The Bodyguard Read online

  “How do you feel?” a nurse asks.

  “Achy.”

  “Can you roll onto your side?”

  “Sure.” I gingerly turn over.

  “I’m going to check your injection sites.” She pulls off the gauze. “Looking good.

  “Great.”

  She re-applies my bandages then hands me a cup. “Juice and crackers are on the cart. Rest up for a bit longer. Get dressed when you’re ready. Buzz if you want any help. And take it easy. Don’t overdo anything for a few days.”

  I nod. “Just have one simple thing I need to get done this afternoon.”

  I board the Blue Line Bus on a campus intersection, take a seat next to a smudgy window and head toward Venice Beach. I peer at the maps and schedules of L.A.’s bus routes that I’d grabbed from the Student Union because I still don’t have a working phone.

  My summer journey involves a plethora of important appointments and I just spent most of the day at my first. Getting admitted to the UCLA Stem Cell trial study for early onset multiple sclerosis was a big deal.

  I’d signed paperwork promising that I wouldn’t participate in other healing modalities while I allowed UCLA doctors to pump me full of stem cells, draw blood, and do MRI scans of my brain and spinal cord.

  I’d already decided before I flew out here to break these rules. Because, while I’d had MS for only a year and a half, my Nana was diagnosed thirty years earlier. She’d been highly-functioning until she landed in a wheelchair five years ago and she’d grown a lot worse the past six months.

  I don’t know how much time she has left and I can’t lose her without a fight. I plan on exploring the cornucopia of alternative medicines and treatments that can help stop MS’s progression or even cure it. While it would have been fun to venture to India to explore alternative healing, that would have killed my budget. That left L.A. as the nearest mecca for unconventional therapies.

  I researched alternative therapies and L.A. has just about everything. Acupuncture with dry cupping. Acupuncture with wet cupping. Shamans. Peyote. Vision Quests. Brujerias and concoctions. Gurus. Sweat Lodges. Re-birthing. Cranio-sacral. Thai massage. Yoga. I’m on a journey to find healing for the both of us.

  The sun sinks toward the horizon as I step off the bus in Venice at Lincoln and Brooks. I stand next to Patsy’s Pet Store and Exotic Creatures Emporium and see the “Adopt a Kitten” banner in their window above a large cage filled with kittens. I pull my directions from my purse but can’t resist ogling the fur babies.

  An orange fluff ball wrestles a tabby. A fat, fuzzy black kitten put his paws up on the rungs, gazes at me determinedly and meows which sounds like, “Eep.”

  “Stop with the cuteness. Someone will adopt you but it can’t be me,” I say and tear myself away from the window. The bus squelches fumes in my face as it pulls into traffic. I check my directions. I walk a couple of blocks, turn left, turn right, then a few blocks down turn left again. It’s almost a maze back here. I round a few more corners and arrive at my destination.

  The house is small; a tiny fenced-in yard overgrown with flowers in a rainbow of colors. Hummingbirds hover around a feeder. A hand written sign hanging from the gate’s entrance read, “Namasté. Please enter and leave quietly so as not to disturb our neighbors.” I press the security keypad next to the gate and I’m buzzed in.

  Native-American dreamcatchers dangle from latches on small, cracked open old windows. Metal bars painted a flaking white are bolted on the outside. I stand in a small living room with bookshelves filled with books on healing, cultivating a positive attitude, and an impressive assortment of crystals.

  I’m waiting for my appointment with Lizzie Sparks, medical intuitive to the stars. I’d read and re-read Lizzie Sparks’ books after stumbling upon them several years earlier. Her first: You are a Healer—Not a Disease was on bestseller lists for over a year.

  A woman wearing yoga attire and a headset smiles at me from behind an ergonomically designed desk. “She’ll be with you soon….” She squints at her computer then looks up. “Miss Priebe?”

  I nod. The light’s fading outside in a muted display of colors over the Pacific Ocean, maybe a mile away. Wow. Gorgeous. I’d been nervous about doctors injecting my spinal cord with stem cells, but everything about today had gone smoothly so far. The polar opposite of yesterday.

