Page 2 of Forced Proximity

‘Yeah, I know.’ I feel frown lines appear on the corners of my mouth. I’m already bucking the LA Botox culture, but it doesn’t mean I want to deepen the wrinkles formed by my familiar expression. ‘Unless you want to assign me to Meryl Streep, Jodie Foster or George Clooney, I’m not working for an actor. Especially this guy.’

I keep this little nugget to myself because it makes me feel like a jerk, but a guy like Justin Greenwood probably has no concept of hard work unless it involves his abs and is definitely the type to die first during a social Darwin experiment. Deep down, do I know my opinion’s a little unfair? Probably. Am I going to do a psychological self-exploration deep-dive as to why I feel this way? Probably not.

Marcus’s expression is not changing. Ugh.

‘What’s your problem with actors?’

He really wants me to keep going. See? I don’t need therapy. All I need is to sit under Marcus’s invasive stare once a week and purge all my inner demons.

‘I just hate being around the Hollywood crap. Too much value is placed on appearance and wealth, and they are totally clueless to the daily struggles of the average person.’

‘Judgmental much?’

Perhaps. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been accused of that. Although I’ll go to my grave swearing that my snap judgments have saved my life more than once. The leather office chair squeaks as Marcus leans back, his massive, sturdy body pushing the limits of what the chair can handle. He stares at me for so long and gives me his tell – rubbing a flattened palm across his bald head. Crap. Whatever he’s about to say, I’m not going to like it.

‘Well, feelings aside, you were specifically requested for this job,’ he says. ‘And I think you’d be perfect.’

I push my palm into my chin to crack my jaw. ‘Why me?’

‘Your … particular talents are needed. It’s right here in LA and should be a three – maybe six – month gig at most.’

‘That’s already too long.’ In any given week, I might be on a client’s jet, flying all over the country for weekend gigs or high-profile daily events. None of my jobs exceed a few weeks, which is the biggest perk of being in private security. The quick pace and contract environment allow me to keep my anonymity and never form any real connections – which suits me just fine, thank you very much.

He edges the folder toward me. ‘Peek again.’

An over-the-top, nearly squeaky, irritated sigh leaves my mouth as I pick up the file. I’ve not busted my ass for twelve years at this firm, destroyed my marriage with my now ex-wife and trained every day since I was ten to be a nanny for some dickhead actor.

‘I’m not doing it,’ I say. ‘But give me the details and I’ll think of a good recommendation.’

I cross my legs over my tactical cargo pants, and tug on my white T-shirt – the wardrobe Marcus hates. Marcus has muscles for days, cheekbones that would make a runway model jealous, and reminds me a bit of a bald, slightly older Idris Elba. He’s also old school, and besides workout clothes, I’ve only seen him out of a shirt and tie exactly three times: once when he married his long-time love, Ethan; once when I stopped by their home after a grueling job; and once when he visited me in the hospital after The Incident.

In the beginning, Marcus tried hard to convince me to wear a business suit, to maintain the professional appearances of his agents. But I vehemently refused. Being agile in my clothes is far more important than adhering to a ridiculous, archaic dress code. I can’t run, shoot or do proper hand-to-hand combat in business clothes. And don’t get me started on the lack of pockets. In a suit, where the hell would I stuff my firearm, flashlight and emergency glucose tabs?

‘All right.’ Marcus slips on his bifocals and turns his attention to his laptop. ‘Here’s the information we’ve gathered. Justin has received several disturbing messages, going far beyond trolls invading his social media space.’ He hands me a second file. ‘The letters and packages arrived at both his agent’s office and the studio, and his neighborhood gate security staff intercepted another. The contents have been harmless, just odd stuffed animals and toys, but the velocity of the violent images is increasing.’

I flip through the letters, photos of a creepy, bloodied stuffed teddy bear, and photoshopped images of Justin’s face slashed. Strange stuff, definitely. But in this line of business, I’ve seen worse. ‘Why don’t they take this to the police? Or the feds?’

‘The studio wants to keep this tight-lipped. They don’t want undue media pressure messing with potential box office. If they get law enforcement involved, especially the feds, the public will seize on that headline.’

I call bullshit. ‘I thought all press is good press.’ I slide the file back on the desk. ‘Whatever project he’s working on, wouldn’t this just give him more publicity?’

‘Normally, yes.’ He tugs off his bifocals. ‘But in today’s political climate, they’re not taking any chances. The studio had to delay production already because of a casting shift. Something like this could stop production completely, and they don’t want to lose out on their investment unless it’s a serious threat.’

Typical. Heaven forbid the studio slows production for the safety of the cast or crew. It’s different when I’m protecting politicians or CEOs. We can’t possibly cancel every appearance because of threats, or we’d never go anywhere. But if the studio is seriously concerned, they could. Which means, yet again, they don’t need me.

I clasp my hands around the nape of my neck and tap my fingers to the back of my skull. ‘I can think of twenty other people you can assign to this. You don’t need me.’

Marcus runs his hand down his close-trimmed black beard. ‘We do need you. Mr Greenwood’s team wants someone who’s a chameleon.’

‘Why is he requesting low-profile security?’ In our industry, sometimes being a female bodyguard has advantages. I’m often hired for discreet situations when the client doesn’t want to draw extra attention – the opposite of someone like Justin Greenwood, who seems to crave it. ‘This is the same guy who did a backflip on the red carpet for his last premiere. Pretty sure this dude is the last one to shy away from the spotlight.’

Marcus rolls a pen between his palms. ‘According to his team, he likes to stay local, buy his own groceries, things like that.’

Really?

‘Justin likes to fly under the radar when possible and not draw a lot of attention. So they’ve asked for a certain … someone.’ Marcus clears his throat. ‘And you fit the bill.’

He just cleared his damn throat. Former Marine, six foot two, solid block of muscles even as he’s pushing mid-fifties, Marcus Bishop, is not the type of man who clears his throat. Ever. Spidey-tingles fly through me.