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When Harrison finishes struggling to get everything back into the glove compartment, he says, “Let me guess, you get your Tic Tacs from Costco.”
“I do,” I admit. “But I don’t eat them as much in the summer. Less stress. Though with the way the media is taking over, maybe I should get some more.”
“I don’t see anyone,” Harrison says, looking around as I gun the gutless car up one of the undulating hills. “With James stationed there now, it seems to be doing the trick.”
“Yeah, well, from the way Monica talks about the media, I wouldn’t be surprised if things get worse. So far it’s just been local press. What happens when the Brits get here?”
“We’ll handle it,” Harrison says gruffly.
“I sure hope so,” I tell him. “Because the more I learn about them, the more I’m horrified by them. Monica and Eddie don’t deserve any of that.”
“They don’t,” he says. “But it comes with the territory. Eddie is used to it. He doesn’t know any different. And Monica is too, to a degree.”
“I remember when Monica was MRed. I loved her music, honestly. Sure, TMZ would occasionally talk shit about her, and maybe some crappy tabloid would take a picture of her at the beach and point out cellulite, as if she isn’t allowed to have any. But she wasn’t treated like the way she’s treated now. It just enrages me that they can be so cruel and vicious because she’s not a royal, not an aristocrat, not white. Meanwhile, Eddie’s older brother gets to gallivant around, having numerous public affairs with models and actresses and socialites, and no one says anything bad about him or the girls. Double fucking standard.”
“He’s gotten some flack; don’t think he’s gotten off easy,” Harrison says.
“I suppose you would know more than I do.”
“I do,” he says, adjusting himself in the seat. He seems so uncomfortable, I almost feel bad.
“So, how long have you been doing this? I mean, your job. For the duke and duchess?”
“I’ve been working for Eddie for six years,” he says. With his stiff posture and the way his mouth is pressed firmly closed, I know he doesn’t want to talk about anything to do with him. But that’s all the more reason to make him talk. He’s my prisoner in this car for a reason. I don’t have a problem going off island to do an errand—it’s good for your mental health to get off this rock. But a chance to actually have quality time, one-to-one, with the mysterious British bodyguard? You can bet I won’t pass that up, and I’m not going to let this opportunity go to waste.
“So, tell me, how did you get the job? Did you see an ad in the classifieds or . . . ?”
He glances at me sharply, as if I’m serious, and I quickly have to clarify, “I’m joking. But seriously . . . how does one become a royal bodyguard?”
Silence fills the car. Well, that’s not true: the sound of the raggedy engine fills the car, but my question has caused him to clam up, and there’s tension between us. Sometimes I really wish I could know what he’s thinking and why just asking simple questions seems to piss him off so much. Perhaps he’s not even allowed to talk about it.
I hadn’t considered that, and I’m about to tell him to forget it when he clears his throat.
“I met Eddie in the army,” he says. He leans back against the seat, his focus out the window at the passing houses nestled in the trees, lightly drumming his fingers on his left knee. “We became fast friends. After he left, I stayed on. Got injured, my leg. Had to leave. Eddie and I were still in touch; he was adamant that I come work for him. I told him I had no experience in being a PPO, but he didn’t care. He said he wanted someone he could trust. So I went, and I learned how to protect him. I’ve never looked back.”
So Harrison was in the British Army. I am so not surprised.
“Is that when you got your tattoo?” I ask.
He turns to look at me, frowning as he shifts in his seat. “How do you know I have a tattoo?”
Against my better judgment, I take my hand off the wheel and reach out, tugging at the sharp end of his white collared shirt. “Sometimes you can see it.”
“Hands on the wheel,” he says, wrapping his fingers around my wrist and placing my hand back there. “Eyes on the road.”
I laugh, even though my skin is practically buzzing from where he touched me. His hands are warm. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to risk my life to ogle you.”
He grunts.
“So, your tattoo,” I press.
A long moment passes. “I got my tattoos a very long time ago. Before the army.”