  “Lizzie can see you now. Come with me.”

  A Tiffany-style lamp rests on a side table next to a big, cushy armchair. Lizzie Sparks sits across from me and holds my hand in hers. She’s in her seventies and gorgeous — silver hair, high cheekbones, fit. She’s dressed in unpretentious khakis and a floral peasant top. I hope I’ll be lucky enough to look like her when I hit her age.

  If I hit her age.

  “You traveled a long distance to be here, Maia,” she says. “You want answers about a disease that you were recently diagnosed with. I sense you’re already struggling with a few weird symptoms.”

  “Yes,” I say. “The tremors come out of nowhere as do the weakness, dizziness, and random seizures.”

  “You’ve been through radical changes the past year. First you were diagnosed, then your boyfriend left. It hurt but you knew he wasn’t the guy for you.”

  I nod.

  “You came to L.A. to find someone.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I came to L.A. to find healing.”

  “We picture how our lives are supposed to play out. How healing is supposed to look or feel. But you know the old saying?”

  “Which one?”

  “Tell God your plans and listen to her laugh.” Lizzie squeezes my hand and smiles.

  Laugh about this, God. I wasn’t expecting MS. Yes, my Nana had it, but my mom didn’t and I thought I was free and clear. I was attending U of W, Whitewater and was planning on grad school—not being a human guinea pig in a medical study. “Ms. Sparks. Do you have a sense of which healers I should see while I’m here in L.A.?”

  “Close your eyes.”

  I do.

  She holds my hand for a few more awkward moments. “Don’t take this the wrong way but your heart’s closed. Go to the healers who can help you open.” She releases my hand. “Make sense?”

  “No,” I say and frown because she’s being too generic. She could say these things to anyone. “I don’t know who can open my heart.” I pull a list of healers and clinics from my purse and thrust it in front of her. “These people claim to success for diseases like MS, Lupus, even certain types of cancer.” My hand trembles and I hear the nurse’s voice in my head, “Take it easy for a few days, Maia.”

  Lizzie takes the list, slides a pair of readers on her face, and grabs a pen. She peruses and draws brisk lines through names. “I don’t want to bad mouth anyone. Feel free to ignore my recommendations. I’ve been in this business for a long time and know the good ones, the opportunists, and the jury’s out on a lot of other folks.” She hands it back to me.

  About a third of my potential saviors are inked out. “Thanks.”

  “You already set your intention to explore healing. You put it out into the universe. The wheels are turning and the right people—and they’re not all loving and kind—facilitate your lessons. The right people are being cast, just like actors in a play. They’re probably already showing up in your life.”

  Her phone chimes and she stands up. “Great working with you. Keep me updated on how it’s going.”

  Chapter Five

  The sun’s set and a chill’s in the air from the beach fog that’s rolled in, obscuring streetlights and buildings and further confusing my sense of direction. Or lack of it.

  Thirty years ago, Venice was the surfer capitol of the world. Now it’s a mish-mash of Silicon Beach meets upscale retail meets gang banger. I researched all this before I traveled here and I know that technically I’m smack dab in the gang banger section.

  I squint at my hand scrawled directions attempting to walk back the way I came. But the houses look different. I slip my phone
from my purse. It’s still dead. I make my way down short blocks, turning corners. But I still can’t find Lincoln Avenue — the thoroughfare with the buses that will take me back to my new home close to UCLA.

  I trudge past a park, graffiti sprayed on concrete walls behind a court where a bunch of tatted up guys play basketball. “Excuse me, do you know which direction Lincoln is?”

  “You a tourist?” A twenty-something, tatted man asks. “You lost?” He cocks his shaved head.

  “No. Just got a little turned around. Can you point me in the direction of Lincoln?”

  “Lincoln’s in a tomb somewhere and has been for a while.” His shorter and more inked up friend ambles toward me.

  “Ha. Right. Thanks.” I walk away from them, pull out my phone, punch numbers, and fake phone call. “It’s me. You’re right around the corner? Terrific!”

  “I’ll show you where Lincoln is.” The first guy smiles, moving toward me, licking his lips.

