BODYGUARD - Part One (The BODYGUARD Series, Book 1) (8 page)

We face each other, and our eyes lock. The moment of bliss we shared minutes before evaporates.

"It's nothing, just a place to hang out."

He moonlights as a cabbie to support her. He's a shoulder to cry on, she loves him, and now he sleeps under the same roof. Nothing? I shrug.

"What you do is your choice."

He reaches out to take my hand, but I step back. "Tiffany, there's just you."

"Does she see it like that?"

He doesn't reply. Stares at me, and I suddenly realize I'm still naked. I rummage for clothes in my bedroom, and pull on panties and a matching bra. They are black. I decide to keep my legs bare, I shaved them yesterday, and they are smooth and pretty.

He watches me as I pull on a loose, short skirt. Also black, and a T-shirt I've owned since the EVENT. Across the chest, it says 'Save the Polar Bears.' Maybe it's time to save Tiffany Durham. I lace up my best trainers and look in the mirror on the dressing table to see what kind of an image I will present to the world.

Okay, my hair looks like a fright wig. I try to make it half-decent with a comb and put on lipstick. It makes my pale skin look whiter. Zombie Tiffany. I don't care. I need some air. I see his face in the mirror, watching. He is still naked, and I can't help it, I feel a stirring of arousal. So soon! I squash the emotion and think about a new juice recipe that I invented a couple of days before, mango and strawberry, with a dash of hot spices. I thought to call it 'Foreplay', but I'll think of something else.

"We need to work this out, Tiffany."

"Sure. I'm going out soon. I'd put on some clothes, if I were you."

He double takes and starts to dress. I look away from his body. "I mean it. We can't carry on with this misunderstanding. We have to work it out."

"Work out what? You mean you want me to find you a new apartment."

"You know what I mean. This thing between us."

It's not a thing. It's a girl called Emmie. I hate that name. I don't reply.

He has his pants and shirt on, and he takes me by the arm. "Listen, I'll look for a place, starting tomorrow."

"Good luck with that." This is hurting me more than him. I should pull my arm away, but I can't. His touch is too precious.

"Thanks, but it won't be easy."

Easy? You mean not so easy when you're supporting her. Paying her bills. Living with her. I glance at the mirror again, and I move back to the dressing table to touch in my eyebrows. The failed Goth look doesn't suit my skin type. I apply the mascara and feel better.

He's waiting for sympathy, I think. Kind of 'life is hard.' Sorry, Jamie, life is what you make it. You've made yours with Emmie.

"She's in a fragile state."

She's not the only one.

"I need time to get this sorted out."

"Fine. So do I. Jamie, I must go."

"Right. So you're going to the theater, get in some practice before work."

"No."

He pulls on his shoes and walks over to me. "I'm leaving."

"Don't keep her waiting."

He winces. I'm not handling this well, and I remind myself to ease back. This is Jamie, even though he's hurting me.

"I'm not going to Emmie's place. I'm going to work. With Erin."

"That's what I meant." I lie.

"Uh, right."

He kisses me, and although I want to dish out the cold treatment, I can't. The touch of his lips is electric, as ever. He walks to the door, and my heart wants to tell him to wait. I can't. I know he has issues to resolve. I am in danger of losing him.

The door slams shut, and I hear his footsteps walking down the staircase. I give it five minutes and grab my purse. I am going out. I have to be away from all this. I check the mirror a last time. My skirt is not right. The hem has caught in my panties, and I straighten it.

I have decided to go to Inwood Hill Park, and I jog along the sidewalk to catch the A. My head is a kaleidoscope filled with contrary thoughts. I need to resolve my problems, but when the train stops, I still don't know. The park helps. It is raining, a slow drizzle that soaks through my thin clothes, and they stick to my skin. I don't mind, and I walk through the damp grass, enjoying the peace and the clean, fresh air, the absence of people, of complication.

