sarah is watching him like a nervous new mom.

To explore Central Park with a pooch, he has to be leashed in some areas, and all areas after nine in the morning. We arrive early so he can run free.

I like Buddy. He's warm, affectionate, and I think of him like a real live teddy bear. I leash him, and we follow the tree-lined walk around the Lennon Memorial. Sarah points to a bench. "Why don't we sit for a few minutes? Tell me what's on your mind."

She's wearing a woolen waistcoat she says came from Outer Mongolia. It's thick and heavily embroidered, made from some kind of goat hair. The odor has almost faded. Her ensemble includes a long flowing skirt, with a kind of Indian pattern. I don't ask. It's topped by a cotton headscarf she bought from a shop that imports from Borneo. They say the tribe that makes them are headhunters. Or they were, until they decided headhunting was a dead end. They made the switch to exports of ethnic clothing, and since then they are prospering. They now realize the benefits of a capitalist culture and spend the profits on appliances and color televisions.

I can't tell her. I almost can't tell myself. In the shower this morning, I went through my vocal warm up and sang a couple of songs. I was thinking about when I might have to go through with this Karaoke thing, and I wanted to see how I felt. Two songs good, three songs bad, I dried up. It sounded like a serial killer was choking the life out of me. Worse.

We are sitting on the bench. Buddy licks my hand. I guess he knows how I feel. Dogs are like that. Intuitive. Some say they're almost psychic. I stroke his head, and he wags his tail.

"It's this guy, Jamie," I finally say.

A sigh hisses from her lips. "I'd never have guessed, honey. Did he abuse you? Has he hurt you? You know men are all two-timers."

I try not to smile. She means well, but she does have a certain view of the male sex.

"He's not..." I stop. Not what? Not two-timing me? That's not fair. We're not dating, not yet. Although we had sex, doesn't that count? Yes. I try again. "I don't know he's two
-
timing me, Sarah. We just met."

"Huh!"

There is a world of meaning in that single word. Like, 'You're kidding me. They're all the same. You can't trust them.'

Maybe I should get a dog. I think back to my singing that morning. Two songs, and I was rusty as hell. Even now, my throat is hoarse, and that third song! It sounded like two rhinos mating. I can't take it again. I'd die. I'll have to call it off, but he's looking forward to it. And I'm looking forward to him.

She swivels her body around to look at me. "Tiffany, I don't like the sound of this guy. You know nothing about him. If he liked you, he wouldn't ask you to go to this Karaoke bar."

I shake my head. "It's not his fault. He doesn't know."

"Doesn't he?"

I shiver. It is true that my humiliation was public, and maybe he does know. I think back to those two songs. Two songs, that's all I managed to sing. Forget the false modesty, I know I was good, for a little while. The songs were good, too. I wrote them. It's an odd coincidence we've arrived in Strawberry Fields. John Lennon wrote songs for peace, and I write what I see as musical poems. It sounds like I'm writing folk music, but it's much gutsier. If people are to take notice of the bad things happening in the world, they need to hear it in music that's familiar to them. Pump up the volume, put in a hard, driving rhythm and a funky backbeat, and tell them about the famine stricken lands. If they won't take notice, at least I tried.

"I don't think so."

Sitting here, surrounded by the memories of John Lennon and songs like 'Give peace a chance' and 'Imagine,' I've had an idea for another song. I’ll make a note during my lunch break. Okay, a song no one will listen to, by a singer who'll never sing it, but I can't help that. I'm excited, and I want to tell Sarah. Only she'll want me to sing a few bars. I can't even hum the tune, the terror is that bad. I sing inside my head, and I like what I hear.

"Where are you? I can see your eyes, and they're a million miles away."

I plaster a smile on my face. "Sorry. I was thinking."

"Hmm," She says that a lot, "You're different since you met that boy."

It's hard to hold the smile in place. I need him. When I stroll along the sidewalk, I think I see his face, but it's a stranger. When I'm in a crowded elevator, I'm searching for a glimpse of his face, a hint of the odor of his body.

She puts her big arm around me, and the smell of goat is stronger. "He's not good for you."

I turn my head to protest. "But he is, Sarah. I see him in my dreams. I think about him all the time."

"Hmm. You used to be relaxed and happy. You've changed."

I know she's right, and I know the reason. I'm in love, in love with a beautiful man and his beautiful body. I love everything about him, and there's one thing I love more than any other. Our lovemaking is like nothing on earth. He touches me, and I'm transported to another world. He enters me, and I'd sell my soul for it not to end.

"Animals are the best companions, dogs more than any other. It's a huge responsibility. Caring for a dog would take your mind off him and put your feet back on the ground. You should walk Buddy more often."

