BATTLE OF THE BULGE (The OHellNO Series Book 4) Read online

  “Thanks, Sam.” I check to see if the gun’s safety is on and slide it into my little over-the-shoulder purse.

  “You’re sure, Abi?” Sam asks one last time.

  “Stop worrying. This is going to work out great.”

  He shakes his head at the floor and places a hand on his waist. “If anything happened to you, I couldn’t live with it.”

  “Wow. Didn’t know you cared so much.”

  “I meant that Georgie would kill me.” He grins.

  “Har, har.”

  Sam’s expression turns cold.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Be careful, Abi. This is the most rewarding job you’ll ever have, but it will also be the most challenging. And…”

  “Yes?”

  “There aren’t many people in this world cut out for it. But you are. Even if you’re only doing surveillance, it makes me feel better knowing you’ll be there. You’re smart. You’re quick. You know how to make a bad situation turn to your advantage.”

  I can’t help wondering how he’s come to this conclusion. Georgie is our common denominator. She must’ve talked me up.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say and turn for the door.

  “Don’t mention it. Cray will give you your clothing on the way out. Remember to practice acting extra slutty this morning.”

  Huh?

  Sam chuckles and picks up a call.

  “Here you go.” Cray, a tall Scottish man with long red hair and muscles like boulders hands me a big shopping bag. “You have five outfits to get you started. There’s a membership card for Pistol Whippers. They can get you anything you need disguised in a feminine package—knives, ammo, mace. Everything’s made to look like lipstick, a dildo, or perfume.”

  I stare blankly, wondering what sort of woman would buy a knife disguised as a vibrator. And isn’t it usually the other way around? Dildo in a lipstick case or whatever. Not that I’d know. Much.

  Cray adds, “Just be sure to keep your receipts and submit an expense report to me.”

  I grip the bag. “Got it.”

  “And a word of advice: Buy several pairs of sunglasses. They get lost quickly and you’ll need them. Hard to keep track of that stuff when you’re dodging bullets.”

  “Bullets?” But I’m supposed to be an owl. I stay back from the client and watch the crowd, watch everything. I mean, yeah, if there’s a threat and no one else can handle it, I’m the man. Or wo-man. Otherwise, I’ve been trained to never break my cover. Even if there’s a situation, I’m supposed to tell our team lead of any threats—like in the case of a hit that’s coming from a coordinated group versus just one person.

  Hmm…I wonder what this “real” threat is that Sam mentioned. The Oh-Slimy-One probably pissed off the wrong woman. Now she’s hunting him and wants his bulge for her trophy wall.

  I imagine Mitch and his junk—stuffed, shellacked, and mounted to a piece of wood like a giant swordfish. The plaque would read “Giant Dick,” referring to the man, not his member.

  I smile and head to the elevator. Suddenly, reality starts sinking in, and I feel a ripple of panic tear through me. I know I’m only an owl, but now it’s all starting to feel real. Life-threateningly real. Ohmygod. I’m a bodyguard.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I can’t do this. The snake-headed bastard is forty feet away, doing an interview with a local morning talk show. There are two men with earpieces, wearing black blazers, waiting for Mr. Slimy to exit the set.

  My hands start to sweat and tremble. My heart does the whole adrenaline thing. I hope he doesn’t make a scene when he sees me. “I never want to see you again. Get lost. You’re nothing to me.” These are basically the words he spouted through his closed front door the morning after his housewarming party here in Houston. Mitch is originally from Australia. He is also a multi-gold-medal Olympic swimmer and an extremely famous swimsuit model. That man has calendars, a line of body oil, workout videos, and his own brand of protein drinks called Big Meat, “for the man who likes to show and grow.”

  Uh…yuck much? He’s so damned full of himself.

  And he almost filled you, too. My mind flashes to a moment of heated kisses, our bodies grinding, the smell of him on my skin, and—

  Stop it.

  He meant nothing to me. I meant nothing to him. I’m not giving up a job I need for a guy who isn’t worth my time. Whatever he has to say, I can handle it. I can stay professional.

