Little Things // Bush

Thirty minutes after the ice queen of the Hollywood screen– Ms. Anita Brooks–makes her dramatic exit, Clinton, Emily and I jumped in his Audi to head to her house for final details. I'm relegated to the backseat like the kid in this dysfunctional family because Emily insisted on riding shotgun. She slugged me for it, too.

"Slug bug, I call shotgun!"

There wasn't even a Volkswagen Beetle in sight, which is how that game is played. But whatever. She can break all the rules she wants until I'm in charge. It'll be the toughest job I ever complete getting that woman to comply, but if I'm worth my shit I'll get her to do it.

This job can't end fast enough.

Knowing what I'm about to face, I decide to disassociate the entire ride by staring out the window. Emily lives in a gated community down the coast, over an hour from L.A. She drones on about keeping her appearance schedule unchanged and how vital it is to the success of her film that just released. I say nothing, knowing that Clinton has already taken a hatchet to her schedule, eliminating anything where she comes in contact with the public.

What her mother never stated at the office, and what Emily seems to be in denial about, is the fact that she's a walking tabloid cover story. Wherever she goes, whoever she's with, gets front page headlines suggesting something scandalous is going on. Her last bodyguard was photographed with his pants down around his ankles because Emily had insisted on checking out a beehive while on a walk in Malibu Canyon. A bee wiggled its way up his leg. The guy is fucking allergic to bees. Deathly. So in a panic, he dropped his pants to get the bee off him.

But did the headlines read that? Nope. The whole thing was painted as a sexual favors thing in the canyon between the two of them. No one at the gossip rags bothered clearing it up because he wasn't actually stung–dropping his pants clearly did the trick to save him from that fate–so there wasn't a medical trail to follow as proof. Not that a gossip rag cares about truth.

The guy's reputation is stained now, his career in shambles. All because Emily wanted to watch the bees and the walking neon sign she carries that screams headlines.

I've got to get her to follow orders rather than the other way around. I can't put myself in a compromising position. I'm just starting out in this career so what I'm associated with matters. Plus, I've got family to take care of. Help my mom with her bills, make sure my little brother stays in school. I can't afford to lose this job.

My mind pulls back to the present when the ocean comes into view. I don't spend much time at the beach, too busy working. But maybe this will end up being a perk to this assignment. Clinton drives through the gate once Emily rattles off the gate code. He follows the winding road down to where the houses are nestled alongside the beach.

A few minutes later, we pull up to a palatial estate in the oceanfront community. I'm surprised a Hollywood royal like Emily doesn't live right on the water, this house being a block away. It's enormous, however, so that must make up for the distance from the shore.

The house itself doesn't have an over the top design like so many estates tend to. The style is more suburban family home than estate. Earth tones and natural stone cover the exterior. The yard isn't huge but big enough for what appears to be a putting green and garden dining area on the side of the house. I can't see the back from our vantage point but I imagine there's more of the same. The house is on a corner lot, which could make my job harder with more points of entry. The smooth glass windows on every level could also cause some headaches. Telephoto lenses are a real bitch when you're trying to keep a celebrity out of the public eye. And I doubt Emily likes to keep the curtains closed. Part of me thinks she loves living the fishbowl life.

"Where do you want me to park?" Clinton asks, glancing at Emily in the rearview mirror. He drove his blacked out Audi rather than the SUV we take for typical celebrity transportation because he wanted less scrutiny with Emily on board. The black SUV every celebrity rides in around Hollywood is a clear calling card. Necks crane when we take it around town, knowing someone important is in the back seat. Zack refers to the stock SUV as the Where's Waldo game. Because if every celebrity car looks the same, will you even know if you've found one?

"Here," Emily answers with an extended hand, holding a remote device and clicking it. The door opens to reveal a semi-sunken garage, partially under the house for maximum privacy. "Park there. I have another remote for him." She flings her hand in my direction. "What do they call you? The Kid?"

I bite back the groan. I was hoping Emily was unaware of my crew nickname, given to me by the boss because I'm the youngest guard in his company.

"I prefer Javier." I say with the least amount of affect I can. I don't want her thinking she can rattle me.

Even though she does.

"Whatever," she huffs.

I hear Emily slump back into her seat like a sullen teenager. Typical.

Clinton pulls the car into a massive six-car parking garage under her house. Only three spots are filled. One with a tricked out Jeep, one with a vintage Porsche, and one with a Range Rover. I can't picture Emily driving any of them. Glancing at her in her casual sweatshirt and leggings, I picture her more of a Volkswagen driver, or maybe that's because of the slug bug situation earlier. Either way, right now she looks like a girl on her way to the mall with her friends more than a celebrity hiding away from the public eye. Clinton parks next to the Jeep and we all pile out of his Audi.

It occurs to me that my Dodge Charger, although an upgrade for me, will look like the odd man out in this garage. Story of my life.

