Jane Harvey-Berrick Guarding the Billionaire Page 11

  The first school is fucking awful. It’s full of tiny kids who should be getting dirty, collecting worms and playing ball, but instead are wearing uniforms and sitting in rows, rote-learning the state capitals. They’re six, for fuck’s sake. The Principal is a real tight-ass, too, so I give him my best thousand-yard stare until the prick is quaking in his slip-on shoes.

  The next two are much more to my taste: easy going, friendly, with happy-looking kids and great facilities. The last one perhaps has the edge, as they seem to do lots of field trips and outdoors stuff. I think Princess Lilly will like all that, and it sure appeals to her old man. Still, I can always play nice and let the my ex decide. It’ll go easier if she gets some choice in the matter. I’ll just tell her that the new boss will pay for one or the other. She doesn’t need to know about the first school I visited.

  I stride up to the front door and knock. Yeah, I still have my old key, but the locks were changed before she told me we were through. It was the opening salvo in a long-running war.

  When she yanks the door ajar, she’s got a face like a bulldog chewing on a wasp.

  I try to play nice.

  “I know it’s short notice…”

  “You didn’t give me any notice, Justin.”

  Because you’d have conveniently been out.

  “Can I take Lilly for a milkshake?”

  “Mandy is coming over for a playdate. I can’t cancel now, since it’s such short notice.”

  “Who the hell is Mandy?”

  “Her friend from school. You’d know that if you’d been around.”

  I can’t win.

  So, I tell Carla about the schools I’ve seen. Naturally she’s pissed that her choice is restricted to just these two.

  “And what if I decide that a completely different school is the best place to send my daughter?”

  Lilly is playing in the backyard, some complicated game with a set of plastic ponies.

  “Our daughter. And you can choose—either of those two schools; whichever you prefer.”

  “What if I don’t like either of them?”

  “It’s not about what you like, it’s what’s best for Lilly, and those are the best.”

  “Says who?”

  “Look, Carla. They’re good schools. Just go take a look.”

  “You’re trying to bully me into doing what you want, as always, Justin.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Carla, will you just go and fucking look at them!”

  “Don’t curse at me, Justin. And that’s only one of the reasons I divorced you.”

  Thank fuck.

  “They seem like great schools. Just go see.” I decide to try a more conciliatory tone. “Please.”

  There’s a pause.

  “How’s your new job?” she asks at last.

  “Fine. How’s your mother?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  Silence.

  “Do we have anything else to say to each other?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  I walk into the garden and kiss my Princess. She’s in the middle of her game so she waves me away imperiously. She’s so like her mother. But I fucking love her anyway.

  Improvise.

  Adapt.

  Overcome.

  I learned that in the Marines. But it’s not easy adapting to the constant current of guilt inside me, or improvising ways to spend the little time I have with my daughter. And I don’t know how to overcome the dreams I had when I first held her in my arms, just a few minutes old.

  No one can tell you how. But you have to learn anyway.

  THE FUNDRAISER AT the hotel is so tedious that I’m in danger of falling asleep with my eyes open. With the job I do, I’ve been to a lot of these highfalutin, dull-as-ditchwater speaker marathons: lots of rich folk flashing their cash. All worthy causes, but all so damn boring. From what Ryan tells me, Anderson usually attends two or three of these a month, although this is my first. I don’t know how Anderson stands it. I don’t know how I’ll stand it.

  There are 250 guests and seven have security. Like me, they hover at the back, eyes flicking around the room for anything out of the ordinary that could signal danger. I recognize one of them: Jim Rayment, Brit, ex-SAS, hard as fucking nails. He nods at me, and I nod back. We don’t speak. Not when we’re working.

  I’m starting to be able to read Anderson’s body language and I can tell that he’s bored witless. He hides it well, but he’s holding his body rigid and every few minutes he forgets and starts fidgeting; then he remembers where he is and his spine stiffens, trying to hold it all together. I’d say the present speaker has about three minutes before Anderson is out of here.