  I turn and break into a run. I don’t know where Lincoln is and right now I don’t care.

  Twenty minutes later I stagger toward a bus stop. The stop and go traffic has eased and cars rush past each other. The occasional jerk cuts someone off and horns blare. Tall streetlights slice through the beach fog casting spooky illuminations onto the pavement and people below.

  A disheveled man wearing pink robes stumbles from a doorway and yells, “Hare Krishna!” My shoulders slam into my ears as I veer around him. I pass a crowd of trendy twenty-somethings taking selfies in a long line that snakes into a two-story brick building, loud music vibrating the walls. My face throbs. My back’s warm and achy at the injection site.

  I find the bus stop on Lincoln outside the pet store. A tiny light in the store’s interior hovers over the cage of kittens in the window. Adrenaline’s draining fast from my body, leaving me on the far side of tired. Or maybe the exhaustion’s from the anesthesia. My second night in L.A. is almost as much fun as the first.

  I peer into the window. The kittens are sleeping with the exception of the longhaired, black one who wrestles a pink fuzzy toy about half his size. “You’re ridiculously cute,” I say. He drops the toy, toddles to the window, looks up at me and meows.

  My heart squeezes in my chest. “No. I don’t need a cat right now. I’ll send out the good vibes that the right person adopts you soon.” I tap the window over his fat, squishy face, make myself turn, and walk the few steps to the bus stop.

  I sit through the forty-odd stops from Venice to Westwood. My bones ache. My back spasms. An hour later I clutch the handrail and descend steep stairs. I walk a few more blocks and I’m back at my apartment building.

  Cole’s outside with Gidget who skitters over the grass, sniffing until she finds the best spot. “You okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” I dig through my purse for keys. “Tired.”

  “Hey, so I worked at home today. Not to be nosy but I saw the flowers on your doorstep. And a hot guy with shoulders I’d kill for dropped off cookies this afternoon.”

  Sure enough, a basket rests on my doorstep with tinfoil tightly wrapped around its contents. “How do you know there are cookies?”

  “Because I borrowed one,” he says. “Sorry, the fresh baked spell was making me nuts. I’ll pay you back. You just moved in yesterday, but between the flowers, card, cookies, the hot guy, and Gidget barking at you last night --”

  Gidget narrows her eyes and growls.

  “—your arrival here, Maia, is turning into a bit of a mystery. And I’m Sherlock Holmes when it comes to solving mysteries.”

  “Not a big mystery. I’m just here for the summer session.”

  “You feel like sharing more cookies let me know.” He picks up Gidget and heads into his apartment.

  I sit down on the front step, unwrap the tin foil, and sink my teeth into a chocolate chip cookie. A postcard is stuck in the basket, a “DRIVEN” logo stamped on it.

  Dear Maia:

  * * *

  I made these from scratch. That wasn’t easy, because I suck at baking. I hope you like them.

  Summer session doesn’t start for two days. I volunteer as a tour guide. I’ll show you around town. Message me or track me down at the Grill.

  * * *

  Best,

  Max Alejandro Levine

  When I’m struck with an idea.

  Chapter Six

  I stand in the vestibule of the Westwood Grill. It’s Saturday, and once again the place is packed, standing-room-only. I spotted some of the same characters from the other night and many more faces I don’t recognize.

  “Hey girl. Glad you’re back.” The same waitress smiles, passing me with a round of appetizers and drinks. “You feeling any better?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  The same bartender’s behind the bar pouring beers, cutting limes and sticking wedges into tall glasses. The same booby blonde perches at a four-top surrounded by her triplet wannabes while a hive of horny, cute, college-aged dudes buzz around them dropping off drinks, appetizers, and flirting.

  The one guy I don’t see is Max. I pull his card from my purse and reach for my phone when I feel a gentle tug on my elbow. “You’re Maia, right?”

  I nod and gaze up into the handsome face of a beach blonde twenty-something man. He smiles at me with crystal blue eyes, the faintest of twinkle wrinkles etched around them. His T-shirt and jeans accentuate a tanned surfer’s body.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Friend of Max.” He extends a Corona bottle with a lime wedged on the top.

