The Bodyguard Read online

  Max isn’t a grandpa. He’s close to my age. Black, shiny hair curls behind his ears, tapers down his neck. His cheekbones are high, his lips full, his V-neck T-shirt reveals a hint of that wide, rock solid chest that sheltered me for a minute. “Maybe I can Play-pal you -- I meant PayPal.”

  He smiles and all the little hairs on my arms stand up.

  “I like your first suggestion better.” He grabs a set of keys from his pocket and jangles them. “Yo, Freddie!”

  The bartender glances up. “What?”

  “Call a ride for Thomas before you let him out of the storage room. I’m officially off duty.”

  The bartender salutes. “Got it.”

  Max shoves the keys in his pants pocket and grabs my purse from the beer-soaked booth. “We’re going to the ER. I’m driving.”

  Chapter Two

  I lie on a gurney in the emergency room. A doctor pulls beer bottle splinters from my face with gleaming, stainless steel tweezers as I try not to flinch. “I want to go home.”

  “Don’t move, Maia,” the doctor says.

  Max squeezes my hand. “You could not have gotten all these out on your own. You would have screwed up your beautiful, Midwestern girl face.”

  The waitress was right about the hospital being close by. The ride from the Grill to the ER took all of five minutes during which Max asked about my accent.

  “What accent?”

  “That accent.”

  I told him I had just flown in from Wisconsin. I flew to Denver and then had a layover. My flight to L.A. was delayed. By the time I boarded the plane I was seated next to a screaming toddler whose ears kept popping. Neither of us had a relaxing flight.

  “And… voilà.” The doctor smiles and holds up a sliver of colored glass with tweezers. “We captured the last culprit.” He plops it into a small dish. “No stitches. I’m prescribing antibiotics and a cream to reduce the chance of scarring.”

  “Antibiotics? The overuse of oral antibiotics has paved the way for superbugs.” I yank my hand from Max’s and sit up.

  “Do you know how many people, places or things that beer bottle came in contact with?” the doctor asks. He pulls out a pad of paper and writes a script. “Hand this to the pharmacy on your way out. Here’s a card for a plastic surgeon should you want to err on the side of caution and get a consult.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Physical restrictions?” Max asks.

  “Forgo the yoga. Skip the roller-coaster at Magic Mountain for a few days.”

  “Got it,” Max says.

  “Nice of you to drive your girlfriend here,” he says. “No touching her face for a few days. Do I need to spell out the rest?”

  “I’m not his girl—”

  “Right.” Max shoves back a smile, but can’t cover that sexy dimple. “Maia didn’t want to go to the ER. I had to convince her. Now she’s going to be even madder at me.”

  I shoot him a look that could kill or perhaps maim. “We met a few hours ago.”

  “But it feels like forever,” Max says.

  “Thank you, Doctor.” I grab the paperwork, and yank open the cubicle curtain. I stomp toward the front desk. “Worst. Day. Ever.”

  I slump in the passenger seat as Max drives his Jeep down yet another residential L.A. street. Every single block is filled with short, non-descript, cookie-cutter apartment buildings.

  “Do you have your address written down somewhere? In your phone?”

  “Phone’s dead,” I say.

  “Right,” he says.

  “I left a copy of the lease in the apartment. I’ve landed in Stepford, haven’t I? Shoot me. Wait.” I point out the window. “That one looks familiar. Pull over, please.”

  He parks.

  I get out and eye the building. “This is it.” I grab my keys from my purse, stick one in the front door of the first-floor walk-up and wriggle it but the lock doesn’t budge. Five apartment doors later I’m surprised no one’s called the cops.

  “I’m going to venture a guess that this isn’t where you live,” Max says.

  “They all look alike. Hey, that palm tree looks familiar. See that vintage blue truck?”

  “Yes.”

  “I remember that truck. We’re close.”

  Max holds out his hand. “Let me try.”

