Terrance Silver
I didn’t need a bodyguard. I also didn’t care much for the one I now had.
He looked like some kind of gothic macgyver, but instead of a mullet, he’d gone for a shoulder-length fantasy-ranger-that’s-never-heard-of-a-haircut look. Black hair, of course, to match black eyes. He was all in black, from ballcap to tactical boots, and had a black bomber jacket over the lot just to top it off. The only thing that wasn't black was his skin, which was a pasty white; almost translucent, like skin gets after being sick or indoors a lot. He didn't have a bit of color in his cheeks, and what there was in his lips was a faded pinkish-white except where they were chapped and showed signs of recent bleeding. It didn't match the outdoorsy tough-guy vibes, but it fit the goth vibes.
Like I said, he looked like both.
His heart might be as black as the rest of him, judging by the emotionless stare he’d had fixed on me for the last hour. If he didn't look almost bored I would have said he was edgy as a SWAT guy trying to sneak a hostage out alive under the kidnapper’s nose.
Which was maddening. I wasn't a hostage, he wasn't a cop. I didn't need a bodyguard invading my life and space.
Even if that's all he did was take up space.
So I was a shrimp . . . and I’d almost been kidnapped once . . . and my dad’s work had made me a few enemies at school . . . and a few enemies outside of school. Drew hadn’t taken up space. He’d been fun and conversational, knew all my favorite things, could quote all the same movies and most of the same books. We were friends. It was hard to remember that my dad even paid him.
He was also younger than this guy, who was probably in his twenties. Drew was only a couple of years older than me. Oh, and his name was Jackal Bangs. Who had a name like Jackal? “Try to be nice,” my dad had said, right before he conveniently got a phone call that pulled him away from home ten minutes before his new hire showed up. How was I supposed to be nice to someone who had only said “Okay” when my mom introduced us and proceeded to turn statue and stare for an hour like I had three heads?
I set down my book and looked at the clock. Ten in the morning. Avery should have finished whatever it was she was doing this morning by now. She was probably doing laundry now, listening to a self-help book or jazz, and waiting for another cup of coffee from her fancy machine.
I was feeling bored enough to bother her, which was messed up because spring break would be over in a week and Monday morning was my best opportunity to read right now. I was only halfway through Ballantyne’s The Pirate City.
But I had a guest—or an employee—or something—and he was probably as uncomfortable as I was. I hoped.
I looked up at him and offered what I intended to be more of a smile than a grimace. “So, are you from around here?”
He blinked; an encouraging sign of life. “No.”
“Where are you from?”
“I don't know.” I could hear his breath hitch despite the ten feet between us. He bit his lip and looked down. “I didn't mean to say that.”
That was one way to break the stare, but not what I intended. “I didn't mean to pry.”
“It's an inherently prying question.”
“I—” It was, wasn't it? Sort of. “Well, I'm sorry.” I stood, picked up my book, and crossed to the shelves that covered one wall of the room. Anything to keep busy. I glanced back at him as I slid the book into its place and saw he was watching me again.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“It's my job.”
“You’re allowed to look away.”
He shrugged. “I’d rather watch. I don't know you yet.”
Okay . . . Well, being the one distrusted was new. “Why don't we get to know each other, then?”
“I’ve been getting to know you for an hour.”
Good for him. I tried not to roll my eyes. “And what have you learned in that time?”
“You like to read, but treat your books like they’re fragile, you scratch your knee when you’re nervous, you think ignoring your problems will make them go away, and I'm on the list of problems you wish would go away.”
His eyes flicked back to his feet and up again to meet mine. Not that I intended to point out his nervous tics, but I was guessing that was one.
I was too surprised to mention that anyway, and found myself staring at him now.
“You’re smart,” I admitted, albeit grudgingly.
His shoulders grew more rigid. “Just paying attention is all.”
Of course. He had been watching me for an hour as I did my best not to look at him. Maybe I should have tried to be nice sooner.
I edged toward the door, seriously considering that coffee now, but his next words stopped me short.
“I'm going to call you Trot.”
I spun to look at him, sure I would see mockery on his face, but there was only the casual observation I’d heard reflected in his tone, and the guarded expression of before. There was almost, if I looked closely, what seemed to be curiosity.
Mine got the better of me before I could be angry. “What made you think of Trot?”
“You trot about like a colt. You look happy.” He said it with a shrug, but a trace of wonder, maybe even respect, underlaid the words . . . and I was sure there was wistfulness in the last.
Maybe my imagination was running away with me—too many novels in too short a time.
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, and I was determined now to enlist Avery’s help, so after a much longer stare-off and awkward silence than necessary, I said, “You want to get coffee? I mean, I'm going to, and I guess since you’re here to . . . protect me . . . you’ll come too.”
I'd just botched that. A strange mixture of emotions washed over his face, predominantly negative, and his eyes widened as if to ask, “Are you crazy?”
Maybe. I’d been called worse. But it was coffee, for crying out loud.
“Try to be nice,” dad said? Coffee was my last pawn. Anything went now.
Not that I wouldn't try, but . . . I made no promises of success.
Chapter End Credits
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