  I start counting. At three minutes and 45 seconds, Anderson looks over at me and gives a subtle nod.

  Yeah, I’m gooooood.

  He stands up, whispers something to the bald guy on his left, and strides away from the table. The speaker falters in her delivery as her eyes follow him from the podium, but Anderson is a man on a mission: he wants out of here.

  I’m about to join him at the exit when Rayment tilts his head, sending me a subtle message. He taps his earpiece gently and softly lays three fingers on the sleeve of his jacket. I frown and nod back. He raises one eyebrow, asking a question, and looks toward the exit: Do you need assistance?

  Probably not. I give a small shake of my head and he indicates that he understands. But now I’m on the alert.

  Rayment has told me that there are civvies outside this room, unarmed, but here for some mayhem. This is probably the low level situation that Mason warned me about when I took the job. Rayment’s also offering back up, and he’s let me know that he has eyes and ears beyond this room, so I’m cool that whatever is coming our way is under control, as much as it can be.

  Anderson is about to exit the room, but he glances over to me. I narrow my eyes slightly and shake my head. He looks pissed, but he waits for me to reach him.

  “What is it, Trainer?”

  “Three men in the foyer: possible interception in mind. We should leave via the fire exit, sir.”

  Anderson glances over to the nearest fire exit, but it’s right at the front of the room. If we go that way, 300 people will see us leave.

  Anderson shakes his head and starts to open the main door.

  “If I could go first, sir.”

  It’s phrased like a question, but it’s not.

  Casually, I unbutton my jacket and check my weapon, making sure that it’s loose in the holster and won’t stick if I need to draw it in a hurry. I don’t want to pull it unnecessarily, and Anderson has made his feelings on guns clear, but if it means doing my job, I don’t give a flying fuck what he thinks—and he knows it.

  His frown deepens but he allows me to exit in front of him. I see the threat suspects right away and I’m surprised that hotel security hasn’t already moved them on—fucking amateurs.

  Two are sitting pretending to read newspapers, and the third one is leaning against a pillar, trying—and failing—to look nonchalant.

  I don’t have to tell Anderson which men are of concern, he can read the situation as well as I can. But then two more men enter the foyer and the odds aren’t as favorable; I have no idea where Rayment’s man on the ground is either. I glance at Anderson. He’s not going to panic, in fact he looks like he’s enjoying himself. Shit! I really hope he isn’t going to start anything.

  When they see Anderson, four of the men start chanting.

  “Bigger cages! Longer chains!”

  “Eat the rich!”

  “Power to the people!”

  “A specter is haunting the world!”

  Anderson rolls his eyes.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, could they be any less original?”

  I’m amused: four men are yelling in his face, and he’s irritated by their lack of originality. Does anything faze this guy? I note that a reporter camped out in the foyer has woken up and is snapping photos. I’ll d
eal with him later.

  Hotel security is moving at a sluggish pace, converging on the four chanting men. The parking valet is standing open-mouthed with his thumb up his ass instead of bringing the car around. Fucking idiot.

  The fifth man, the size of a linebacker, has my antenna twitching. He’s clearly the one in charge and he’s got something concealed in his hand. It could be a weapon, and I’m definitely treating him as the number one threat.

  But someone from hotel security barges between me and Anderson, and I see the fifth man make his move.

  I shove the guard out of my way when the fifth man raises his hand.

  “Sir!” I yell at the top of my voice as I hurdle the falling guard.

  Anderson swivels, sees the danger, drops into a boxer’s crouch and lays out the attacker with one punch. The man flails backwards, dropping his weapon. Anderson kicks it away, rolls the man onto his front and pulls his gun hand behind his back, using his foot to lever the man’s arm into a brutal arm-lock, still keeping his own hands free. He flicks his eyes around, looking for more danger, but hotel security has contained the other four men.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Rayment, weapon drawn, and two other pros exiting the auditorium.