  “Thanks.” I accept it and take a slug. “Your name is?”

  “Ethan. I never thought I’d see you back at the Grill after the other night.”

  “Ditto that.”

  He nods. “UCLA is basically a college town. Shit happens, but someone like you—an innocent bystander getting injured—it’s rare. How are you feeling?” He peers at my face.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Max did a great job stepping up to the plate. He’s a great driver, but he isn’t the only one. There’s a bunch of us. We’re dedicated. We’ve been through our share of shit but we’re clean.”

  “What does that mean?” I take another sip of beer.

  “Maybe you should ask Max.”

  “I’d love to. But he’s not here.”

  “He’s here.” Ethan points to the opposite corner of the bar.

  I crane my neck and spot him. A stunning young woman with a killer body perches on Max’s lap. Her black, shiny hair’s cropped short just like her floral sundress. She drapes a bare, tanned arm across his shoulders and whispers in his ear. He tilts his head back and laughs. And my heart drops into my stomach.

  Mr. Gorgeous is with Ms. Gorgeous. Just as nature intends. I break out into a sweat. I feel every scab on my face, every puncture on my back, in this place packed with impossibly beautiful people, with the exception of me—Ms. Diseased. There’s no way Max could ever be interested in me. He was just doing his job. He was just being sweet. I was simply his latest rescue case.

  “He’s busy,” I say. “Thanks for the beer, Ethan. See you around?” I smile up at him friendly. Flirty. Fake.

  He smiles back and holds up his beer bottle. We toast. “Absolutely. Looking forward to it.”

  I turn to leave.

  “Maia?”

  “What?”

  “You’re new in town. You probably already know you’re pretty—”

  Ethan has a sense of humor.

  “—you’re a little different from most of the girls around here. Us drivers are intrigued.”

  “Who are the drivers?”

  He points to a table. Two handsome, young guys tip their glasses toward us. “Right now there are four of us. That said—we have a short code of ethics. One: Don’t drink and drive. Two: Do your best to take keys away without hitting anyone. Three: The driver who meets a pretty girl first gets dibs on her until he screws it up. I’m hoping that happens tonight. Go talk with Max. Maybe if I’m lucky h
e’ll screw it up.”

  I glance over at Max and the gorgeous girl. She’s whispering into his ear, their faces touching, her arms wrapped around his neck. One of his arms circles her waist. They’re a beautiful couple. Healthy, attractive. Made for each other. I’m already a pawn on too many boards. I have zero desire to be a player in another.

  I down my beer. “I’ve got a better idea. Tell Max thanks for me. Thanks for the card and the cookies and helping me the other night.” I put the bottle down with a thunk. “But I’m not ready to be driven.”

  I skip the fast food and make my way back to my apartment. This time I know the route. Turn left at the convenience store. Walk four blocks. Turn right on the street with the three lemon trees on the corner. They smell so lemony – not like grocery store lemons back home in. I’m going to grab one and make lemonade. But I freeze when I see Max’s Jeep parked across the street from my apartment building, him leaning back against it.

  “Wuss,” Max says.

  “What?”

  “Wuss.” He makes his way toward me. “You came to the Grill to see me but then you left. Why’d you chicken out?”

  “I did not chicken out.”

  “You totally chickened out. You sent Ethan, of all people to tell me, ‘Thank you, but I’m not ready to be driven?’ What kind of bullshit is that?”

  “Not bullshit. Honesty,” I say. “Leave. Go back to the Grill.”

  He stares at me with those pretty hazel eyes but I refuse to let all that sexiness suck me in. My heart beats a little faster, but I turn my attention to the lemon tree, and reach for a juicy one high overhead.

  His hand brushes against mine, and shivers zip down my spine. He snaps the fruit and holds it out to me. “Your answer doesn’t cut it, Bonita.”

  I suddenly miss Wisconsin where lemons didn’t smell lemony and I already knew and had turned down the majority of the Alpha Boys. “Look Max. I’m not a wuss. I’m simply the new girl in town for summer session at UCLA who had one bad night.”