LOCK

  LOCK

  by Hollis Shiloh

  "I'm pretty ordinary. Are you sure you have the right man?" I adjusted my glasses, as if maybe that would remind them that I was a harmless bookstore employee. And kind of a nerd. It really seemed unlikely that anyone wanted me dead. I was too boring for that. I didn't even have any exes who hated me.

  The man from the ESRB suppressed a sigh. (I was boring him already.) "We're as certain as we need to be, Mr. Palmer. Believe me, we don't assign people bodyguards on a whim. The budget doesn't stretch quite that far."

  He smiled to show it was a joke, but it was a strained, dead-eyed smile. I was pretty sure I was pissing him off by questioning him this way, but really, it's a bit unusual. You don't expect to have someone from an esoteric branch of the government waltz into your life and say, "We're assigning you a bodyguard. Oh, and by the way, someone wants you dead." Cue the dramatic music.

  "And you're sure you don't know who...?" I pressed cautiously.

  "We're still working on that, Mr. Palmer. You'll be the first to know when we've gotten it all sorted out. Now, if you wouldn't mind signing this, your bodyguard can start right away."

  It seemed terribly official, but my father had always taught me to read everything that I signed word for word, and I did so, adjusting my glasses, pretending to be oblivious to the ESRB man's impatience with me.

  He waited, though, and I got through it eventually. There was nothing to stop me signing it. It was all about acknowledging that I'd been warned by the agency that there was a threat against me, and that, while they were required to do everything in their power to protect me, I acknowledged that any risks I took in refusing said protection would rest in their full legal weight on my head and shoulders alone. It was well-written enough for me to think that someone had sued them on the issue. I signed and dated it and handed it back. He said a copy could be forwarded to me for my protection, and I said that would be great.

  Then we got down to the really interesting part. Meeting the bodyguard.

  Even in my wildest dreams, where I morphed overnight into a hugely successful author, actor, or professional daydreamer, I'd never imagined I'd warrant a bodyguard, so I can't claim to have dreamed about this moment. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't hope he was sexy.

  I mean, sexy bodyguard, right? That's practically its own genre of films. And, yeah, usually they're straight and hot and fall in love with someone equally straight and hot, like Whitney Houston. But a gay can dream. I mean, if my life had to be endangered to the point where I was signing wavers and getting a bodyguard, there could at least be eye candy, right?

  Obviously, it was just a passing thought; there were more important things on my mind right now (like not dying). All the same, I received a little jolt of shock when all those dreams came true, and he stepped through the door.

  He was hot. Oh, man, was he hot.

  I like to think I'm not shallow. (I totally am, but I like to think I'm not.)

  All right, so he was about my height (which is average), a Caucasian man probably in his thirties, not quite clean-shaven, with that stubble look that's in right now, and short brown hair. None of that sounds like it would stand out as hot on first sight, but add to it his trim, fit body — muscles hidden by his white dress shirt and suit trousers, but very much present — and his knowing gray eyes that looked like sin personified...and damn if my mouth didn't go totally dry.

  Even I wasn't naïve enough to think he was actually checking me out, though. He just had the sort of eyes that make you think naughty things. If I'd seen him in a club...okay, I still totally wouldn't have approached him, because I'm shy like that, and I don't really go to clubs anyway. But somebody would have — more likely multiple somebodies. He'd have been mobbed, okay? He was that good-looking. But it wasn't just those eyes or his build. It was something about the way he carried himself, like when he walked into a room, he took charge. He seemed like he could handle anything or anybody, and he knew it. Military? Who knows. Damned hot? Yes, please.

  All this went through my mind in only a moment, so my mouth was still dry and I couldn't actually talk, per se, when the government man introduced us. I did catch the bodyguard's name, though: Neal Webb. Was it an alias, maybe? It wasn't as obvious as John Smith, but if he was really a bodyguard, he might not be able to go around telling people his name.