  Anderson lets one of the security guards pull the attacker from the floor. I retrieve the fallen weapon. Actually, no. It’s not a weapon, but a can of red spray paint.

  Rayment strolls on over to me.

  “Alright, mate?”

  “Yeah, thanks for the heads up, Rayment.”

  “Your quaffer?”

  Fucking limeys. I never have any idea what they’re talking about.

  “Your guvnor? Eyebrows he sorted that gobshite. And the muppet. Fat knacker!”

  I shake my head, and see that Rayment is smiling. I look at Anderson, wondering if I still have a job. I shouldn’t have let hotel security get between us. He’s glaring at the photographer who’s just scored the pictures of a life time: reclusive billionaire Devon Anderson manhandling an anti-capitalist protestor in one of Manhattan’s top hotels.

  I walk towards the photographer, and he’s snapping pictures the whole time, backing away from me.

  “You can’t touch me! I’m just doing my job, man!”

  I ignore him. He’s doing his job? Yeah, well, I’m fucking doing mine!

  I pull the camera out of his hands and scroll through all the photos he’s taken. The guy’s pretty good: he’s caught the whole thing, including the look of fierce enjoyment on Anderson’s face as he floors the fucker. I delete every image, and just for good measure, take out the memory card, bend it between my fingers, then give it back to him, completely mangled. He knows he’s just lost the best part of twenty grand by losing those pictures. From his reaction, his camera doesn’t automatically upload to the Cloud. I’d bet my next pay check he’ll have that facility from now on.

  He starts screaming about the First Amendment, but I don’t give a shit.

  Anderson, on the other hand, still looks like he’s enjoying himself.

  “I’ll get the car, sir,” I say, throwing an evil look at the parking valet who is still opening and closing his mouth like a damned goldfish.

  “Thank you, Trainer,” Anderson says affably.

  The hotel manager comes running up, his eyes wide with apprehension. It’ll be his job if billionaire guest Devon Anderson makes a complaint.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Anderson. We never … I can’t believe … I’ll be speaking to our security … such a shock … not at our hotel, never before … my apologies, sir … I…”

  Anderson waves him off with an amused look on his face.

  “A memorable fundraiser,” he says dryly, then walks away, leaving the manager tugging at his tie, his face sweaty with fear.

  The valet has finally arrived with the car. He drops the keys into my hand and dodges out of the way before I can say anything to him—or worse. Wisely, he doesn’t wait for a tip.

  Anderson slides into the back seat and I lock the doors as we slowly plow through a crowd of photographers who are furious to have missed the action.

  As I drive, I catch Anderson’s eye in the rear view mirror.

  “Thank your friend for me, Trainer. Box seats at the next Cubs’ game?”

  “Thank you, sir,” I mutter.

  There’s that same amused expression on his face, but he doesn’t speak again.

  I guess it makes a change from mergers and acquisitions.

  Chapter 10

  Bewitched

  CLOSE PROTECTION, BODYGUARDS, we’re deeply misunderstood.

  We’re not unthinking, uncaring masses of muscle and testosterone, we have feelings, too.

  I’m a guy totally in touch with my emotions: I fucking hate my ex-wife.

  I’ve also developed a deep dislike of my new boss’s BFF, Frederick I-want-to-drink-your-blood-and-piss-on-your-grave Landon. He took great pleasure in filling me in on the boss’s hobbies: Anderson is a Dom—and all those whips and canes in his meditation room get used on his submissives, a series of dudes who get off on getting the crap beaten out of them as a form of foreplay. Apparently Anderson has been without a submissive for a while, which, according to Landon, is the reason for the boss’s crankiness.

  I don’t fully understand the hold he has over Anderson. I’ve got some thoughts though, but nothing concrete. The boss seems irritated when Landon’s around, but he doesn’t kick him out either. And I know for a fact that he’s the boss’s fucking dealer. Yeah, Landon supplies him with Anderson’s drug of choice: men who fuck while they call him ‘Sir’. Maybe women, too. The jury is still out on that. And like any junkie, he’s on edge till he gets his next fix.

