I squeezed past him and down the aisle, ignoring the puzzled “Champion?” behind me.
I’d never been to Los Angeles before. Typically, the entire west coast fell into Avery Malcolm’s territory, the champion based out of San Francisco. I mean, I’d seen pictures on TV, like anybody, but we all know how true-to- life those can be.
People rushed around me, greeting loved ones with squeals and kisses, or just hustling off to the next stop on the journey of their life. Christmas travelers, I decided, just coming home after the festivities. Things looked off for some reason I couldn’t put my finger on, until I realized that no one was wearing a winter coat. Light jackets, yeah, but nothing like the parkas we’d been bundled up in at home. Winter in California, I guess.
Standing in the midst of the human flood was a man in a dark suit jacket over a white T-shirt and blue jeans. The crowd parted around him, I think because running into him may have caused bodily harm. Dude wasn’t tall really—no taller than my six foot one—but he was solid muscle and the nice coat did nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders. In fact, if he flexed, I bet he’d shred that nice jacket right in two. Black hair, the kind with natural blue undertones, caramel-colored skin, and most notably a stark black tattoo down the right side of his face. Oh, and he was carrying a sign that said J. DAWSON. Since my name happened to be J. Dawson, I walked over and introduced myself. “I am J. Dawson.”
“Taiaho Otimi. You can call me Tai.” He offered me a handshake and the foreboding expression morphed into a genuine smile. I mentally took about five more years off his age. Mid-twenties, if I had to guess. His friendly grin was only slightly marred by the tribal markings from his forehead to his chin. I stared at those black marks, waiting to see if they would move under my gaze, until the guy gave me an odd look.
“Sorry. Jet-lagged, I guess. Call me Jesse.” The second his hand touched mine, I felt a jolt all the way through my arm into my neck. Like whizzing on the electric fence. I jerked, breath hissing between my teeth, and he looked at me strangely. “Old carpal tunnel injury. It flares up when I fly.” When he glanced away, I shook the numbness out of my fingers.
The Maori were one of those few remaining peoples of the world who, through some quirk of genetics or culture, had innate magic coursing through their veins just as a matter of common birth. And despite the influence of the outside world, they’d managed to hold on to most of their old legends and stories. Magic was not as unbelievable to them as it was to pretty much the rest of the world.
This Tai, though…he didn’t know. He had no idea he’d just zapped the living shit out of me. “Do you have luggage?”
“Um…yeah. One.” I fell in behind him as we headed for the baggage pickup, letting him clear a path through the crowd. “So you’re Maori, right?”
He gave me a surprised glance. “That’s right. Most people guess Samoan, ’cause I played football. Like only Samoa has big, dark-skinned dudes that play football, right?”
That small fact clicked in my head, and I realized why he looked vaguely familiar. “You used to play for USC, right?”
“Yeah, ’til I blew out my knee. That’s the breaks, I guess.”
We found a place surrounded by everyone else waiting for their luggage, Tai clasping his hands in front of him casually. His shoulders strained the cloth of his suit jacket, but the fact that it didn’t just rip right in two proved that it had been tailored expressly for him. Tailored so well, in fact, that it almost hid the outline of a shoulder holster rig across his back. Damn. I was starting to wonder if maybe limo drivers in L.A. had New York taxi drivers beat.
“So you’re a limo driver now?”
“Sometimes. Mostly, I’m a bodyguard who also drives.” Okay, then the shoulder rig made a bit more sense, I guess. Though I now had Whitney Houston stuck in my head.
“You often find use for a gun in your limo driving-slash-bodyguarding?” Maybe I really am from some kind of backwater hick town. Aside from the president, I’d never met anyone who warranted a bodyguard, let alone an armed one. Even my wealthier clients hadn’t been that far up the fame scale.
“Not yet. But the world is full of crazies. Stalkers and stuff, y’know?” He shrugged his broad shoulders.
“I assume you’re working for Miss Keene?” He grunted an affirmative. “So who’s watching her while you’re here?”
“Other guard. His name’s Bobby. You’ll meet him when we get to the hotel.”
We stood in semiawkward silence for a bit. But I couldn’t help but notice that there were three teenage girls standing off to one side, giggling and pointing at me. Great, did I have toilet paper on my shoe or what? Finally, I sighed and looked at them. “Is there something I can help you with?”
They whispered among each other, finally poking the bravest one until she stepped forward. She kept glancing back at them for support, giggling like a lunatic. “You’re him, right? That guy?”
“What guy?” I mean, I know I’m a legend in my own mind, but this was ridiculous.
“From that show. With the island and the polar bear.”
“Um…no. Sorry. You must have me mistaken for someone else.” You’d have thought I popped their balloons or kicked their puppy or something. Instantly they deflated with a chorus of “aaawwwws” and wandered off.
I glanced at Tai, who gave me a thoughtful look. “You do kinda look like him.”
“Like who?”
“That guy. But I’ve seen him in person. You’re taller.”
“Well, I’m not him. Whoever the hell he is.” I don’t watch a lot of TV. I had no idea who they were talking about. An island and a polar bear? Sounded lame. I spotted my suitcase forlornly circling the baggage carousel and moved to grab it. “Are we far from the hotel?”
“You’ve never been to L.A.?” I shook my head to the negative. “Well, you’ll get to do a bit of sightseeing on the