I walk to my usual place. In the distance, there is a picnic shelter, and a boy and a girl are making out. They are too far away to hear, and even if they weren't, they are busy with other things, more important things. I lift my face to the sky, open my mouth and sing. My usual audience watches from the trees. They look up as the first notes leave my mouth, but they too have more important things on their minds, and they ignore me.

The work I've put in has paid off, and I know my singing is good. Could it be my mixed up feelings? It would be ironic if I were fated to perform at my best at a time when I've experienced the worst. Life sucks. Cool rainwater drips down my face, and I lick my lips to taste it. It is soft and somehow reassuring. I wish it were Jamie's skin I was licking, that I could feel his hard warmth next to me.

On the way home, I think about calling him. But I don't. I have no idea what to do. None.

I ride the A home, and people stare at me. The rain plastered my clothes to my body, like they're glued on. I catch a glimpse in the window, and my hair is a flat bunch of rat-tails.  My eyes look like I'm a member of the Panda family. I remind myself not to make eye contact with the other passengers. Why do I have a talent for making a fool of myself? I don't know. But I know someone who might.

My friend Sarah, the Jolly Green Giant, is a psych major. When she's not telling everyone who'll listen how bad men are, she has some good insights. I could so with advice, so I call her. We fix it up for me to call around that afternoon.

I enter my apartment, peel off my wet clothes, and step into the shower. It brings back memories. Only a few hours ago we were together, and he held me with his arms. Warm water ran down over us, and I had his cock rammed inside me. I don't remember having much use for the soap, but the rest was amazing. Water streams down over me, and I can almost taste the odor of him. His pungent male smell and the mingling of our body fluids, almost makes me want to weep for what I am in danger of losing.

I dress in clean clothes, take extra care with my makeup and hair, and I'm ready to leave. I check my mini skirt is not rucked up, and go back out into the street. This time I have my umbrella, although it is no longer raining. Soon I am sitting in Sarah's kitchen while she bakes spicy cookies. She says they will make me feel better. She brought back the recipe came from a Nepalese village. They taste good, which is a plus. I am glad the recipe didn't come from Mongolia.

"Is he fucking her?"

Sarah is not always subtle. "I don't know."

"Mm. Don't ever trust a man, that's my advice. They're all sons of bitches. Take my partner; he's one of the worst. In the entertainment business, would you believe? I swear he has a casting couch in his office. Scum, all of them."

"I didn't know you had a partner."

She sighs. "Yes, it keeps the bed warm at night. It's about all he's good for. Wants me for one thing, and it's not the cookies. You might meet him. He said he's calling to pick up some papers."

"The entertainment business sounds glamorous."

She raises her eyebrows. "Huh." She manages to make it sound as bad as cleaning the sewers, "He's a showbiz manager and agent."

It can't be, I know it can't be. "What's his name?"

"Stanley. Stanley Everton. He said we should get married. Can you imagine me, Mrs. Stanley Everton? Huh! They're all scum."

"You said no?"

She shrugs. "I said I'd think about it."

"Right. I think I've met Stanley."

She gives me a sharp look. "On his casting couch? Did he fuck you?"

I tell her about the theater, and her eyes widen. "That was you?"

"Yes. But I don't know if I'll go back."

Her eyes soften. "That problem you had at the charity event?"

I nod. "I can't do it again, Sarah."

"It's not that, is it? It's him."

Before I can reply, a key turns in the front door, it swings open, and he walks in. Stanley. Mr. 'I can make you a star' Everton. Mr. Casting Couch. Sarah's partner. He double takes when he sees me.

"Tiffany? What are you doing here?"

"She's my friend," Sarah explains, "We've known each other for years."

"I see." He still looks shocked, "When are you due back at the theater to go through your song?"

"I don't know. Sorry."

He hears the message in my voice. "Why? What's the problem?"

I shake my head. I don't want to talk about it. He does.

"I don't believe it. Tiffany, you're a real talent. You can go all the way, and that song! The way you put it across, I wanted to get out to Africa, take hold of a spade, and start digging a well. Not many people have what you have. To be able to write those words, put them to a catchy tune, and sing it like a star. Unbelievable." He looks at Sarah.

