Page 4 of Rock Bottom

“That may be, but…” Boone paused to take a swallow of his coffee before continuing. “Ragnar’s not a good fit for the job, and Bowie just got back from that job in Oklahoma. With Happy still MIA, you’re next on the list.”

I made a sour face at the mention of our missing member. Happy wasn’t MIA. He was hiding, and if he was smart, he’d stay hidden. On our most recent job, he’d disappeared just before things had gone sideways and our enemy suddenly had information they shouldn’t have about us. Leo, our tech expert, said they could’ve gotten that info by hacking our computers, but I didn’t buy it. Happy had sold us out, and if I ever saw him again, I’d put a bullet in his bald head.

“Sucks to be you. This one’s a doozy.” Xion commented with a grin, leaning on the back of Boone’s chair.

I sighed and flipped open the folder, perusing its contents. The majority of our work came from escort jobs—guarding valuable cargo from point A to point B—or bodyguard work. Neither was particularly exciting, but such jobs were the bread and butter of every private security firm.

I knew it was a bodyguard gig before I even opened the folder. Boone liked to give those jobs to me because I looked intimidating. Despite all that, or maybe because of it, I detested being a glorified babysitter for the rich and famous.

The face staring back at me was one I knew well because it’d been plastered all over tabloids, entertainment news, and even a few commercials. The lead singer of some pop rock band. He certainly looked the sort to draw trouble with his knowing smirk, his long dirty blonde hair, and…Huh. He had eyes the color of the sea, a stormy sort of blue green. I hadn’t known that about him since he was always wearing sunglasses in the tabloid pictures. Looking into them now sent a pang of homesickness through me for some reason.

“Dante Deluca,” Boone announced. “And if you don’t know that name, you’ve been living under two rocks. Singer-songwriter for After Atom and the record label’s number one problem child, apparently. The kid’s a superstar and a Cinderella story wrapped up in one, and you know how the entertainment industry loves a story. The only thing the media loves more than a meteoric rise is a catastrophic fall, and this kid is flirting with disaster.”

I lowered the folder. “Since when did superstars hire us? Don’t they normally work with the big agencies out west?”

Boone nodded. “They do, but the job’s not out west. They want everything done on the down-low, and that means working with a small-time security firm like The Junkyard Dogs. It also means they’re flying the kid out here tonight. You’re to retrieve him from the airport and take him to some vacation rental up in the Hocking Hills. They’re sending him out here to sober him up before the band’s world tour. Kid’s been partying too hard.”

“Which is why you’re such a good fit,” Xion said with a big smile. “You wouldn’t know fun if it pulled your hair and kicked you in the balls.”

“I know how to have fun,” I grumbled, flipping through the file. “For example, I think it’d be quite fun to give you a kick to the balls so hard Boone will have to retrieve them from your throat for you.”

“None of that, now. I like Xion’s balls right where they are.” Boone reached back to clasp Xion’s hand, and I thought I might be sick. There was nothing more vomit inducing than a couple of newlyweds eye fucking each other except knowing they’d be fucking each other on the desk the moment I stepped out of the room.

I flipped the folder closed. “So my job is to keep the little wanker clean and sober for thirty days. Shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“No booze, no drugs, no hookers, and no parties,” Boone said, counting on his fingers. “And no leaving the cabin. You’ll get a supply drop once a week, but you can call if you need something sooner. Can’t have him getting spotted by the locals. If shit goes sideways and paparazzi does show up, you’re to confiscate their recording devices and destroy any evidence he was ever there.”

“I’m not an addiction counselor, Boone,” I said with a sigh.

“Kid’s been medically cleared,” Boone continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “He’s just spent seventy-two hours in a tin can under medical supervision. Apparently, they got this fancy new rapid detox program where they knock you out and pump you full of fluids and special detox drugs that let you miss out on all the fun muscle tremors, sweats, and pain. Wild, huh?”

I shook my head. “How’s he supposed to learn there are consequences for his actions if he gets to avoid the consequences?”

“Not our department.”

“I don’t care what they pumped into his veins. Three days is not long enough to get everything out of his system,” I pointed out.

“Apparently, the corporate assholes are more worried about his image than his health, but just in case, I had them fax Wattson his medical records. Wattson says he’s out of the woods. On the off chance you do have a medical emergency, Wattson will be on call. The manager was very clear about no hospitals. I don’t think you’ll need to worry about any of that, though. I was told he was a bit of a handful, but not like that. I’m sure he’s nothing you can’t handle.”

I agreed. Dante Deluca was five nine and maybe nine and a half stone. If he gave me any trouble, I could just pick him up and carry him to his room and sit in front of the door like I would with an unruly child. I hadn’t met a man I couldn’t best in a fair fight yet, and Dante didn’t look like much of a scrapper to me.

“His plane lands at eighteen hundred hours and you’ll need to be on the tarmac to pick him up,” Boone said. “Everything else is in the file. Any more questions?”

“No questions, sir.”

“Good,” Boone said with a nod. “You’re dismissed.”

I stood, folder in hand. “Just one more thing, if I may?”

Boone shrugged. “You know you can always speak freely in here, Church.”

I turned to Xion, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t ever call me slick again, mate.”

Xion snickered as I walked away.

Outside, the sun was shining on our little heaven of garbage and rust. The rotting carcasses of once-proud cars and appliances piled high in every direction as far as the eye could see.

Except for one, and that was the direction I was headed in. Situated at the center of the junkyard and circled like a wagon train were several doublewide trailers, one of which I called home. It wasn’t my idea, but when Boone brought the trailers in and gave them to each of his Junkyard Dogs free of charge, he’d been chuffed to bits. I never had the heart to tell him that I detested the thing. It was rickety, cramped, and always smelled like the curry Happy had spilled in my kitchen a year ago. No matter how hard I cleaned, I couldn’t get that smell out.

---