  Then again, he wasn't a spy; he just protected people for a government agency. People now including me. I felt very safe all of a sudden. And very lucky, despite the whole "somebody wants you dead" thing.

  "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Palmer," he said in a gruff, no-nonsense voice, giving me a little nod as he shook my hand.

  It was probably sweaty. Or, yeah, maybe even clammy. But what do you expect? I'd had a big shock, the whole "your life is in danger, sir" conversation going a bit better than I imagined they usually did (because I'm calm like that), but still, not a great day for giving first impressions.

  If he was unimpressed by my handshake, he didn't show it. Nor did he do that macho guy thing where he tried to strangle my hand. He didn't have anything to prove.

  Neither, I reminded myself, did I. A slightly weak handshake (and a clammy one, at that) was not going to be a huge surprise from someone who, well, had just had a huge surprise. I tried not to stare at his eyes. I was mesmerized, though.

  "Mr. Webb," I said, giving him a nod back. I hoped it was butch enough, and that I wasn't visibly panting after him or anything so embarrassing.

  "He'll position himself in the bookstore while you're working. We've had a word with the management. He'll blend in with the customers," said Mr. ESRB agent, whose name I couldn't remember, just as if Webb weren't standing right there.

  The bodyguard didn't seem disturbed by that. He just gave me a nod as if to say "yep" and continued watching me.

  "After the work day, he'll go home with you. I trust you can put him up on the couch or something?" The agent didn't seem too perturbed about the whole thing; he was looking over his phone, probably checking off that he'd covered everything from a list. Or else texting somebody because this was just so damned boring to him.

  "Um, sure, that's fine," I managed.

  "If you want to, you can take time off, of course. But we expect to have this cleared up within a few days, and you shouldn't need to interrupt your routine unless you choose to. Don't leave the state, though. We've already coordinated with the necessary people here, and that would just make things more difficult. Keeping you safe, you understand."

  I didn't, not really, but I nodded along. Then something occurred to me as he was turning to go.

  "Wait. Does this mean I'm bait? You're waiting for someone to...what, swoop in and try to kill me so you can catch them?" Because that always ends so well in the movies. Even the ones with hot bodyguards.

  The agent gave a dry laugh. "No, Mr. Palmer. Nothing that interesting. We have our own avenues to pursue to find the responsible party or parties. This is just to disrupt your life as little as possible. Try to stay calm. And as I said, don't leave the state if you can possibly avoid it. If you have to, we'll need advance warning to liaise with the proper authorities. But this should all be cleared up within a few days. If there's nothing else...?"

  There wasn't. I shook my head numbly, even though I knew I'd probably have a dozen more questions the second he stepped out the door of my boss's office.

  "Then, I'll leave you in Webb's capable hands. You have my card. Gentlemen." He pushed his sunglasses back onto his face and walked out of the bookstore and out of my life.

  I stared helplessly at my new bodyguard, feeling a lot less certain of anything than I'd like.

  "It's routine to him," said Neal Webb in that deep voice of his. "Doesn't mean we don't take it seriously. You're a level two on the
threat scale. He deals with nines and tens on a daily basis. And most of them we can save, too."

  "Most?" I cleared my throat to hopefully get rid of the squeak. "So, uh, most. This is pretty normal to you, then, too?"

  He nodded slowly. "That's correct, Mr. Palmer. I regularly deal with levels five and above. It's your lucky day you got me." His grin was wide and too fucking beautiful, and it made my throat go dry again. There really wasn't anything ordinary about him when he grinned. "I happened to be up for rotation. You might just say I'm overkill for a job this serene."

  He was trying to make me feel better; I was almost certain of it. It was kind of working. "Serene?"

  He gestured to our surroundings. "A bookstore. A nice place to be undercover. I can catch up on my reading." That grin again. Damn it, was he trying to kill me himself? "This is almost a vacation for me. But don't worry; I'm still taking it incredibly seriously. It sounds frightening to need protection, but our thought is, better safe than sorry, and I haven't ever lost anyone I was protecting. Someday, you'll look back on this and laugh."

