Page 9 of The Brat and the Bodyguard

That’s why I’m at Justin’s mansion now. My boyfriend lives on a giant estate on the outskirts of Vegas. It’s a three-story house befitting a rap mogul, and he pays a fortune for security. He also pays a fortune to keep the lawns a lush emerald green because this is the desert, and it takes gallons of water to bring vegetation to life. But Justin has money to spend and a verdant green lawn is what he wants, even if he’s been picketed once or twice for it.

“The protestors don’t bother me,” he said in a lofty tone as people literally marched by his front gate, signs over their shoulders.

“Really?” I asked, eyebrows rising. “The clanging bells and chants don’t bother you?”

Justin shrugged.

“I don’t talk to poor people,” he said in a flat tone. “But I’ll get my security to drive them off. Maybe I’ll even call law enforcement. A night in jail would do some of those fuckers good,” he said with satisfaction.

I was taken aback because sometimes, my boyfriend is a total asshole. I’m not an ardent environmentalist, but I can see why people would be opposed to a verdant green lawn in the middle of a desert! Still, my opinion fell on deaf ears, and soon enough, the picket line was disbanded and peace descended once again.

But Justin is irrepressible. Not only does he spend a fortune on water, but he’s also landscaped his property to within an inch of its life by putting in a swimming pool, erecting a private dog park, and constructing an artificial pond at the far end of his estate. Yes, all this in the middle of the desert, and again, it cost a fortune. Most people would be horrified by the fantasyland he’s created, but Justin simply doesn’t care. He’s a billionaire mogul who can buy anything and everything he wants, no matter the cost to our environment. Frankly, I don’t know what’s worse – the yes men who kowtow to his every whim, or my own cowardice for not taking a stand.

But my boyfriend also loves dogs, which makes me feel atinybit better because dogs need space to roam outdoors. Plus, Justin has twelve canines under his care, so he’s practically running a kennel at this point. It’s also how he justifies the size of his massive estate.

“Dogs can develop personality problems if they don’t get out enough,” he explained in a serious tone while we were in the initial stages of dating. “They need to be walked, talked to, and entertained, just like a human child. They need space to run, and to express themselves through movement. You like dogs, don’t you, Ainsley?”

I nodded.

“Yes, of course. We had the cutest terrier when I was growing up—”

“Perfect,” Justin said, cutting me off. “Maybe you’d like to walk my dogs every now and then. They adore beautiful women,” he winked. “They’ll love you, Ainsley.”

Thus, I became a member of Justin’s rotating cast of daily dog-walkers. Of course, he uses professionals, but he says that the dogs have a special bond with me, and prefer my “light touch” to the other handlers’ jerky and abrupt movements. That’s going a little far because I’ve observed many of our dog-walkers at work, and they’re neither jerky nor abrupt. If anything, Janice, Brenda, and Tom are gentle souls whose ability to manage a dozen playful canines at once is awe-inspiring.

But Idoenjoy walking Justin’s dogs, and I enjoy strolling the property too. It’s expansive and green, and the opportunity to commune with the lushness of nature is relatively rare in Nevada. As a result, I sometimes take the canines out early in the morning, before the desert sun gets too hot. Button is my favorite of the bunch. She’s a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel with a silky white and brown coat, and large, emotive eyes. She can be jumpy at times, and responds well to quality one-on-one time with her handler, which in this case is me. So I took an Uber bright and early to the estate before letting myself in quietly without waking anyone. Now, Button and I are enjoying our time together.

“What a gorgeous day,” I murmur to the spaniel, savoring the rays of pink and yellow peeping over the horizon. “It’s nice to be alone, just the two of us, don’t you think? It’s me and you, Butts. Do you mind if I call you that?”

Button turns her head and snuffles at me. I know what she wants, and unsnap her leash so that she can explore with freedom. Immediately, the dog darts off to investigate something in the bushes, and I smile.

“Feels good to be off-leash, doesn’t it?” I ask. “If only my brother hadn’t put ahumanleash on me.”

Of course, Button doesn’t reply. But then the aggrieved squawk of a bird makes me jolt, and then there’s a loud rustling from the bushes. A bird bursts free from the leaves, soaring into the sky as Button follows, barking desperately.

“Ruff ruff!” she snaps. “Ruff!”

“Button, stop!” I scold. “It’s early and you’re going to wake people up! Besides, the bird is long gone.”

But the spaniel continues to follow her imaginary bird, her head lifted towards the sky as she darts along the landscaped lawn.

“Button,” I yell, my eyes widening. “Watch out!”

Her short legs continue to churn as she races at light speed, her eyes still fixed on the sky. Then, the poor cocker spaniel plunges headfirst into the artificial pond with a loud splash. Yes, most dogs have spatial awareness and know where they are in relation to obvious geographic markers. Most dogs can also swim, but it’s clear that Button can’t. She barks once before her head goes underwater, her paws thrashing furiously.

“Button! Button!” I scream while running to the pond. “Oh my god, Button!”

I don’t hesitate. I run to the lake and jump in fully-clothed, intent on saving the dog.

“Button!” I scream. “Oh my god, Button!”

The water is icy and freezing. Fortunately, the lake isn’t too deep and I’m able to stand, although I’m already on my tippy-toes as I reach for the flailing cocker spaniel. I grab onto her wet fur with both hands and literally drag her into my arms, hauling twenty pounds of soaked dog.

“Oh my god, Button!” I scold while trying to catch my breath. The water feels sub-zero, and I’m drenched from head to toe, teeth already chattering. “What were you thinking?”

But my words are cut off because just as I’m about to step out of the pond, a giant hand grabs me by the scruff of the neck. Literally, it attaches to the back of my shirt and hauls me from the cold, dark water, only to be faced with two tons of angry man.

Him again.

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