  I hang back by the exit and spot Sleeze Bucket’s chick posse. Unlike me, most are tall blondes. I’m about five five, brown hair, and light brown eyes. I usually like skirts and heels, but what I’m wearing looks like I rolled my ass into bed after a night of clubbing and didn’t bother changing. Cheetah-pattern heels, matching micromini skirt, and a hot pink tube top.

  And where’s my gun? It’s next to my phone crammed down my cleavage. Padded bras come in handy for this kind of stuff. My B cups look like full Cs because I’ve got so much storage going on in there.

  I fish out a piece of gum from my titty purse, pop it in my mouth, and throw the wrapper on the floor as my role dictates. No class. Not that anyone’s watching me. All eyes are on Gutter Puppy, who’s wearing a snug pair of worn jeans and a baby blue oxford, just like the one he wore the night we met. I remember the shirt well because of how it accentuated his beautiful broad shoulders and lean Y-shaped body.

  No. No…You’re not going there.

  Mitch continues talking to Miss Sally Sunshine, the overly peppy host, about his “extremely awesome swimsuit sponsor, geared for the man who’s not ashamed of his masculinity like the other loser swimsuits out there.”

  “Can’t believe I have to protect you with my body,” I mutter.

  The lead bodyguard and technically my direct boss, Phil, turns his head and does a double take from the side of the set. I wiggle my fingers in his direction and chomp hard on my gum, letting it snap a couple of times. “Hey, baby. You want gum? I got gum,” I whisper loudly.

  Phil gives me a suspicious look, like I can’t possibly be that ridiculous.

  Oh, but I can… “This grape flavor is yummy. Tastes like Robitussin.” That’s the code I’m supposed to use so he knows I’m part of his team without making it obvious. Thing is, half the time, threats to clients come from people they know—learned that in training. So I’m like a super mole, inserted to keep an eye on Mitch’s friends, manager, and entourage. Like a good little owl, I will listen carefully and watch everyone.

  I’m supposed to tell Mitch how much I love grape gum, too, so he knows I’m on his side. Sam’s already instructed Mitch to treat me like one of his fuck-pets.

  Gag.

  The interview concludes, and the studio audience, mostly women, start to roar.

  “Have my baby, Mitch!”

  “I’ll swim naked with you!”

  “Show us your bulge, baby!”

  I hold back my disgust. If it ever got out what a sleezy pooker he is, women everywhere wouldn’t be throwing themselves at him; they’d throw him into a volcano.

  I watch Mitch shake hands with the host and take a bow, followed by him blowing kisses to the audience, who’s going nutso.

  I shimmy down my micromini and straighten my back, summoning my steady nerves. I can’t believe I’m this nervous to see him again.

  Mitch and his broad shoulders make their way to the edge of the set, and his two big bodyguards take to his sides. Amusingly, Mitch is taller than both men, though his athletic frame is less husky.

  The princess posse rushes to Mitch’s front. “Ohmygod, Mitch! Like, that was sooo, like, perfect! You look so hawwwt, OMG.”

  Where did he find these women? The ’80s? I put on my game face and strut toward him, ready for anything.

  He spots me approaching, and for a split second we lock eyes, which makes my heart do summersaults. The thing is, aside from his fast swimming, Mitch Hofer is known first and foremost for his…well, giant cock. It’s hard to miss since he spends most
of his time in a tiny swimsuit. Runner-up is his six-pack. The man’s stomach looks like a giant tan tortoise shell that’s been stretched out over his abs. But third in line for his most noticeable physical trait is his eyes. They’re hazel, which is stunning enough on their own, but what makes his so unique are the light green bands around the outside of the irises. He’s won Teen Lust magazine’s sexiest eyes award five years in a row, despite being twenty-six.

  Well, he’s not getting any prizes from me, so…

  I walk toward him and stop just shy of his pack of horny she-hyenas. “Hey, Mitch,” I say in my sugariest Texan tone. “I like grape gum.”

  His charming smile melts away, and he gives me a look, like he’s wondering at what age I got kicked in the head by a mule. “Well then, guess you should buy some more,” he says, though with his Australian accent, it sounds more like Wheel, theyne. Guess you should boi summor.