  I wondered. "That sounds good right about now," I admitted. "It's not exactly the sort of thing I expect — somebody wanting me dead, I mean. There's nothing special about me." Not exactly what you want to tell a hot guy on the first meeting, but, well, it was the truth.

  He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned one way or the other about that. "That's for other folks to figure out. I'm just here to protect you."

  Well. That was what I liked to hear.

  #

  My boss wanted a quick word after the agent had left and Neal Webb had seamlessly blended in with the morning crowd.

  "Are you going to be all right?" she asked. "Do you need to take time off?" I could see the fear in her eyes that I'd say yes. It was a busy time, and she needed me right now, what with Sonja having just quit to go back to school, and Amy out on maternity leave. If I flaked out on her, she'd have to hire a temp...and then spend the next few days following them around, teaching them how to do the job and fixing their mistakes.

  "I think I can make it," I told her, sounding more certain than I felt. Mr. Webb's words had reassured me, of course — as much as I could concentrate on them, anyway — but it was still a particularly vulnerable feeling to know I was going to be facing the public, any one of whom might be secretly plotting to kill me.

  Was that it? My job? Had I pissed someone off? But I was usually so good with the customers...

  The rest of the morning passed in a daze as I tried to focus on work at the same time as I ran things through my head, doubts and possibilities and sometimes just the pinch-me reminder that this was real. I still couldn't believe it. Level two threat or not, somebody, somewhere, had decided they wanted me dead.

  Or maybe a rogue bus was going to run me down...but the ESRB didn't usually jump in to protect random people from bus accidents, did they? Wouldn't they know, if it was something that simple? Couldn't they just tell me to avoid crossing the street? I mean, not that road safety isn't serious, because it totally is, and I didn't want to die from a bus, either, but...it was strange.

  Unless it was a mistake on the agency's part. But I highly doubted that, since they worked with legitimate, certified precogs and other people with special abilities. It was all pretty amazing, and somewhat secretive, but still, if there was ever a government agency that you'd trust with predicting something like that, it would be the one with a proven track record of predicting at least some future occurrences.

  My interest in the agency had always been just an interest, not personally applicable, but now it took on a more urgent aspect. I found Mr. Webb in the sci fi section, thumbing through volumes, when I had a minute to spare to look for him.

  "Are you ESRB certified?" I asked him, keeping my voice low in case anyone was passing by.

  He shook his head, smiling at me. He should register that smile as an overly sexy weapon, I thought. It was too much to unleash all at once on a person. For a moment, I was stunned and silent before I could draw breath again.

  "No, I work in security," he said patiently, replacing a volume of short stories carefully. He had interesting hands, I noted. Hard-working, well-groomed hands that had character. He used them precisely.

  Just the sort of thing I should be thinking about right now, on top of his smile.

  "Oh, um, okay." I excused myself rather breathlessly and tried to pull myself together so I could work.

  He didn't stay in one section of the bookstore for long, and he stayed out of sight...but he was always keeping an eye on me, if I knew where to look. His ability to be unobtrusive rivaled the world's sneakiest cat's.

  It was kind of hot.

  Okay, I clearly thought everything he did was "kind of hot," but still.

  At any rate, I made it through till lunchtime with nobody sticking a gun in my ribs, and without losing my shit and freaking out.

  Naturally, I had to go over and ask him if he wanted to eat with me. (What? I wouldn't want him to starve to death.) To my surprise, he agreed readily.

  "Where do you normally eat?" he asked.

  In the back room with a paperback in one hand and a peanut butter and jelly in the other, but I was hardly going to tell him that.

  "Oh, wherever you like," I said airily, hoping my bank account could squeeze it in without screaming in pain.

  He looked a bit too knowing, so perhaps my expression wasn't as concealing as I thought. "How about McDonald's?" he suggested, and it was all I could do not to sigh in relief.

  When we got there (I drove, and he didn't complain about my cute and tiny Smart Car), he ordered a hearty meal, though with more salad than you'd expect.