I look around. "Where's Buddy?"

He's gone. Sarah lets out a squeal like a railroad whistle, and we run around Strawberry Fields, searching for Buddy. It takes us ten minutes to discover him sitting next to a park bench. A man in an expensive business suit is feeding him scraps of bagel. She runs up to him, scoops up the pooch, and gives him a fierce scowl.

"What're you doing with my dog, Mister?"

He looks worried by the Mongolian tribeswoman standing over him. Maybe it's just the odor of goat. "I was just feeding him scraps. He came to me. I didn't do anything wrong."

She flounces away, turns back, and snarls, "Kidnapper!"

I smile. Maybe Buddy needs a bodyguard like Jamie. I check the time. I'll be late. I say goodbye to Sarah, who gives me that deep, meaningful look. Kind of, 'They're all out to get you.' Buddy gives me a deep, meaningful look, too. Perhaps I will get a dog.

I say goodbye and hurry to the gym. I have something to discuss with Emily.

It's a busy day, so there's little chance to look for Emily. She sashays past my booth in the afternoon. She looks prettier than ever, as if she's spent the entire morning working on her hair and makeup. I envy the tight, tiny skirt she's wearing. It shows off her skinny legs to perfection. Her t-shirt falls a few inches short of the waist, and there’s a glitzy ornament in her belly button. She's hot, no question. Even her nails could heat a cold pizza.

I raise my hand and wave to catch her attention over the noise. It's difficult with the rumble of treadmills, the babble of scores of monster LED screens playing pop videos, with pounding drums and wailing guitars to help the clients work out. She doesn't appear to see me, and she walks past. Heads turn to follow her making her slow progress through the gym. They're like dogs, slavering at a joint of meat. Men! Maybe Sarah has a point.

I watch out for her coming back, along with about forty men with their mouths watering. I turn back to my juice bar and pull up the hem of my shirt to picture how a piercing would look. A voice says, "Wow, that looks good enough to eat."

I thrust my polo down and look up. My skin is tingling, and my face must have a rich, red glow. He's smiling at me, and boy, does he look good! Better than good, his chest is bare, and he has a white towel draped around his neck.

"Hi, Jamie." I’m surprised to see him in the gym. I don't think he's been here before.

"Tiff, so this is where you cook up all those concoctions. What's the special today?"

I smile. "Cranberry and Acai, with my own blend of herbs."

"Does it give you energy?"

"It depends what you want it for."

He smiles back. "I'd show you, but it'd be better if it was somewhere more private. Can do?"

I nod to the door behind me, a small storeroom. "Can do, but it'll have to be quick."

I'm already maneuvering him toward the door.

He drinks down the juice in a single gulp. This boy is in need of an energy boost. I may have an idea what it's for. He's more than welcome. I'll give him another if he asks.

"I'm never quick." He slips a hand around my waist and pulls me close to him. Part of me prays no one notices. Another part doesn't care.

I drag him through the portal, and already he's sliding his hands under my skirt.

"Jamie, no, if anyone comes, I'll get fired."

He kisses me, a long, slow caress that starts a fire down there. He pulls back and says, "How do you want to do this?"

"I'll blow you."

His eyes widen a fraction. "That'd be something. Wow!"

"Stay there. I'll handle this."

"I'm going nowhere."

I kneel down and pull the elasticized band of his pants down enough to reach inside and pull out his cock. He’s already hard. I smile when I think it is the prospect of him having me that excited him. First, I rub my hand up and down his shaft, then cup it in one hand, and touch my lips to his tip. His body vibrates, like something gave him an electric shock.

"Tiffany."

At least he remembers my name today. I lean toward him, open my mouth, and ease him into me. My mouth slides over his shaft, until I can feel his tip touch the back of my throat. A few more licks with my tongue, and then it's down to business. I slide my head back and forth, and he moans with pleasure as his cock responds. It's impossible, but it's even harder, even longer.

It's my turn to gasp as his hand slips inside my panties, and I feel his hand caress the outside of my quim. A finger slips inside. I should say no, in case someone comes into the room. But I can't, my mouth is full. So I resign myself to the inevitable and enjoy it.

His breath is coming in pants. He's starting to reach the pinnacle, about to score a hole in one. Or is it one in a hole? I don't know. His finger’s still stroking me, and I'm so excited I almost forget where I am and how dangerous this is. I can't come, must come. Imagine if Chester Blythe comes into the storeroom. He could blackmail me into doing almost anything with his vile, flabby body. Gross.

"Tiff."

"Mm."

"I can't wait. I have to..."

"Mm."