  “Nah, I’m feeling the mojo.” I pause in front of another door. “This one’s the charm. Besides, you’ve already wasted enough time helping me. I’d lay odds California Barbie’s still at the Grill tossing back shots with her pals. Go drive her around for a while.”

  “I did that a while back.”

  Of course, he did. Forget Magic Mountain. This guy’s so smokin’ hot he’s probably the most popular ride in town.

  “I won’t be doing that again,” he says.

  “Doesn’t matter to me,” I say, lying because for some weird reason it feels like it matters. But then my hand starts to tremble and this is embarrassing. I’ve got to get rid of him now. “Hey, the lock’s opening. At last. Home sweet home.”

  “Good,” he says.

  “Great meeting you. Thanks for everything. See you around.”

  “If the lock’s opening why isn’t the door? You’re lying. Are all Wisconsin chicks this devious? I’m staying.”

  “Go.” My face aches. My legs are tired and I pray they won’t give out underneath me again.

  “I’ll leave when you’re safe inside your apartment.”

  I turn. A streetlight illuminates Max’s black hair, his earnest, handsome face, his wide, muscular shoulders. He looks like a dark angel — almost too beautiful to be of this world. I half expect wings to pop out of his back. He’s the dangerous Guy Trifecta: funny, smart, stunning. Lucky for me I have a secret power for getting rid of guys. I have it down to a science. The nice boys are easy to lose. I just tell them ‘no’ and they give up pretty easily.

  The Alpha Boys are tougher, which means I am, too. I turn them down repeatedly. I’ll be standoffish. A smartass. With enough work and the right technique I can get an Alpha Boy—oh hell, I can get any guy to stop asking me out. Make them throw their hands up in the air in frustration and walk away.

  But now, looking up at Max, I can’t think of cruel words. Maybe I’m just too tired. I’d been warned this trip might not be a good idea. That it might trigger anxiety, additional symptoms, or be too much for my system to handle. But I don’t listen to the naysayers, because I have hope.

  Hope makes you do weird things. Hope made me take this journey two-thousand miles away from everyone I know and love. Tonight started with a misstep and a trip to the ER, but I’m here. I’ll confront my fears. I’ll stagger through them one shard of glass in the face at a time.

  “Are you okay?” Max asks.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You’ve been talking non-stop ever since I met you and suddenly you’re quiet. Too quiet.”

  I give my head a shake and sit down on the front stoop. “I’m tired.” I tell my brain to get a grip. Admonish my heart to stop pounding like a stupid teenager’s. “I just want to bury my head in a pillow and go to sleep.”

  “Where do you plan on doing that? Want to come to my place—”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” He paces in front of me on the sidewalk. His legs are long, his thigh muscles strong, athletic, and tight under those jeans. And that ass. Please don’t get me started on his ridiculously perfect ass. “You want me to take you to a motel?” He gestures with two fingers. “Eyes up here, Bonita.”

  “Oh, right. Clearly, I’m tired. Perhaps I was just dozing for a moment.” Perhaps a sinkhole would open under me and swallow me whole.

  “Do you remember your new address?”

  “2132… 2138… 3821…” I am hit with a wave of exhaustion. I drop my keychain into my lap and my forehead into my hands.

  “Stop.” He pulls my hands from my face.

  “What…”

  “You’ve got to be careful with your face. Where are your drugs?�
��

  “Purse.”

  He sticks a hand in my purse and rifles through it.

  “You’re overreacting.” I lean back against the building.

  He pulls out the cream. “You can’t just lie down on a stranger’s front porch. You’ll disappear and then I’ll be the main suspect. It’ll be on the news. ‘Local man suspected in pretty Midwestern girl’s demise.’”

  “Perhaps the reporters will say, ‘Max insert-last-name was never a quiet young man. He didn’t keep to himself enough and he frequently intervened in the business of others. But the ladies seemed to like him. Rumor has it that while he banged too many stupid girls, he seemed to have a kind heart and was a good bodyguard.’ Nighty night.” I smile.

  He squeezes cream onto his fingers and leans toward me. “Hold still,” he says.

