“Love you too,” I tell her as we hug one last time. The car service is waiting outside, and I slide into the backseat and wave to my sister. I’m going to need to make sure Dom checks in on her for me. I’ll need to call her therapist to let her know I won’t be in town anymore once I land. I have to make sure she is being responsible with her suppressants. I don’t want her to feel like I’m trying to manage her life, but I can’t help myself. I won’t be able to do my job properly if I’m always worrying about her.
The flight is long from Reagan to LAX, but thankfully, Dom booked me into business class so I can actually extend my legs. I highly doubt my new client flies commercial, so at least there’s that. I spend the flight looking over her file: what her expectations, dislikes, and preferences are for her security team. She seems like the type that won’t act like I don’t exist—which is frustrating. I like the clients who don’t speak to me and just let me do my job.
Just let me stand in a corner, watch and assess for threats. The clients who want to mingle and chit chat are the fucking worst. Not only do I not care about their lives, it’s distracting when I’m trying to do what I was hired for. We will just need to set up boundaries early. I’m here for her protection, not to be her friend.
I already signed an NDA when I took the job, but it appears she cares about her privacy over everything—not a surprise. It doesn’t seem like she goes out much except for work, which makes my job easier, but is still surprising. During her tour, we will mostly stay in hotels and fly privately. Thank fuck it isn’t a tour bus. They are extremely uncomfortable for someone my size. It’s like a container of doom on wheels, no escape from the job. Having private quarters is the only thing that will make this job bearable.
There are a few files on her personnel that I take notice of and a brief list of people who are permitted to come into her private spaces. I memorize their names and faces and put her file away. After speaking to Dom, it sounds like I’m being thrown into the position as soon as I land, so I mentally prepare myself to get into my role—being a protector.
When the plane lands and I go to baggage claim, I notice a man in a black suit holding up a sign forSmith. He has olive toned skin and must be in his mid-forties. He seems unsuspecting enough.
I can only imagine how many other Smiths are possibly at this airport right now, but I grab my suitcase and greet him.
“Are you meeting Miss Jenson?” he asks.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“May I see some ID?” I fight a smile and hand the man my license. This guy is okay in my book. So many people make the mistake of taking people at their word and not insisting on proof. I can appreciate people who do their job with some level of common sense.
“I’m Franklin, Cami’s personal driver. We can exchange details later.”
“Okay,” I say.
He nods and walks me out to the car. I groan when I realize it’s a limo. Franklin places my luggage in the trunk and opens the door, and I maneuver my frame to sit inside the vehicle. When I look up, I’m greeted by two faces.
One is a male Beta in his mid-forties with salt and pepper hair. He’s wearing a gray three-piece suit and his face and demeanor remind me of a used car salesman. I recognize him from her file as Garth, her agent. He hardly even acknowledges my presence and continues scrolling through his phone.
The next is a face I have seen many times, previously on TV and online. Most recently, from her extensive file. It’s Deja Fox, AKA Cami Jenson. She’s just as beautiful as she appears on the big screen with flawless golden brown skin, large amber-hued doe eyes, and a body that she clearly puts a lot of time into. She’s dressed pretty modestly from what I’m used to seeing her in. Black leather pants cover her toned thighs and a cherry red lace top clings to her breasts and trimmed waist. The wig she is wearing is nearly the same shade as her top and reaches her collarbone.
“You must be Smith?” she says in her raspy voice.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” I reply, and she scrunches up her face.
“You can call me Cami, or Miss Fox in public, if you’d like,” she says.
“Okay, Miss Fox.” I don’t feel comfortable calling her Cami. My job is not to become familiar with my client, only to the extent of protecting them.
“Are you sure this is necessary, Cami? Kenny was fine,” Garth says. He glances up from his phone and gives me a look of disinterest.
“Yes, I didn’t trust him. I want all-around security after what happened,” she says as she wraps her arms around herself and sinks into the leather seat in the limo.
“I’m here for whatever you need,” I tell her.
She nods her head and gives a polite smile. Her agent rolls his eyes and starts swiping on his tablet.
“All right, we’re meeting with Margo for your first interview after everything that happened. You need to really push the tour. While tickets are still sold out, a few of your advertisements have dropped. She already knows not to press questions regarding the photos,” Garth says. I already don’t like him. The way he talks to her it’s as if she’s not a person but a pawn. With most of the other clients I’ve worked for, the agent bends over backward to please the celebrity.
“You’re sure she won’t ask? The last time I did an interview with her, she was really pushy.”
“Yes, she agreed to this,” Garth confirms.
“Okay, fine.” It doesn’t seem like she really wants to do the interview, but she nods her head and we all sit there awkwardly for a while.
“So, Smith, is that a last name or a nickname?” she asks.
“Both,” I reply.
“Okay, where are you from?”
