“Thank you.”
“And you’re nuts if you think I’m not going to pay you for tonight,” I said. “It won’t come through until your first official paycheck, but I believe in paying for hard work well done.”
“I’m going to work as hard as I can for you, Theo,” he said.
7
Roman
I’d always dreamed of being a bodyguard, but it turned out that the reality was a whole lot different than my fantasies.
When I had pictured being a bodyguard to a celebrity one day, it always involved trips down red carpet events, parties, and private escort duty at nightclubs. Instead, on my first official day as Theo Castille’s private security guard, he just wanted to go to the farmer’s market.
“I’ve heard about this farmer’s market so many times when I Googled fun things to do in Amberfield, Kansas,” Theo said, popping his sunglasses on. We’d just climbed into his car, a cobalt blue Porsche.
Two nights ago, when I’d stayed over at his house to keep watch, everything had been quiet and safe. The next day, Madeline had informed me that I’d passed the background checks with flying colors, and that I would be officially approved for the job.
I was in. I was doing it. I was a bodyguard for one of the most famous actors in the world. And I really didn’t want to fuck it up.
“My grandfather even wrote about it in his journal,” Theo was saying. “He used to come here to sell produce every weekend, back when he lived here. Check this out.”
Theo reached over to pop open the glove box. He pulled out a small, leather journal that had apparently belonged to his grandfather back in the fifties. On the page that was currently bookmarked, there was a little black and white photo of a man, smiling as he stood in front of an old-school market stall, selling carrots and potatoes.
“That’s your grandfather?”
“That’s him,” Theo said. “Amazing, huh?”
“It sounds like he led all sorts of lives.”
“He really did,” Theo said. “That’s why I want to write a movie about him. Not that I have any clue how to write a movie. I’m just an actor.”
“I’m sure you could do it,” I said. “What did your grandfather do?”
“He was a farm boy, a soldier, a pianist, an avid hiker. He did odd handyman jobs to get money. When he got old, he even got into crochet.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “My mom is into crochet, too,” I said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out Bruce, showing him to Theo. “This is Bruce Lee the turtle.”
“That is fucking adorable,” Theo said, dipping his sunglasses to look closer. “Christ, it’s small. She’s good.”
When we’d first gotten into the car, I could barely squeeze into the passenger seat. But after handing me the journal, Theo pressed a button and opened up the top of the convertible, and I could finally sit up straight. He took off onto the road, flooring it and zipping off toward the highway. Theo was going to be the kind of driver that made me silently pray as I clutched at the door.
I was holding on for dear life as he sped along the long, open roads, hair blowing in the wind, rocking his dark sunglasses and looking every bit the famous actor he was.
“The farmer’s market isn’t much, I promise you,” I said. “Local vegetables and fruit and that’s about it.”
“You’ve been there?” he asked, excited.
“I mean, a couple of times. Haven’t been in years.”
I’d showed up at Theo’s house bright and early this morning at eight o’clock, just as Madeline had told me. In general, I was told that the main priority would be working night shifts at his house, watching the property. But when Theo wanted accompaniment anywhere in the daytime, I was willing to be on-call for that, too.
When Theo had opened the door this morning, he’d had total bed-head and heavy-lidded eyes. He was wearing a gigantic T-shirt and boxer-briefs.
“Sleepy,” he’d said, then walked over to his big couch and flopped down. He slept soundly there with a pillow over his head all morning, even while the construction workers hammered away upstairs and I went all around the house slowly installing new locks.
At twelve-thirty, he’d gotten up, showered, and decided to head over to the farmer’s market before it closed at one o’clock.
“Are you sure we’re going to make it?” I asked, glancing at the clock in the Porsche, which now read 12:56.
“Of course,” he said. “I really just want to glance around, anyway.”
“Okay,” I said, my voice sounding strained as Theo took a corner way too quickly. “Jesus Christ,” I said softly.
“Sorry,” he said. “I guess that’s rule two about Theo Castille. I like driving.”
Driving like a maniac, I thought. I forced a smile, nodding as we finally pulled up at the farmer’s market.