Emily leads us to an elevator. "There aren't any rooms on this level because it cuts into the hill so Mother installed an elevator for when she buys out Saks and doesn't want to carry all the bags upstairs. Not like she'd do that anyway. That's what the Help are for, know what I'm saying?" Emily presses the up button in the elevator car and turns to us as the doors close.

"I thought this was your house?" I can't help the question after the picture Emily painted of her mother and the bags.

She rolls her eyes as she answers me. "It is, now. Mother upgraded so she gave me her hand-me-downs." Emily leans in closer. "But truth be told, I didn't want to move to Malibu so I just never packed. Ta-da." She throws out her hands. "Now it's " 'mine' with conditions." She airquotes her way through declaring it "mine."

The doors open to the foyer of her house, an entryway that's bigger than my living room. Thirty foot high ceilings greet us along with a modern chandelier that looks like crushed ice lit from within. Marble floors and rich, dark wood mouldings contrast with the modern lighting. But it's the painting on the wall across from us that catches my eye.

Practically life sized, the portrait of a woman standing at the edge of a high seashore cliff on a stormy night is clearly a depiction of Emily. The piercing brown eyes of her painted alter ego bore through me, a knowing smile spread across her mouth. The woman in the portrait is the essence of power, control and desire. I glance at the real woman only a few feet away from me to find her staring right back.

"Unnerving, isn't it." Emily smirks. "Mother had it commissioned for my eighteenth. You know, my coming out." Emily shakes her head. "She wanted me depicted as a Siren. The voice that calls to the men on the ocean and drags them to their death?" This time Emily laughs and looks back at it. "If she only knew, right? Besides, I've always felt more like a Succubus than a Siren."

I open my mouth to say something, but I have no idea what. I'm dumbfounded by this painting because holy hell, if the sassy woman walking away from me was more like this painting, I'd be in absolute trouble. I clear my throat and follow her through the foyer to a living room with equal mixtures of modern and traditional decor. Emily flings a hand at it.

"It's all still in Mother's style except for my room and the pool area. Those are the only places I hang out."

Clinton asks Emily to go slowly through each room, wanting all points of entry covered. We discuss vantage points, window coverings, alarm sensor placement, exterior cameras and monitoring devices. Emily scrolls her phone the entire time.

"Is the electrical panel I saw in the garage the only one?" Clinton asks. "Nothing outside?"

Emily shrugs. "How should I know?"

Clinton gives me a tight mouthed frown. He knows from unfortunate experience how vulnerable an exterior electrical panel can make a person. It is too easy to cut power to a building and draw someone outside to check it, making them a sitting duck. He made sure to rewire the duplex he owns, the one I call home, for just that reason.

Home. A place I won't be seeing for a while. This mansion by the beach is about to be my new home, albeit temporary as it is. Emily is probably looking forward to slyly torturing me. I'm just hoping for a room on the opposite side of the house from hers. Praying for it. Offering my first born. I hold back the groan at the thought while we follow Emily into the kitchen. It isn't until we climb the staircase, perusing the upstairs bedrooms and her home office that I accept my fate.

Emily's room was the only room with a locked door. One she opened with an old fashioned skeleton key and seemed anxious to let us enter. She stood by the door while Clinton and I looked at the same aspects we'd looked at in every other room of her house.

"You have your pick, Javi. Any of the rooms is fair game. Except for mine, obvs." She rolls her eyes. I ignore the obnoxious nickname she just gave me. Better than her calling me The Kid, I guess.

Her room did feel different from every other we'd gone through. Softer. More lived in. And somewhat juvenile, which shouldn't have surprised me but did. There was a little blue blanket and a tattered stuffed elephant on her bed that caught my eye, probably something from her childhood she hung onto. I looked up to find her looking right at me, eyes wide.

It's the only time I've ever seen her look vulnerable. Breakable.

Broken.

Which has to be the only reason I say what I say when offered my pick of any room in the house.

"I'll take the room next to yours."

Her eyes don't leave mine.

"That would have been my suggestion," Clinton says, reviewing his handwritten notes.

"I've never had a live-in babysitter." Emily smirks. "Can we stay up late watching My Little Pony and braiding our hair? Will you paint my nails? Can I have ice cream for dinner?"

I cough.

And we're back to our regularly scheduled program. Awesome.

Oh the fun these two are about to have!! Well, Emily's about to have fun. Javier is about to lose his mind. *evil author laugh* I can't wait!

PS, the house pictured in the chapter aesthetic is an actual house in Laguna that is my inspiration for Emily's house. The hubs and I love walking along a park overlooking that neighborhood and since Covid, that house has intrigued me. I decided it was the perfect setting for Emily's life to unravel.

Next week, Javier has a day off to visit his mom. Familiar faces will stop by! The way this one will link some of my other worlds has me smiling.

I've been looking up alt 90's girl bands and have a few to represent Emily. She's kind of an angry Avril Lavigne mixed with an unhinged Britney Spears, who I'm aware is not an alt 90's rocker but the vibe fits the way the public views Emily. Also, Criminal by Fiona Apple will probably make an appearance...but this one is still all Javier.

[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]

Thanks for reading!!