  I often wonder why some Aussies sound like Crocodile Dundee and others like Brits with a twist. Whatever the reason, Mitch is all Aussie. Or…Eez oil Aussie? And yeah, he sounds hot. But now I know “bey-ta.” I won’t ever get sucked in by that face, bod, or sweet accent again.

  He puts his arms over two of the groupies’ shoulders, and the three flow around me like I’m a river rock of little importance. Heading for the exit, they laugh and nuzzle like they’re in some sex club where rubbing noses is the secret handshake.

  I can’t believe he just blew me off like that. Maybe Sam forgot to tell him I was joining the team? Or maybe he forgot me.

  I swivel in Mitch’s direction, the rage bubbling deep inside my cold chest. It’s cold because the temperature in this studio is set to “igloo” and I’m wearing a pink tube sock as a shirt.

  “What are you doing?” scowls Phil in my ear, grabbing me by the shoulder but keeping a friendly smile on his lips. Phil is a portly man with a dark mustache and hair.

  I look up at him, unsure what he means.

  “You’re supposed to blend in with Mitch’s entourage,” he adds through clenched teeth. “Now pretend you’re flirting with me so we have a reason to be talking.” He pats my ass, and I resist belting him. We went through all this in training. If I’m playing the part of horndog, then I have to embrace the bun, mustard, and frank with a smile. If I’m playing the role of maid, I dust, scrub, and wash. If we’re in a crowd, I’m the fan trying to grab a photo for IG, offering my body for the client’s love child. Point is, political correctness means nothing when you’re trying to prevent someone from having their brains blown out.

  I giggle at Phil for the sake of my cover. “You’re cute.”

  He nods. “Thanks, babe,” he says loudly. “But Mitch doesn’t like waiting for his girls, and we’re on a schedule.”

  Thankfully, I’m only pretending to be one of “his girls.” Still, the thought nauseates me. What did I ever see in this guy?

  I scurry out the door to the parking lot. It’s a chilly February morning and I’m regretting not wearing a coat. When I catch up to the entourage, the last girl is ducking into the back of the limo. To my surprise, Mitch is being a gentleman and helping the women in.

  When he gets to me, he drops his hand and scowls. “Oh, it’s grape-gum girl. Who invited you ageen?” he asks.

  Is he serious? If yes, then this bonehead swimmer is thicker than an iceberg.

  Phil appears at my side. “Sir, this is your raffle winner from last week. You know, the one from the radio show? Spend a week with Mitch Hofer.”

  Mitch’s hazel eyes twitch for a moment. “Oh.” He looks at me. “Sorree ’bout that, sweetheart.”

  “No problem.” I nod coolly, but I’m imagining pounding my fists into his supple sex-lips.

  He seriously doesn’t remember me? What a huge dick! It’s one thing that he doesn’t home in on the whole grape-gum-code thing, but it’s another that he has zero reaction to seeing me.

  Calm yourself, Abi. This is good. If he really doesn’t remember me, then problem solved. Still, how could he forget that night?

  I slide into the backseat, and the other girls eye me like a wilted piece of lettuce who’s come to spoil their delicious gourmet sandwich.

  I look straight ahead, unsure of what to say.

  Mitch takes the seat next to me, closest to the door, and the animosity from his harem only spikes.

  “Home, Mr. Hoffer?” asks the driver.

  “Yeah. I’m tired. That morning workout before the show was tough.”

  “Very good, sir,” says the driver as Phil and the other suit get into the vehicle.

  “And can you drop the girls off? Wherever they want,” Mitch says.

  A unanimous “Awww. What?” explodes from the women.

  “Sorry, ladies,” Mitch says, “but I have a full day. We’ll continue the fun some other time.”

  Phil clears his throat. “Don’t you want to keep just one, sir? For your relaxation?” He glances at me as if to say, Hint-hint; grape-gum lady needs to stay.

  Mitch glances at me from the corner of his eyes. “Sure. I’ll keep bubblegum girl, here. She looks like she’s not too demanding in the heavy conversation department.”

  What in the…? Did he just call me dumb?

  I refrain from showing my true sentiments. I made the honors list at Texas U’s School of Business six semesters in a row. I completed a bodyguard training that was so rigorous half the class dropped out in one week. And most were dudes. With military backgrounds! My IQ isn’t genius like Georgie’s sister-in-law, Elle, but I’m still damned smart.