  He’s delicious. I remind myself to inhale and exhale as he dabs ointment on my cuts. I close my eyes, my face tingling, the skin on the back of my neck prickling, my nipples hardening, a warmth building in my pelvis. And then I feel something beyond a sexual urge. Something long-forgotten but magical. Something I feared was lost for good.

  I feel safe.

  Protected.

  Sheltered.

  A dog barks. I lift my head. “Gidget?” I move away from Max and push myself up. I flip through my key ring, wriggle a different one identical to the first in the lock and it clicks open like magic. “Hallelujah! This is my place.”

  Chapter Three

  I grope the wall next to the door and flip on the lights, illuminating my tiny crash pad. “Gidget’s my new next-door neighbor’s dog. I am home.” I twirl around the tiny living room that features a beat up love seat and a braided rug on the scuffed hardwood floors.

  “Hang on.” Max steps inside. “You’re not supposed to be doing activities like—”

  “Twirling? The doctor didn’t say anything about twirling.”

  He stands in my living room looking like he doesn’t know what to do next. Two years ago I might have offered him a suggestion like, “Shut up and kiss me.” But I was a completely different person back then. “Thanks for everything, Max.”

  “Happy to help. Maybe when you’re feeling better I can show you around town—”

  “I’m not a tourist. No time. I’m here for the UCLA summer session.” That statement was kind of true.

  “I’m finishing a few classes at UCLA in the fall and then I’m graduating,” he says. “What are you taking? You’ll have off time. I can teach you how to surf.”

  “Genetics 300 with Professor Schillinger. And I suck at swimming.”

  “Schillinger’s great. Guess you’re not just a pretty face.” He pulls a plastic bottle from my purse and shakes out a monster-sized pill. He walks into my kitchenette and pours a glass of water. He hands me both. I take them from him and swallow the pill.

  “I can help you with your swimming. Get in that ocean water, paddle around, build confidence up. I can get you up on a board in no time, Bonita.”

  “Why are you calling me, Bonita?” I ask.

  “That’s Spanish for pretty,” he says. “But you already know that you’re pretty.”

  “Okay?” I say. “Let’s talk about the surfing thing next time. I’m wiped.” I say and hold out my hand to shake his. Gracious of me considering I never plan to see him again.

  “Perfect.” He takes my hand in his. His grip is firm. He squeezes my hand and pulls me toward him. My face is inches away from the V-neck of his T-shirt. I’m breathing into the firm flesh of his chest — so wide and strong I am practically dwarfed next to it.

  “I can’t leave yet, Bonita.” He places a finger under my chin, tilts my face up, and I have no choice but to look up into those gorgeous, hazel eyes rimmed with long, black eyelashes. “I have one more thing to do before I leave.”

  My sublet’s old. The walls are painted over with colors ranging from eggshell white to eggshell blue to yellow. The oversized kitchen sink has small cracks in the porcelain.

  I can see all this as I lean over the vintage Spanish-tiled counter. My head drops forward while Max stands to my side and massages shampoo onto my beer soaked head.

  “I think you got it all out,” I say.

  “I poured it on five seconds ago.” He leans in a little closer, his leg pressing against me.

  Distract, distract from the hot guy. “Why does everyone call you a driver?” I ask.

  “I’m a designated driver. My friends and I drive friends of friends when they’ve partied too hard. Had too much to drink.” He turns the water back on and rinses my hair.

  “That’s nice of you,” I say.

  “It makes sense. I hardly ever drink. Don’t do drugs. Everyone knows I’ll take keys or drive them home if they’ve had too much. As long as they don’t abuse the privilege.”

  Interesting. Max isn’t your typical, party boy. He runs a hand through my hair, pulling sections, the warm water soothing. He rinses off the shampoo so thoroughly I calculate how many ones to tip him to make him do this for another ten minutes. “Thanks. Now I don’t have to go to bed with beer head.”

  “You’re welcome.” He finds a towel somewhere, and pat dries my hair. I could get used to this. After all the stress of today, I should make the effort to stay awake and let him do this for another hour. He wraps the towel around my head and tucks in the corner like a turban.

