Brandi looked at Phil, who nodded his head, as if to confirm that what I said was factual.
“The hours would be the same,” he explained. “It would be a live-in position, with two additional staff as backups. The pay is the same, as well as the advance.”
She continued to look at him as she thought about the deal. I wasn’t willing to wait for her to make up her mind. “This deal ends in five seconds.”
That caused her to look back at me, and then she began to move toward the door again.
“For you to be so gotdamn accomplished, you don’t seem to be making a wise choice,” I goaded her.
Again, she stopped moving but still faced the door, which meant that I could not see her face. She released an audible harsh breath. “Your mother?” she asked with the first utterance of an emotion that was not pleasing.
“That’s what I said,” my head dipped to acknowledge whatever thought or doubt she might have had.
“Sir, I like that idea,” Phil shared, smiling. “Mrs. Richardson is a delight, Ms. Cruise.”
She turned to face me for the second time in our encounter. Those cheekbones of hers were pronounced, and though they were the warm color of chestnut like the rest of her exposed skin, it made me wonder what a blush would look like on her. But she probably made little time for any of that: fun, laughter, or even to show off her shape. Like a robot, she was.
“Thank you,” the woman responded, there was a but coming, I knew. “Unfortunately, that detail is not the one I signed up for. Thank you, again,” she placed her hand on the doorknob.
“Are you always so stiff?” I blurted out, knowing it would bother her, but also not giving one good gotdamn.
She paused for a slight moment, and then left without replying. Phil looked at me, but I jerked my hand toward him, as if to say, well…
He nodded, turned on his heel and followed the woman, but after several minutes he returned empty handed. She was not returning, nor would she take the job. This was not my ideal outcome, but I damn sure wasn’t going to have a woman protecting me. That shit was simply unreal and would not go down on my watch.
Plus, I don’t succumb to terrorist threats. Fuck the people who were making threats on my life, and fuck Brandi Cruise, too, for walking away from the job I offered her.
Good riddance.
Chapter Two
Brandi Cruise
The click of the finality in the chamber of a gun was my reset. That is the moment when I know anything that happens after this is real. Life or death. Heaven or hell. Win or lose. Victor or victim. Once the chamber is locked and loaded, all bets are off. I have resolved that within myself throughout my career. Starting out, I was scared and nervous, just like the other recruits. Hell, I thought about quitting after our first running mission, which was called suicide, on the full football stadium. Well, it wasn’t a mission, but a drill that was called a suicide and it was precisely that. I collapsed, and though I didn’t really have a nurturing background, I also didn’t expect my drill sergeant to stand over me and yell like a lunatic.
“Did you just collapse?” Sergeant Fagan yelled at the top of her lungs. Her voice had long turned into a raspy military style of making you pay attention, feel stupid and command order. She was the master of this, which is why she was our drill sergeant in the specialized unit of women. “Do you think the men collapse, or dare I say faint? Get your ass up and do another. As a matter of fact, all of you do another,” she bellowed. Nobody dared groan, because that would mean yet another lap around the field.
Fagan had a cut right in the center of her left eyelid. It was rumored that she’d been tortured and never gave up the information, or that it came from her hazing when she was a recruit, like us, in the military. Not that it was easier now, but back then, when they were attempting to get women to serve alongside the men in combat, that shit was brutal. Nobody knew for sure, because the woman’s love language was hollering. However, as a retired veteran and bodyguard, I regularly thanked Sergeant Fagan for the discipline she taught me, because it proved to be essential to my career track.
The job paid well, and I had at least twelve months’ living expenses in an emergency fund. What I did not have was those people skills that I often saw in other agents. I was always about the job, in every way. No attachments. Get in, get out. Protect at all costs and go home. That was my motto, and it worked for me. It was a structural support that I kept in place so I would remember. I could never forget.
This new job was one step from my desired one, which was to be a Secret Service agent. My prior experience as a Special Agent gave me experience in the Federal Bureau of Investigation but having the experience of being a bodyguard for a VIP candidate was perfect. The client was a billionaire, the first cousin of a Louisiana politician, and was well-connected with all types of people in Florida. He made a killing in the real estate business and had his hands in productions from Hollywood to Broadway. In my research, he was not as connected to the political side, outside of his work with specific candidates and his other business ventures.
Lately, the client had received a few death threats, which he hadn’t taken seriously. Only the notion that his mother, who lives on the grounds of his estate, was in danger as well had prompted him to do something. He was single, a workaholic, with his hands dipped into every sort of financial venture out there, but his main flow of income was real estate.
Standing in his mansion, waiting for my interview with him, I no longer felt nervous because my expertise, experience, and instinct spoke for my record. I was at the home of this high-profile client because I was more than qualified…the barrier being the fact that I was a woman. A black woman, to be more specific.
Standing at five feet, seven inches, I carried about one hundred and forty pounds. My complexion could be described as similar to a roasted almond, and I wore my permanently processed hair in a standard ponytail. My arms were similar to those of Michelle Obama, and at various times just as muscular as Venus and Serena’s. I can bench-press two-hundred and twenty pounds and can run a one-hundred-meter dash in fifteen seconds. Plus, I’m thirty-six years of age, quick, and smart in addition to intuitive. These have contributed to my success.
Although being a woman has sometimes been a hindrance, rejection was always done politely. What I did not expect when I walked into the room was to hear, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
I had learned a long time ago to not sweat under pressure or even display any emotion. My encounter with the entitled billionaire was just that…an encounter. He was a rude son-of-a bitch, but my objective was clear. He needed to be my client because he was the high-profile client, not his mother. Maybe she was no little old lady, but he was the target. Having him as my client would put me in line for the Secret Service. Guarding his mother would have no such effect.
I would have to look to see if there were any high-profile women clients with openings, because with assholes like Eli Richardson, it was hard for me to secure employment and move up the ranks. Men never seemed to understand that this was how inherent racism and sexism were embedded within his psyche. Women weren’t at the top, because the men occupied the top. They would rather work with other ‘non-emotional’ men instead of women. Same with race…same shit, different day. The structural concept yielded no firm evidence, yet if you disrupt the power dynamics enough, people will show you their true colors, whether they are male, female, black or white.