Hot As Sin

11

I say evenly, “Just time for a change of scenery.”

If Marcus doesn’t believe me, he doesn’t let on. He simply nods and says, “Yeah. I hear you. I’m a born and bred Cali boy, but this town has a way of screwing up a man’s priorities. It’s not exactly real life, if you know what I mean.”

We watch a pair of beautiful young models frolic in the pool. They’re sitting on a giant inflatable swan and splashing water over each other’s naked breasts as a dozen camera flashes go off. Those images will be all over i********: by the time I get my next drink.

I turn and look at Marcus. He’s a huge dude, impressively fit, with a certain swagger to his walk that hints at badassery. He’s like a bald, jacked-up version of Black Panther.

“You got any background in security? The military? Any kind of weapons training?”

When he peers at me like he thinks that’s a strange line of questioning, I smile and turn his own words back on him. “Boss at my new job is always looking for hustlers. I could put in a word if you wanna drop outta the rat race.”

Marcus laughs. “What, and miss out on this high quality family entertainment?” He jerks his chin toward the scene in the pool. The girls are now enthusiastically making out.

After a moment, in a more serious tone, he says, “I was a spoiled rich kid. Went to USC on a football scholarship. I wouldn’t know a machine gun from a musket.”

I snort. “C’mon. Every little old lady knows the difference between a machine gun and a musket.”

“I’m good with computers, though. And people.” He sounds thoughtful, as if he’s mulling over his resume and skillset. After a moment, he adds, “Also, I’m an eighth Dan black belt in Krav Maga.”

“Whoa. That’s master level. You could probably kill a man with your pinky.”

He c***s his head and eyes me up and down.

“Some other man. Not me, obviously. I’m way too tough, my friend.”

He laughs again. “That you are. I can tell from the hand-sewn silk vest.”

Ignoring the friendly ribbing, I say, “Well, if babysitting movie stars and hanging out with douchey frat boys who ruin parties ever gets old, gimme a call. Nico’ll know how to get in touch with me.”

He nods, watching with an air of faint disgust as three of his drunken colleagues tumble headlong into the pool.

Somehow I think I might be hearing from him.

A sudden burst of noise directly below makes us lean over the balcony for a look. Emerging from the living room in a line is a group of smiling women dressed in huge, colorful feather headdresses, tiny sequined bikinis, high heels, and nothing else. The DJ starts spinning a thumping brass bandap mashup with a distinct Mardi Gras feel, and the crowd breaks into screams and shouts.

“Holy s**t,” says Marcus, wide-eyed. “That’s Rihanna!”

I look, convinced he’s wrong. But sure enough, it’s the superstar herself, in all her booty-shakin’ glory. She leads the line of costumed performers as they file out of the house and begin to circle the pool, dancing to the thumping beat.

From the crowd, someone hands her a wireless microphone. Into it she shouts, “Where’s our guest of honor? I hear that bad boy needs a kiss!”

The crowd goes nuts and starts to chant my name.

Nico. You sneaky bastard. In spite of my horror that I’m being put on the spot, I have to laugh. He’s always been one for an over-the-top gesture. Apparently tonight is no exception.

“Better get your ass down there!” Marcus turns to me with a huge grin. “You lucky son of a b***h!”

“I’ve got a better idea. You go.”

He makes a face like he was just informed he won the Mega Lotto and will never have to work again. “What? Are you kidding me? Man, this is your party—and that’s f*****g Rihanna!”

“She’s not gonna know the difference between you and me. We’ve never met. And I can’t stand being the center of attention, even for the opportunity from a kiss from her. So…” I gesture to the scene on the pool deck. “Have fun.”

I fold my arms over my chest and brace my legs apart so he knows I’m not going anywhere.

Smiling wide, he slaps me on the back. “You’re an i***t. See you later.”

Then he turns and bolts away, taking the stairs three at a time.

I stay just long enough to watch him push his way through the crowd and stop, grinning, in front of Rihanna, before I turn and make my way back into the house.

“Hey, Barney!”

I back up a few steps, looking into a room I just passed as I was walking down the long hallway. Inside Nico’s office, A.J. is sprawled in a leather chair against a wall filled with framed album covers and pictures of Bad Habit with various celebrities.

Abby is nestled in the cradle of A.J.’s giant arms, fast asleep.

I don’t bother to ask how he knew it was me quietly passing. I’m beginning to think he really does have superhuman extrasensory powers now that his sight is gone.

“Hey yourself. What’re you doing up here all alone?”

“I’m not alone. I’ve got an armful of baby, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I was talking about your lovely fiancée, jackass.”

“She went to get some food with the nanny. It was getting a little crazy downstairs for Abby, so here we are.”