  I splurged on fries, a burger...and reluctantly got a salad as well, because he had. I ought to at least put in the appearance of trying to eat healthy. He paid for his order, and I paid for mine, which made it even more affordable. For some reason, I'd thought it was my responsibility to feed him, perhaps because I had to let him sleep on my couch.

  On my couch. Yeah. I was going to get a lot of sleep with that handsome hunk of a bodyguard on my lumpy couch, one thin privacy screen away. Argh. I needed to get my mind off that, or he'd read that on my face as well.

  We found a private table and sat down. I arranged my food in front of me and then leaned forward and said in a low voice, "So, what do you think the death threat is?" It was starting to become exciting, although, if I'm honest, it wasn't quite real. I'd started to feel like a character in a story or play, rather than myself, Drew Palmer, in real-and-present danger.

  He took his time answering, opening up his salad, giving it some real thought. "I don't know. It's not my job to know. It's my job to protect you."

  "But if you had to guess?" I pressed, because I know caveats when I hear them.

  Again, he hesitated.

  "You really can tell me. What can it hurt? They've already said I could die. It's not a secret."

  Either he didn't know, or he did know and it was too upsetting to tell me. Whichever it was, he'd better get his story straight, because when I aim to get information from somebody, I don't quit easily. I have two older sisters and a brother. I'm an old hand. Besides, this was kind of important. It was about me. And, well, also an excuse to talk to him.

  He bought himself some time by taking a bit bite of burger. I tried not to watch him eat in too much of a glazed, hungry way. I nibbled at some fries while I waited.

  "I'm not authorized to make a guess with any certainty," he hedged again. "So, this is just me spitballing with you."

  Sounds dirty. "Okay." I gazed at him expectantly.

  "I guess I'd say it has something to do with the ESRB, since the agency contacted you. If it's unrelated, why would we know? And if we did know, why would we be intervening directly, rather than telling the proper authorities, who would act through other channels? Police drive-bys of your dwelling, local cops — that sort of thing."

  "Okay, makes sense." I was following his path of logi
c easily. I liked to think I'd have gotten there myself, if I hadn't been so distracted by a certain handsome face, but there's no telling I would have. "I don't really know how these agencies do things," I admitted. "So, it's not normal to intervene unless it's related more or less directly to extrasensory stuff?"

  He heisted, then admitted that was correct. He seemed uncomfortable with the line of inquiry.

  "So, what does that mean for me?" I leaned forward eagerly, fascinated. "Does someone with a talent want to kill me for some reason?"

  He looked at me as if he was waiting for me to reach an obvious conclusion I'd have to be dense to ignore. When I stared helplessly back, he dug into his burger.

  "What?" I said. "You're thinking something."

  He nodded, pointed at his head, then at mine. For a second, I didn't get it. "You want me to read your mind?"

  He shook his head impatiently, finished swallowing, and said, "Perhaps you have some sort of unrated talent that hasn't shown up yet."

  "Does that happen? When you're already an adult?"

  "Anything can happen," said Webb. "Perhaps you've flown under the radar all this time. Perhaps it will show up now, and you'll be a target. I'm here to protect you if that happens, of course, and it still could be something else entirely unrelated. It just seems likely that it would be related to talent, one way or another."

  "Maybe it's not me. Maybe some — some rogue talented person—" Was that the right terminology? He wasn't glaring at me, so it couldn't be too far off. "Maybe somebody with extrasensory ability who's not on the radar is after me."

  "But again, why? Nothing came up on screening you. Is there something you didn't share, like a vengeful ex-lover?"

  Who says lover anymore? Wait. He was trying to be polite and not assume I was gay or straight. Noted...and appreciated. I like a little tact in my crushes.

  "Nope, nobody. I'm too boring to have any enemies."

  This seemed to amuse him. "I doubt anyone is too boring for enemies, but leaving that aside, is there something you could be standing to inherit, and someone wants you out of the way in case that happens?"