"You want a spade, I'll buy you one," she says. "When do you leave?"

He waves his hand in the air to bat away the remark. I suspect he's used to Sarah's humor. I assume it is humor. "Don't give up. Whatever the reason, fix it. My Sarah will sort you out. Anything that's bugging you, talk to her."

"She did, until you came in."

The remark flies a mile over his head. It's true what they say about thick skins in his business. This guy could stop a bullet.

"I'll meet you at the theater tomorrow afternoon. You can run through the song with the guys and see how you feel then."

"I don't think so, Stanley. But thanks anyway."

He looks at Sarah. "She's good. The best."

She nods. "I wish I could have heard her."

"But you can. They had the recording equipment running while you sang. I have a copy on my cell. You can listen to it now. You won't be disappointed."

I feel the panic rising. "No, no..."

"Have another cookie." She shoves it into my hand, and Stanley presses play on his cell.

I hear my voice, and I listen to the words of the song. It sounds tinny on the little device, but the musicians are great. I listen carefully to my voice. I'm surprised. I don't sound too shabby. Not shabby by half.

Sarah brings me another cookie. "Tiffany, I can't believe it's you we're listening to.

I give her a polite smile. "No thanks, I've had one."

"Take another."

"I'm okay."

"On a diet? You need to build up your strength. Eat it."

I have no choice, and I munch into another half a pound of excess weight when I get on the scales. I notice she is not eating and point it out.

"I'm on a diet."

It must be me. Stanley is talking again. "Kid, you have to do this." Kid? I'm nearly twenty-three years of age, "You have a career in front of you. You'll be rich."

It is tempting. I can't deny it. Except there is an alternative to riches, and it's called humiliation. Again!

"You have to do it," Sarah says. I notice she has lost a little weight, "You can't throw this opportunity away. Say you'll be there tomorrow. Say it."

I have a narrow window during the quiet time at the gym in the afternoon. It's a split shift, and if I sprint, I can make it there and back. Stanley is staring at me, like he's a dog waiting for a treat, big soulful eyes just like Buddy. I surrender.

"I'll do it."

Sarah squeals with joy. Stanley gets up and says, "I have to go. Business can't wait."

I am forgotten. He grabs some papers from a cabinet and leaves. It's just Sarah and me.

"I came here to talk about Jamie. What do you think I should do?"

"Do? He's a man. They're all scum. Well, almost all. Find a nice boy, someone who doesn't sleep with his landlady."

"I don't know that..."

She cuts me off. "Of course he does. They all do."

I think of him every day. No, that isn't true. I think of him every hour. When I am in bed, I put my hand between my legs and pretend it's him. Just the pretense of him being there is enough for me to become wet. Today is no different. I am behind my juice bar, singing one of my songs inside my head while I prepare a fresh orange juice. I'm writing a new song, and I think it could be good enough for the audition. I'm thinking about it when one of the personal trainers comes to my counter. He is not my favorite person.

"Hello, Chester."

He gives me his twisted grin. "Tiffany, good to see you. Gimme an orange juice."

I fill the glass, toss in some crushed ice, and hand it to him. He stands in front of me and puts the glass to his lips. His tongue flicks out to lick off the drops of condensation around the rim. His eyes are fixed on mine. Is this some kind of a ritual, is he hitting on me? I wish he'd go elsewhere, like Florida.

He stares at me like he's some kind of hypnotist. "We made a bad start that night."

Sure, Chester. Trying to rape a girl you're sharing a cab with doesn't show off your good side. "Uh, huh."

I wish he'd go away. I have other priorities than talking to a slimy creep. Important priorities.

"Why don't we start again, you and me?"

I stare at him in astonishment. Which planet did he come from? "Again? There wasn't a first time."

He rubs his nose. "Whatever. How about coffee after work?"

"No, thanks."

"Tomorrow?"

"Not ever."