"I mean, is it okay..."

"Mm."

I want him; want all of him. Even his sperm, he can come inside my mouth and part of him belongs to me. I have taken him inside my body, never to give it up. Nothing can change that. I sense his urgency growing beyond endurance, and I stroke his balls. His body arches, his hips thrust harder, and then he comes. A hot stream splatters into my mouth. It's sticky and viscous. Like syrup, it trickles down my throat.

He'll never find a girl who treats him better than me. I hope he appreciates that fact. I still have his dick in my mouth when he says, "Wow, you were right, Tiff. That juice is dynamite. I'll have to recommend it to my pals."

I slide off him and produce a tissue for him to wipe his member. It wasn't the juice. It was me! Say nothing. It's the second time he got my name right. I tidy myself up and help him adjust his pants so he looks more respectable. I check my makeup in a mirror and try to repair the damage. My sport skirt is a little crumpled, and I smooth it down with my hands. Likewise my polo shirt, and a swift repair to my hair, so I don't look like I've returned from filming an apocalypse movie.

A queue has started to form at my counter, and the guy at the front gives Jamie a long, searching look.

"I'll have what he had, Miss. Make it a double."

In your dreams, Mister! In your dreams!

How can a hunk like Jamie touch me in such a way? Soft and tender. At times he doesn't so much touch me as stroke me. He offers to walk me home from work, and his hand is behind my back, as if to protect me with a reassuring touch. Is this how bodyguards operate? I don't object.

I put the key in the door and we walk inside. After our bit of fun in the storeroom, I'm not sure he's in the mood for more. Every part of my body is sensitive, and the slightest look or touch is enough to keep me off balance. So when he speaks, my defenses are down. We are sitting on the couch, and he slips an arm around my waist and leans over to kiss me. I close my eyes and feel his other hand touch my breasts through the thin cotton of my shirt.

When he draws back, I say, "Do you want..."

"Sch. Tell me about your singing."

My arousal drains away quicker than my credit card balance when I'm on a shopping expedition. "What?"

"Tiff, I'm sure you're good. More than good, singer-songwriter, I don't get why you haven't made a career out of it."

He's still caressing my breasts, and the other arm holds me in a firm grip, so I'm not so scared. But worried. I sense disaster.

"It didn't happen, that's all."

"I don't get it. How did it all start? Singing, songwriting."

I remember when I lived at home. Mom and Dad were fine at that time, until I mentioned a career as a singer. They called the shots, and they paid the bills. I explain this to Jamie.

"You graduated college?"

"I studied nutrition, sports nutrition."

"So that's how you make those incredible juice cocktails. You're a pro."

"I wouldn't put it like that."

He grins. "But you kept on with the singing."

"Yeah, I stayed with the vocal workouts, and my parents paid for the lessons, provided I got my grades."

"Workouts? Sounds like you're back at the gym."

I explain how singers need to practice every day. It's a skill, like playing the guitar or the violin.

"Every day?"

"Yep."

"And you keep it up?"

"Not all the time, no. It's just for my enjoyment."

How have I the courage to tell him this? Maybe it's because his hand has slid down and is resting over my core. I'm trying not to squirm, but it's difficult.

"Sing for me now."

The warm feeling evaporates. "I can't. I'm not ready."

"Please."

One word, and the way he says it is full of meaning. Empathy, concern, I don't know, except he's interested in me. Not as a commodity, a performer, but as a person. I protest, and we argue, but he won't give in. I relax in his arms and close my eyes. Surrounded by his strength, I sing to another human being for the first time in many years. Stars over Snow, the song I wrote for the polar bear charity event.

I'm in another world. My soul is soaring, and I am lost to everything except the need to express my thoughts and emotions through music. When I come to the end, there is silence. He still holds me. I tell him I'm sorry.

"Sorry? For what?"

"Jamie, it's not very good, and I'm not very good. I'm not fishing for compliments, but it's amateur stuff, no more."

A pause. "No." His voice is low, as if he's as far away as I was. Lost in a maze of his thoughts. "No, you're wrong. You have a talent, and you should share it with the world. While you were singing, I felt I was there, seeing those bears on the Arctic ice, beautiful and terrible at the same time. It was awesome."

I'm embarrassed. I don't want him to tell me it was awesome. I wish I could bury my music in a deep, dark place and never let it return. I still have my eyes closed when I change the subject.

"That's enough about me. Tell me about you. You were an officer in the Navy?"

"Yeah, a lieutenant, Navy SEALs. That was a few years back."

I open my eyes, and he is staring back into the hazy mists of time. "I bet you loved it. All that adventure."

