Page 38 of The Bodyguard

Rolling onto my back I fling my arms up above my head, close my eyes, and sigh as fragments of last night start to push forward. I kissed him. Bodie.Ikissedhim. He kissed me back, though, I’m sure of it. It wasn’tallon me.

Pushing myself up into a sitting position, I drop my head into my hands and breathe out. How can I be sure of anything? I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t know what I was doing, but I’d been drunk enough to do things I may not have done had my head been clear. And now… Oh, fuck, did I really tell him he’d looked super-hot? Had I actually used those words? What the hell have I done? When did I start acting like I was in the middle of some ridiculous teen drama?

Groaning loudly, I drag my hands back through my hair and attempt to crawl out of bed. But it isn’t just my hangover – and the fact I probably look like shit because of it – that’s making me want to curl up into a ball and sleep the day away. The shame of how I acted last night, with Bodie, it’s really starting to hit home now. I don’t do that kind of thing, I don’t. That isn’t me, I don’t lose control and tell men they’re hot, least of all men who… Oh, Jesus, no. No. A memory of me, trying to untie my robe, and Bodie stopping me… okay. Now I just feel sick.

Slumping back against the wall I sink to the ground, drawing my knees to my chest, and I close my eyes. I’m still so tired. But every time I plunge myself into darkness all I see is his face, all I feel is that kiss…

“Hey, Lena, you up yet?”

My brother’s voice stops me from sinking back into a pit of memories I’d rather not think about, and I open my eyes. “Yeah. Come in.”

I pull myself to my feet as he opens the door, takes one look at me, and stops in his tracks. And I don’t appreciate the face he pulls.

“Jesus! What happened to you?”

“I don’t lookthatbad.” I disappear into the bathroom, look in the mirror, and pull a face not dissimilar to the one Ollie pulled just now. “Alright. I do.” I kick the door shut, pee, and brush my teeth before splashing my face with cold water. It doesn’t exactly work miracles, but it makes me feel a little better.

“Where did you go last night?” Ollie asks as I emerge from the bathroom. “After you dodged dinner?” He leans back against the wall and folds his arms, an almost accusatory look on his face.

“We went for pizza.”

Ollie raises an eyebrow, which I ignore, and head into the walk-in closet. He knows I was faking feeling ill last night. He knows.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I shout through into the bedroom as I hunt for something to wear, and thank Christ it’s Sunday. I have nothing planned, nowhere to go, and if I’m lucky I can avoid Bodie all day, as long as I stay here, in the house. “I assumed you’d go clubbing after the dinner.”

“Me and a few mates went on to a couple of bars in town, then back to mine. I came here for breakfast.”

I yank my hair back into a loose ponytail before going back out into the bedroom.

“You came here for breakfast?”

I go back into the bathroom and rummage around in my make-up drawer for some heavy-duty concealer. I can’t be bothered to stick on a full face of make-up, not on a Sunday, but I need something to make me look at least somewhere close to human.

“Well, that, and the fact me and Dad have got work to do.”

I dab some concealer under my eyes, add a coat of mascara, some light pink blush, and a touch of lip gloss and step back from the mirror to take a look at my handywork. Not bad.

“Working on a Sunday, huh?”

Ollie looks at me as I come out of the bathroom, and pulls another face, one that tells me I look relatively okay now. And that’ll have to do.

“We’ve never exactly been nine-to-five.”

“Is Novak involved?”

“Don’t ask questions, Lena.”

Yeah. Shut up, keep my head down, don’t think about the danger they could be putting me in: putting us all in, and I’m just supposed to be okay with that? They think I am, but I’m not. I’m really not.

“How’s it going with Bodie?”

He’s changing the subject. Obviously. “We’re tolerating each other. We’re fine.”

“You sure? ’Cause, you know, you’re all edgy, hungover, and shifty as hell. What happened after you left the dinner, huh? Did he discover your love of pineapple on pizza?”

I ignore him, I can see what he’s trying to do. Placate me. Keep me on side. Make sure I stay quiet, obedient, don’t fall out of line. But he quickly gets that I’m not in the mood for his own brand of banter, unfolds his arms, slides his hands into his pockets, and walks over to the window, yanking open the curtains, and I squint as bright sunshine floods the room.

“Novak’s causing problems.” He turns around and leans back against the window-sill. “And that can’t continue.”

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