  Just ignore him. I mean, this guy wears a bikini and swims in glorified puddles for a living.

  “Saweet!” I snap my gum. “I’m totally up for fun. Heehee…”

  The other girls shoot harpoons with their eyes.

  Thirty minutes later, the limo is dropping off the last girl. Apparently, they all live in the dorms or close to the university. From what I’ve been told, not that I care or anything, Mitch moved to Houston after being enticed to swim for the university’s team and train there for the next summer Olympics. I love my university, but it’s a little weird to uproot and leave home like he did. He was months away from graduating with his bachelor’s in sports management or something, and he just upped and left to start over. So weird.

  Mitch says a polite goodbye to the women, but doesn’t kiss or hug any of the ladies.

  Huh. That’s odd. Aren’t they his sex kittens or whatever?

  Now with the two of us alone in the back of the limo, the air permeates with an unpleasant silence. I know the driver is part of our team and so are Phil and the other suit, so it seems like a good time to ask, “Why am I coming along?” I’m just the team’s extra set of eyes.

  Phil turns his large body to face me in the back. “Mitch likes to host parties, which means you’ll be doing a lot of work there. Get familiar with the layout, entrances, and secure exits. I’ll come by later to hear your analysis.”

  I’m still a trainee, but Sam is a firm believer in learning on the job. He wants us all to be able to assess locations on our own—TV studios, photo-shoot locations, whatever, since the team can’t always huddle and do it together. Bodyguarding is a fluid process where you have to be prepared for anything. One minute, you’re walking across a parking lot. The next, someone fires a shot and you find yourself scrambling to extract the client and yourself in one piece. You have to be able to assess your surroundings on the fly and find the safest route out.

  “Sounds good. What time?” I ask.

  “Around six o’clock.”

  But it’s eight in the morning. “I hate to be a pill, but I only need about an hour for the assessment. What do you want me to do with the rest of my time?”

  “Do your job and cement yourself in as part of Mitch’s entourage,” Phil replies. “There are plenty of people watching at his house.”

  I try not to let my emotions show, because what I think Phil means to say is that Mitch has a staff of four—a driver (one of ours), a person
al chef, a housekeeper, and a personal assistant. I’m supposed to convince them and anyone else in his social circle that I’m one of Mitch’s girls. No one can suspect I’m part of the detail. Fine. I signed up for this. I won’t complain.

  Mitch leans in and whispers, “Don’t worry. I’m going to take a power nap. You can just admire my manly muscles while I sleep.” He chuckles like a cocky SOB. “You’re welcome.”

  I’d rather stare at your dirty underwear. “So generous. Thank you, Mr. Hofer,” I whisper back with an overtly sugary tone. “But I have a real job: protecting you and those big strong arms with my little ol’ girly body.”

  Mitch’s smug smile takes a nosedive. “As if you could.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. Hofer?” I whisper back.

  “For the record, you’re here against my will.” He speaks into my ear.

  I blink. “Meaning?”

  “A female bodyguard? Pfft! Now there’s a knee-slapper.”

  Wow. What a knuckle-dragging, club-thumping caveman. With every passing moment in the Bulge’s presence, I’m finding it harder and harder to keep my promise to Sam. If some guy showed up in this very moment shooting arrows at Mitch’s head, I’d be the person ducking on the floor, saying, “Get ’em! Get ’em before he procreates!”

  My life for Mitch’s? Ohellno!

  I smile demurely. “Well, my tits can be used as flotation devices in case of a water landing, so don’t discount my value entirely.”

  Mitch glances down at my fake C cups and then turns his head toward the window. “Not even that,” he mutters.

  I snap my head in his direction. “Uh, sorry?”

  He shrugs. “I can see the outline of your gun, grape-gum girl. Next time, try a more discreet hiding place. Better yet, don’t dress like a hooker. I’m into athletic, confident women, not insecure thots.”

  Oh…you…I growl inside my head. I’m gonna remove your furry man-nuggets, fry them up, and feed ’em to feral pigs while you watch!

  He adds, “Plus, clearly you don’t have the tits to pull off the whole cleavage-wallet thing, so…”