  “Head out of the sink, please.”

  A chair scrapes across the linoleum floor. “Sit here.”

  “You forgot the conditioner,” I say, suddenly craving his hands. “It’s because you’re a guy. And I’m not sure if men even use conditioner. If I don’t get conditioner, my hair will—”

  Max’s phone rings with “Gimme Shelter” and he glances down. “Oh, man, Bonita. Gotta take this. The conditioner will have to wait. Sleep tight.” He quirks a smile, turns, and leaves.

  And just like that? My first day in L.A. has officially ended.

  Chapter Four

  Walking out the door the next morning, I nearly trip over a bouquet of white daisies jammed in a mason jar. A white envelope rests against it. I open it and pull out a greeting card — an illustration of a dog looking up at a man pointing to a well. The caption reads, “Get well!”

  Dear Maia:

  * * *

  Hope you’re feeling better. Meet me at the Grill tonight? I’m dying to see your beautiful, Midwestern face.

  * * *

  Best,

  Max

  Beneath his signature is his phone number. My smile quickly fades because I’m never going back to the Grill. I didn’t travel to L.A. for romance. Today is going to be jam-packed with all sorts of adventures. Just not the kind I had last night.

  I’m back at the hospital but in a different wing. I walk down what feels like miles of bland hallways, past white-coated doctors and folks in scrubs. At the end of the hallway a man and woman sit behind a glassed in desk and talk in hushed tones on headsets. I smile at the receptionists and wait my turn.

  People flip through weathered magazines and scroll on their phones. One woman slumps forward, rubbing her temples with the heels of her hands.

  A male receptionist wearing nerdy glasses turns his attention to me. “How can I help you?”

  “I have an appointment for the study.”

  “Great. Sign in on the roster.” He hands me a clipboard filled with a stack of paperwork. “Fill this out and we’ll get you up and running. I’ll take your insurance card. Print the name of the person and their contact information in case of emergency. Have a seat over there.” He points.

  I sign in, take a seat and, fill out the forms:

  How long have you had symptoms?

  A year and a half.

  Check the boxes next to the symptoms you have experienced.

  Check. Check. Check.

  Has anyone else in your family been diagnosed with this condition? If your answers is yes, please fill in your relationship to this person as well as if they are still l
iving?

  Yes. Grandmother. Very much alive.

  Fifteen minutes later I hand him the paperwork.

  “You are already in our system.” He squints at his computer screen. “ER visit last night.” He glances up. “Ouch. That must have hurt.”

  “You should have seen the other guy.” I flex my arm.

  He smiles. “Name’s Phil if you have any questions. Down that hall,” he points. “Room 342 on the left. Good luck.”

  An IV inserted into the back of my hand, hospital techs wheel my gurney into an operating room.

  It’s a small, white space. Instruments are neatly arranged on stainless steel carts. There’s a crash cart with electric paddles should my heart decide to tank during the procedure. Large round lights beam down on me like I’m about to be interviewed for a TV show.

  But I’m not.

  I’m going to have stem cells injected into my spinal cord.

  “Hi, Maia,” a friendly female voice says from behind a mask and goggles once I’m on the operating table. “I’m Dr. Warren. I’ll be in charge of your anesthesiology today. I’m going to knock you out for just a little bit. I’ll be with you the whole time. You won’t feel a thing. I promise.”

  “Thank you.” I give her a thumbs up.

  “Hello, Ms. Priebe.” A George Clooney look alike leans in and smiles. “I’m Dr. Winkler and I’ll be performing your procedure. Thanks for participating in this study. We’re hoping to help a lot of folks, just like you, in the future.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Winkler.”

  “Maia. Start at ten and count backward,” Dr. Warren says.

  “Ten. Nine.” The lights on the ceiling waver. “Eight.” I felt a little funny. “Sevvvv—”

  I wake with a shudder. I’m on a skinny cot in a room that smells of antiseptic.