His face is growing red with anger. Even his zits are glowing. "You don't know what you're missing."

"I know exactly what I'm missing, Chester."

He leans forward, and his face is inches from mine. "You'd better have a good reason."

"I have. He's standing right behind you."

Jamie called me early that morning. Said he'd come to the gym in the afternoon for a workout, and he'd see me after. He is here.

Chester jerks his head around, and when he looks back at me, I see beads of sweat on his forehead. "I'll catch you later."

He scuttles away. Jamie kisses me. It is a brief brush of the lips, but enough to remind me of what I've missed for the past few days. I inhale a man-scent, healthy sweat, soap, and a faint residue of expensive after-shave.

We pull away, and I say, "How are you?"

"Missing you."

I'm missing him, too, his body sharing my bed, the sex, the joy of his hard cock rammed inside me. The shared showers, water streaming down his smooth skin, and me soaping his hard muscled body.

"Me, too."

He smiles that warm, beautiful smile that sends me weak at the knees. I hold the counter for support.

"I missed you more. Tiffany, I wanted to tell you something. Things haven't been perfect between us, and I want you to know I feel bad about it. Maybe we can talk later, I could see you some?"

"I'm out tonight. Things to do."

There are things I want to do, with him. It's like an itch that's driving me crazy. But I've resolved to get one thing right. I'm at the theater tonight. Sarah asked Stanley to fix it up. He takes it as a rejection.

"It's Emmie, isn't it? I'm working it out, and there's nothing between us. Nothing. I'll find a place soon, and I'll be on my own."

"Jamie, I really am out tonight."

"The theater? I'd like to come and see you."

"Please, no, another time."

He gives up at last, we kiss, and he leaves. His odor lingers in the air. I wish it were always there, always with me.

After work, I go to my apartment and freshen up with a shower. The water cascades over my body, and as I soap myself down, I run through my songs. I pretend I'm in the theater, and I let rip, giving it everything I have. I am a diva, a star, and thousands of my fans are cheering. Except my neighbor, who I know can hear every note. Too bad, I'll be gone before he knocks my door to complain.

When I hunt for clothes, I pull my skater dress out of my closet. It is bright red, cut low under the bust, with tiny, narrow shoulder straps and a short skirt that flares wide when I swing around. I have matching red bra and panties, and I pull everything on. Red, red, red, it is a statement. I even have red shoes. Maybe it's too much. I look like a fire truck. I soften the effect with a thin black scarf, touch up my makeup, and I'm ready to leave. As I close the door, I hear Mr. Wilson's footsteps on the stairs.

I reach the theater, and it's like before, dark and empty. The musicians are on the stage running through one of their songs. They're always there, like they almost live there. Or maybe they're the theater ghosts. The phantoms. As long as they don't kidnap me and carry me down to the basement.

Stanley greets me and takes a seat out front. The music starts, I close my eyes, and then I sing. The musicians have five of my songs strung together, and the session goes on and on. Not once do I open my eyes. This is the way I'll play it on the night. Eyes tight shut, and it's just me. The world is a million miles away, nothing to fear, nothing to make me freeze.

The last note echoes around the theater and slowly dies away. Silence. I open my eyes and freeze. Stanley is surrounded by people. There must be forty or fifty of them. Sarah is next to him, and she waves. I do not feel like waving, although they are all applauding. She runs up to me, hugs me in her vast embrace, and gushes, "That was wonderful, Tiffany. I see you've got over your problem. No sign of nerves at all. How did you do it?"

I tell her I keep my eyes tight shut.

Stanley overhears. "You have the answer. It's perfect. Do what you did tonight, and it's next stop Broadway."

I do not remind him that Broadway is around the corner; turn left at the end of the block. But he's right. I believe I can truly overcome my past failures. Provided nothing serious happens on the night, I am ready. I am flying.

"It's next week, isn't it" I hear Sarah say, "I hope you wear that darling little dress. It makes you look like a movie star."

I come back to earth. She's right. I have only six days. Six days to success or meltdown.