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Chapter One
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Wyatt
“I don’t need a fucking bodyguard, Bruce. Look at me for fuck’s sake. Does it look like I need someone guarding me?”
He gives me no answer other than a cocked eyebrow. God damn, I hate when he doesn’t say anything. It drives me fucking nuts.
“Bruce, come on? I’m not hiring a fucking bodyguard, buddy. You can hang it in your ass.”
“Might I put forth the annoying fact you don’t actually have eyes in the back of your head? And no matter how big and tough you are, you are still human, and guns will hurt or kill you. And everybody has a blind spot they can't watch out for, Wyatt.”
I stop pacing and narrow my gaze on him. “What aren’t you telling me, Bruce?”
Bruce has been with me for…well, the entire time I’ve been an actor. I never had to worry about things because as an agent Bruce is amazing. That doesn’t mean we always see eye to eye or that I fall in line and do whatever the hell he wants me to. It just means most of the time, I will listen to what he has to say before I do what I want to do.
I’m not a stupid mother fucker. I know I’m not the characters I play in the movies. I know I’m mortal and nothing more than a semi-fragile meat suit like every other human on the planet. I’m not a macho man either. That’s not what this is.
This is about something more. This is about the nagging feeling I’ve had nestled in my chest that something - I'm not sure what - isn’t right. I’ve felt it for a long time now. Probably longer than whatever has Bruce’s dander up.
When you grow up like I did, you learn to have that sense of self-preservation. You listen to your gut because if you don’t, you won’t be around for long. I ‘ve not always been Wyatt Dagon, the movie star, I grew up on the streets. Not just running around and barely being home, I mean out doing bad shit because I didn’t have anything else to do. I ran the fuck away from one of my foster families that beat the shit out of me and never went back.
I was all over the place for a couple of years, and then I happened to get lucky and met a social worker who frequented the Asian restaurant I worked at. She took an interest in my story and called in reinforcements in the form of the US Marines. Her friend took me in, cleaned me up, helped me study for my GED, and became my guardian. His only requirement was that I join the Marines. So, I did.
I was really good at what I did, and it wasn’t long before people above my pay grade started taking notice and I was recruited for…more off-the-book missions than my peers. I got out just as the CIA came calling. I figured I didn’t want any of that spy-eat-spy shit, so I retired. It just so happened I was on the West Coast when I retired, and a talent scout found me.
At first, I did some television work for shits and giggles. It was kind of fun and even helped me work through some of the PTSD issues I had as a holdover from my military days. Then this movie producer wanted me to do some stunt work for the lead in a modern-day western. But as soon as the guy found out my name was Wyatt and that I knew the proper way to not onlyhold but also take apart nearly every damned gun they put in my hands, he hired me as one of the co-stars.
I’m not sure why but a lot of people seemed to like what they saw so the guy invited me back for the second movie and gave me a bigger part. And from there, an action star was born. I do a lot of war movies, some westerns, and a few political intrigue movies that deal with…fucking spies, what else. The movie I’m currently working on is taking a small break because my stunt guy, who does some of the more dangerous shit my insurance company absolutely won’t let me do, recently got hurt.
“Why don’t you quit jerking me around, Bruce, and tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“Okay, Wyatt. You remember the accident with Bob last week?” He goes on without pausing for my answer. “It wasn’t an accident. At least, they don’t think it was an accident.”
The truth of what he is telling me hits me full-on. Bob is a damn good stunt man and we work together even when I am doing my own stunts. So, it would be hard to tell when he’s going to take over or when I’m going to do the stunt. Hard to know the difference at all really.
“So those cut wires were meant for me. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“The studio isn’t taking any chances. They want the extra security or you’re off the movie.”
I fight with my temper and the gut reaction to tell him to tell them to go fuck themselves. Smart men think before they open their mouths to spew curse words.
“There’s been some other stuff too.”
“Other stuff?”
“Letters, e-mails, that kind of stuff.”
“So, tell me, who have you found to guard my body and settle down the old fucks at the studio over their pocketbooks being drained?”
Bruce slides a file across the glass top of the coffee table to me. I flip the folder open and start scanning. Bruce knows I like background, I like research and I want to know everything. I’m not a control freak…I’m trained. The agency has been formed by two retired policemen with excellent backgrounds and credentials. They did a lot of undercover work which is never fucking easy let me tell you. Not that I could even if I wanted to because that shit is still classified.
“They’re waiting on us in the kitchen.”
I stand to follow him while still reading the dossier this agency sent over. I look up just in time to grab Bruce by the arm, stopping him short of the room.
“Who the hell is that?”