His lips settle into a grin. "I did, that's true. It was the best time of my life." He focuses on me, "No, this is better."

But there was a shadow in his expression for a fraction of a second, a tinge of regret in his voice. I reach up and touch his face, run my fingers around his skin, feel his jawbone, and slide my hand around his neck. I give him a gentle pull, and he leans down to kiss me. Once more I drink of his lips, and his man-smell engulfs me. I struggle to resurface. I need to know more.

"Why did you leave?"

"Mm?

"The Navy. Why did you quit?"

I wish I hadn't asked. His body has gone tense, and the pressure of his arm around me slackens.

"Long story."

I wait, but I sense his mind is elsewhere. In another time and another place. Should I press him to tell the story? I doubt he will. There is something he would prefer not to surface, but what? I wish I knew. The more time I spend with Jamie O'Brien, the more I discover the mystery that surrounds him. Why drive a cab? That doesn't sound like a job for a former naval officer. Why quit the SEALs? Then there’s Emily. I can’t ask a direct question. It could ruin everything.

What do I do? There is no need to make any decision, not right now. The moment passes, and his skillful hands are moving around my body. Probing, with a gentle finesse that still surprises me. He touches me on my face, on my lips, as if to satisfy him of the source of the song he just heard. The hand drops to my breasts, and I shudder. The hand around my waist unwinds, and he has unfastened my skirt.

I look into his eyes, and they are staring at me with a question.

"Yes. Oh, yes."

I wriggle so he can remove my skirt, and I feel his fingers pull down my panties. I know he is hard. He’s turned sideways, and is pressing against me. I smile, and he gives a tiny shake of the head. "Not yet."

His magic fingers part my lips, and he inserts his index finger until it touches my clit. I can't help it. The warm caress of my sex is like an earthquake shaking my foundations, and they crumble and surrender. I am wet, and the soft, slow movement of his finger sends waves of ecstasy crashing around my body, like breakers on a California beach. I want him.

"Jamie..."

One word. "Wait."

I can't wait. I'm about to lift off into the dizzy heights of the paradise of lust. I want him more than ever, and I open my mouth to say...I don't speak. My brain is a kaleidoscope of jumbled emotions, and I climax in an unstoppable torrent of lust. It won't stop, and I hear someone screaming. It's me. The rollercoaster ride slows, and I start to speak, but his finger presses over my lips.

"Wait."

The finger is damp, and I smell the musky odor that is my sex. It excites me, and I'm disappointed when he removes it. When he speaks, my disappointment vanishes.

"That was for starters. How d'you fancy the main course?"

"Anything. Give it to me, Jamie. I'm yours."

He smiles. "First, I want you to think about something."

"Anything," I ooze, as I wriggle to get comfortable to what I know is to come. Mr. Bodyguard is about to give me the fuck of my life, something to remember.

"It's criminal," I hear him say.

I'm still at the peak of arousal. If he'd said jump off the Empire State Building, I'd have said, ‘right after we fuck.'

"What's criminal?"

"You. Denying your talent to the world. If I could do something that well, I'd shout it from the rooftops. Tell me you'll think about it."

I've gone from hot to cold in record time. "I can't. If you knew the reasons, you wouldn't ask me."

I'm still waiting for him. It's weird, hot and cold, like a sweet and sour Chinese meal. Right now, I'm more cold than hot, and I want to return to that high plateau of lust.

"So tell me about it."

I have no choice. I'm his slave. I tell him, and he's kind and sympathetic.

"That's a terrible story, Tiff. But you know, most people who succeed have a few failures in their past."

"I can't."

"Tell me you'll start working on it again. Tell me, and we'll carry on."

"I'll think on it." The reply comes out of my mouth like it’s jet propelled. He kisses me and starts to undress. He reaches for a condom. My arousal soars to new heights, and he begins. He doesn't disappoint, and as he eases his rock-hard shaft into me, I forget everything. My concern about Emily, as well as the embarrassment I will face when I go into work tomorrow. I almost forget the promise I made.

To work on my songs and my singing, until the next event makes an even bigger fool of me. Right now, it's worth it. I gasp with pleasure as his tongue finds my nipple and gives it a quick tug. His hands are both around my ass, and he is pulling me onto him, tighter, tighter, higher, and higher. Can any man have one that long? This one can.

I hear him say, “We’ll give the Karaoke bar a miss, but I want us to meet up tomorrow night. I'd like to show you something. Can you make it?”

“Uh, huh.” I am flying.

“Sure? I’d like you to come.”

Me, too! “Uh, huh.”

"Tiffany..."

Not now. Aarrgghhh...As my brain fizzles, I remember he said something about tomorrow night.