Plain Sight

Chapter Two


“Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. Did you really just say, ‘well, at least you look fabulous?’”

Ella grabbed the tabloid away from James again for a second look. “Well, it’s true. I’m so glad your not wearing one of your dumpy sweatshirts.”

James pulled a hand out of the pocket of one such sweatshirt to poke a warning finger in her friend’s face. “Aw, shut up. I like this sweatshirt.” She wiped powder sugar-covered fingers on it before nabbing another doughnut from the box Ella had brought.

It was nine in the morning, but every light in the apartment was on. The blinds had to be closed against the army of paparazzi outside.

“What are you going to do?” Ella asked tentatively.

James shrugged. “The normal stuff. Go to work, watch TV, go out when you make me.” She said it around the doughnut, so she didn’t know if Ella was horrified by her eating habits or her comment.

“But, what about—“ Ella jerked her head toward the window.

“The paparazzi? Well, I don’t plan on attacking them with an umbrella or anything. I’d thought I’d hire myself a big, burly friend.

“And if some of them aren’t paparazzi?”

“I’m gonna let my burly friend hit the cocksuckers.” But Ella could see that James had lined up her overbite, which she only did when she was too pissed off to admit that she was freaked out. “And I’m getting new locks and my landlord is putting in some high-tech security system that he isn’t admitting my mom paid for. I’ll be fucking fine.”

“With your new burly friend?” Ella teased.

“Perv.”

“Think he’ll carry a big gun?”

James screwed up her face. “You are twisted like a goddamned corkscrew.” Ella smiled languidly.

“So, how do you go about getting a bodyguard?” Ella wanted to know after a moment. “There a catalogue or something? Your stated prefrence on a personals site? How does this work?”

“I go to Mom’s house and pick up the guy her security company assigned.”

“Gee, how romantic.” Ella grimaced.

“Fuck you. This isn’t The Bodyguard, and I’m not Whitney Houston.”

“Right. Whitney Houston can sing.”

“Piss off.”

Ella apparently couldn’t think of an adequate response to that witticism, because she changed the subject.

“So, how exactly do you plan on getting to your mother’s house?” she asked instead.

“I thought I would use my fucking jet pack. Christ, Ella. I’m gonna drive.” Ella gave her a look that clearly said James was going mad.

“Fuck you, Ella. My driver’s license is still valid. No, don’t even start,” James said when her friend opened her mouth to bitch. “I’m going. I’m driving. My car. I don’t need your motherfucking help.”

“No, you just need a bodyguard.” But James had lined up her teeth again, so Ella added, “And a maid. Fine. You go. But I’m staying here. This guy is going to need a place to sleep, I assume. And you call me as soon as you get to your mother’s. Or I’ll sic the cops on you, and you know the press would have a field day with you getting into a squad car.”

James gave her the finger and a hug. Then, sunglasses in place and her hood covering her hair, she left the apartment. Noise—shouts and questions from paparrazzi and reporters—slammed into the room before the door slammed shut. It was going to be a long fucking drive to L.A.

*****

Jake Anders normally liked his job. Normally, he accompanied wealthy investors on business trips. A few weeks in an exotic place with a few rounds of golf and a nice hotel. He got drinks on his employer’s tab. It was, in general, the life.

“Ford, you are really going to owe me for this,” he told his brother, president of the security agency. “I did not get into this business to babysit overgrown celebutantes.”

“The James family is one of our biggest clients, Jake. And Henrietta James intimidates the shit out of me. So I promised her the best for her daughter.”

“Keep buttering me up. You’ll still owe me, but some grovelling wouldn’t be taken amiss.” Jake leaned against the door frame, crossing his ankles in that insolent way he knew drove Ford crazy.

“Look, it shouldn’t be for long. The press’ll get tired of her, move on to some other rich screw-up. A few weeks, tops. If it’s gonna last longer, I’ll put someone else on the assignment, okay? But I need you to do this for me.”

“What do you want me to say? That I’ll do it? You already know I will.”

“Thanks, Jake. You’re the best.”

“Lucky me,” Jake muttered.

*****

James walked into her mother’s house in the midst of a face-splitting yawn. Traffic had been slow as a turtle in cement.

“Lovely to see you and your tonsils, dear,” Henrietta said, wrapping her daughter in a hug.

“Anytime. Got a Coke? I seriously need some caffeine.”

“It’s not even eleven in the morning,” her mother protested.

“I know. That’s why I didn’t ask for beer,” James said with a bland smile. Henrietta rolled her eyes and signalled a staff member.

“So, the guy here yet?”

“Yes, he is. Why don’t you go to your room and clean yourself up a bit before I introduce you?” Henrietta suggested.

James redid her ponytail and shrugged. “’Kay, I’m cleaned up. Look, Mom, he’s going to be living in my apartment. I think he’s going to figure out that I’m not about to be featured on Martha Stewart. I may as well get him used to that fact right now.” Henrietta sighed. Her daughter was a different person now, and someday, she would be able to swallow that, if not understand it.

“He’s in the living room,” she said.

He was indeed, sipping a mimosa. Her mom gave her a hard time about a Coke, but gave this guy alcohol. Life was deeply unfair.

Her first thought was that Ella would like him. He was pretty fucking hot. Even James could see that. Hell, with that angel-blonde hair and green eyes—not to mention that body—she’d have to be fucking blind not to see that. He was big. Not fat, but tall, and his shoulders were broad like a frigging door. He set her teeth on edge, but she could deal, and long as he was beating up the other assholes.

He saw her and looked to her mother. James figured he wasn’t used to protecting people who would leave the house with powdered sugar on their sweatshirts.

“Dear, this is Jake Anders,” Henrietta introduced. “He comes highly recommended. And Jake, this is my daughter.”

One corner of Jake’s mouth twitched up. James would have to take that up with him. If he made that expression a habit, she’d have to break his jaw.

“I’ve heard so much about you. The famous Fritzi James.” His tone was polite. His eyes were derisive. James thought she would maybe just break his jaw on principle.

“Please. Call me James, or F.J., if you must. Only my mother calls me Fritzi.”

“And the press,” Jake reminded.

“The press is fucking retarded,” James shot back.

“Fritzi! Language!” her mother warned.

One of the staff came in with a glass of Coke for James. A girl about her own age—Mandy, if she remembered correctly.

“Thanks, Mandy, but I think I’ll be heading off before I can drink that.”

“But I thought you might stay for brunch,” Henrietta said.

“Yeah, sorry. Major Big Mac craving. I’ll stop by later this week, okay? I’m getting a half-day on Thursday. Doc’s closing up to go to his kid’s piano recital. Dinner still at seven? Any chance we could have pot roast?” James knew her mother was disappointed she wasn’t staying, but she really didn’t want the woman breaking out the photo albums and “When Fritzi was little” stories. Not before this guy knew who she was now, anyway. So she smiled winningly, and as expected, her mother folded.

“Be here at six-thirty. We can catch up. And give me a call when you get home, so I know you got there, okay?” James kissed her cheeks, looked at the bodyguard expectantly, and turned for the door. In an instant, Jake was there, his hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the door.

As soon as they were outside, Henrietta safely on the other side of the door, James whirled on him.

“Get your goddamned hand off me. Don’t you ever touch me without asking first. Got it? If I’m on fire, I don’t want your fucking hands on me till you ask. And don’t think you’re going to drive my car, either.”

Jake lifted his hands in silent surrender and headed for the passenger side. Fritzi James was not exactly what he’d expected. She was even bitchier. Once they were both buckled in, she turned to him.

“So what the fuck do you want from McDonald’s?”