Page 17 of The Bodyguard Affair
“I was in the military at the time. Left a couple months after and went private. Trying something different,” I say, which is the line I’ve been telling all my colleagues. I refuse to be that guy unloading all my personal baggage. “Are you still writing?”
Her brows draw together, but before she can respond, a sharp ding interrupts us. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and practically darts for the door in a panic. “Sorry, I need to pick up the flower order ASAP.”
“No worries,” I say quickly before she disappears around the corner. “But we should talk sometime.”
She pauses in the doorway. “About what?”
“The fact that we know each other.” I lower my voice when I say it, just in case anyone is in earshot.
“We do know each other,” she agrees. “And now we work…in the same place. Do you think that’s a problem? A conflict of interest?”
I shrug. “No. I mean, nothing happened between us. Aside from my lip injury and your head injury.”
“You can say it,” she says, mouth curling into a smirk. “It was a horrible hookup. I know.”
I don’t have an opportunity to deny that statement, because her phone dings again and she vanishes down the hall.
Chapter 5
Andi
“It’s just a rule that if there’s a semi-attractive man around, I’ll make a fool out of myself,” I say to Amanda over the phone. I’m speed-walking, trying to finish my errands for Gretchen before tonight.
“You mean you don’t think face tats are sexy?” Amanda asks. This isn’t the first she’s heard about Nolan. I told her about our brief encounter after it first happened. So of course, I had to update her. And cancel on her, yet again, for the second time this week.
“No, Amanda. They are not.”
“I beg to differ. The last guy I went out with had one. It was his first name in italics down his cheekbone. Hendrix,” she says dreamily.
“I’ll never understand why people get their first name tattooed on their bodies. Are they afraid to forget it?”
“It suited him. You’d have to see it up close to appreciate it,” she argues, though I highly doubt that. “Anyway, you really need to learn to reject hustle culture. There’s no glory in the grind, trust me. Just irreversible wrinkles, eye bags, and a dusty nether region.”
We have this conversation pretty much every time we talk. Amanda finds any capitalist 9–5 schedule to be “deeply disturbing spiritually,” let alone my 24/7-on-call schedule (with theoretical vacation time). I see her point. This lifestyle isn’t for everyone. When I first started, I didn’t think I’d last more than a year. But over time, I got better and better at anticipating Gretchen’s needs, understanding exactly what she wants, when she wants it, to the point where I’ve become indispensable. A necessity in her life. Needed. And it feels good to be needed for once.
Still, sometimes when I’m utterly spent at the end of a long day with no more energy left for my writing, I wish I could be more like Amanda, who lives life unencumbered by routine or rules in general. She’s an artist, always has been. Ever since we were kids, she could be found collecting funky-shaped twigs, rocks, or shells in the sand at the beach to be fashioned into unique pieces. She calls herself an environmentally conscious artist, who exclusively makes her art out of recycled trash and/or well-loved objects to highlight the impact of waste and “mindless consumption” on the environment.
She walks the walk, too, refusing to drive or live in one particular place, to my parents’ utter horror. Live in a van for a year on Vancouver Island? Check. Join a nudist commune? Check.
“Ew, please don’t say ‘nether region’ ever again,” I beg.
Of course, she screams it into the phone, cackling.
“Are you in public?” I ask, hearing a flurry of chatter in the background.
“Sure am. I’m at the liquor store, actually. I was grabbing some pinot for our night. Though since you’re no longer joining, I’m going trashy before I go out. Malibu and Wild Vines,” she adds.
“Have I ever told you how jealous I am of your ability not to care about what people think? Even our mother.”
“Oh my god. Speaking of Mom. She called me the other day, solely to complain about the drama with ladies at the country club over the food drive charity. Apparently, one of them knew about her past and asked her to give an account from personal experience in a speech at the banquet. Kind of an inspirational,Look where I am now, this can be you, toosort of schtick,” she explains.
I snort at the mere thought. “Mom must have been absolutely horrified that anyone knew she used to be poor.”
“Oh, she’s livid. She asked Dave if they could sue for defamation, as if it’s a big lie or something.”
“Amazing how quick you can forget you were ever on welfare, huh?”
“Truly. Anyway, enough negativity. I gotta go. The cashier just asked for my ID,” she informs proudly. “I have one last request.”