  But there’s more to it than that; there’s their sick history. And it’s not just conjecture on my part because I had the deep misfortune to overhear part of their conversation.

  Landon: Senator Rodriguez will be coming to our next little gathering at the Farm. He’ll make a fine sub. And his charmless wife. I thought you’d like a Hispanic for a change. Take you back to your roots.

  Anderson: Very amusing, Frederick.

  Landon: Although I recall that you used to have other tastes, Devon. When you were at school, I recall you being very fond of … how did you put it? It was rather poetic, I seem to remember. Yes, you said to me, ‘Your hair is like sunshine, Master’.

  Anderson: I don’t remember that.

  Landon: Oh, but I do, Devon. I do.

  I nearly hurled my Cheerios when I happened to overhear that.

  It confirmed everything I’d thought but didn’t want to know: Anderson and Landon have been fuck buddies, maybe for years. And under his family’s nose. Maybe even while the boss was at school. But does he mean high school or when he was at college? I’m really hoping Landon meant college, but the shudders crawling up my spine sing a different song.

  It stinks. And I can’t help feeling that Landon can definitely add pedo to his list of attractions.

  But by Anderson’s admission, they’re still friends. Maybe it’s some sort of weird Stockholm Syndrome shit. Or grooming.

  I don’t know. I’m just happy that I’m not inside the boss’s head. Life is shitty enough.

  The conversation took place when they were in his home office looking at photographs of guys—fuck buddies into S&M. Apparently, you can pick them off a shelf like dental floss. High priced dental floss.

  Finally, they choose a new one. Together.

  Cozy.

  When I’m with my buddies, I might look at car or truck websites, shoot the shit over whether American metal is better than Italian engineering (yes). We might even grade the women in the room, idly chatting about whether big tits automatically make a woman a nine (they don’t). I can’t ever recall asking them to find me a new fuck buddy on Craigslist. But that’s what’s happening with Anderson and Landon.

  The new politician and his wife have been vetted, put on order, and will be at the Farm this weekend.

  There is an inte
rview process, but seeing as Landon has put his mark of approval on this one (probably 666), I’m betting the interview is just so Anderson can say it was his decision.

  His name is Manuel Rodriguez. That’s what it says on the security report that Mason sent over. He’s forty-nine, Harvard MBA, senator for Arizona. Republican. He’s signed his NDA, and the boss has an appointment to meet him at 8PM. The headshot shows a regular-looking guy with even features, cropped brown hair and a red tie.

  The meeting appears to go well, because when the Senator comes out, his tie is gone and he’s adjusting his shirt. So, not a couples thing after all? The Senator is a closet gay and his wife is the beard? The confusion is giving me whiplash.

  So why the fuck does he want to be Anderson’s fuck buddy? Why do any of them? Is it the money? Because the bastard is generous. Or is it the power? Maybe the gay guys think that they’ll be Mr. and Mr. Loved-up one day? Or maybe … shit, I don’t know, maybe they just like the whole BDSM scene. Stranger things have happened—and most of them at the Farm.

  I’ve worked for quite a few rich men since I got into personal protection. Anderson isn’t the first one to use pay-for-play services, or the first time I’ve been asked to procure them. Some of the hookers I’ve known, professionally that is, have been well-educated, rational people who see it as a simple transaction based on market forces: they have something to sell and someone else is prepared to pay for it. They’ve been well dressed, well washed, and drive more expensive cars than I can ever hope to afford. I’ve seen the other side, too: dirty, unwashed, crackheads that I’d happily cross the street to avoid. You’d be amazed how many men get hard just thinking about that kind of trip. Reckless endangerment doesn’t even begin to cover it. If a man behaves like that, I’m out of there.

  And then there’s Anderson. He’s generous with gifts for services rendered—Rolexes, gold cufflinks, $1000 bottles of champagne—but it’s a gray area whether or not it’s prostitution: excuse me while I look for my law degree.