She looked like she couldn’t be more than twenty. She looked younger in real life, actually. And smaller. Fuck, catching a glimpse of her then, it was hard to believe that this was the form my second chance was going to take.

The driver pulled up to the studio, and already some paparazzi were gathering. I wanted to say they reminded me of flies on shit, but I had told myself that morning that I was going to be positive. Starting from scratch was never going to be easy, I knew that, and I had to believe I’d been through enough already to handle something like this.

The conversation had only been yesterday. An old connection had come through for me and now I was an emergency stand-in bodyguard for a woman who was the latest winner of the Teen Choice award for a pop song called Brave. Or at least that’s what Google had told me.

My name is Max Turner, I am a decorated Navy SEAL with more than three years of elite military training and dozens of deployments under my belt, many of them classified. I’ve devoted my life to overcoming fear and ignorance. I’ve mastered my physical form as well as the operation of lesser machines, including hundreds of specialized weapons, aircraft, vessels and military vehicles. And now I was making sure that some child got to her Hello Magazine interview without incident.

Anyway.

Positive.

I was trying to stay positive.

Back in my training days my mentor had told me not to get too attached to my skillset, not to sit pretty just because I had been a chief of several successful platoons. As the driver angled the car into the lot and dodged the paparazzi, I heard his words again in my mind. He’d say, “your mission is never over, buddy. It’s all mission. Forget about tools and protocols and training. The big mission needs only one tool,” and he’d point a finger to his head. At the time, I thought I understood what he meant and agreed. But now, three months into my new life out of the Navy, I was beginning to wonder if he was just another lost soul, just another big man with a big ego who thought of himself like some kind of Yoda figure. God knows the military is full of them. How was I going to think my way into a normal civilian life?

Ok, positive. Fucking positive.

I stepped out of the vehicle first, scanned the area and inwardly cursed at the fact that I had been asked to wear a formal fucking suit for this. The second I opened the car door the paparazzi swarmed us, like demons drawn to fresh blood. I blocked the car door and extended my hand to help out a few of the other members of Miss Hope’s entourage. They all awkwardly stepped from the car, crouching over or covering their faces, each of them carrying an enormous handbag in the crook of one elbow and enormous coffee cup in the other hand. The paparazzi formed a knot around the car, and then I reached for Jenna Hope’s hand and helped her out, pouting and wobbling on her heels like she was tipsy.

Every single one of the photographers had a uniform of their own: scraggly skinny jeans, a black shirt and some variation of annoying facial hair. They made me think of vultures. The party made its way into the back entrance of the building, and I did my best to keep them at bay. But I could do nothing about their yelling.

“Jenna! Hey Jenna, look over here!”

“Jenna, Jenna what happened last week at the Boston concert? Do you always lip synch, Jenna?”

The pop star pushed her way to the entrance with a weird mix of irritation and a kind of glamorous boredom. Her hangers-on seemed to know to ring around her and I did my best to keep everyone else intimidated enough that they didn’t come any closer. We all shuffled into the elevator and the door closed on them.

“Assholes,” Jenna said, and flicked her hair out of her baby-face.

It was surreal. This was my fourth detail since starting up business in this town as a private security contractor, but it would pay more than triple all the others combined, including the escort I provided to that Turkish ambassador. It was insane. I glanced over at the starlet and tried to figure it out. What was so valuable about this girl that a man of my caliber and training was required to protect her?

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

I turned to see another woman scowling fiercely at me. Shit. Her earrings were still swinging from her shaking her head at me.

“Keep your eyes to yourself, you douchebag,” she said, and the other two girls behind her broke into loud giggles but without looking up from their phones. My face burned. Before I knew what to do with myself the elevator door opened and they all bustled out. They ignored me entirely as they all swanned inside and began chattering with the people there. I stood at the door entrance, waiting for further instruction. Should I hold my arms in front of me, like bodyguards in the movies? I tried it, and found it made me feel less like an idiot.

I was staying positive.

I needed the money.

I had spent the better part of my life developing a skillset that I no longer wanted to use, and as a result I would have to learn a new set of skills. That’s all. Nothing to get down about. And I was no stranger to humiliation. I was just more accustomed to being humiliated by men who were legitimately stronger than me, and not …girls in push up bras and too much perfume. But it was temporary. I’d be more selective with clients in the future, that was for sure.

I stood there at the entrance and watched as a whole team of make-up artists and wardrobe people and who knows what else fussed around the girl and got her ready for an interview that would take ten minutes. It was like watching a race of aliens worshipping their child-queen. I couldn’t believe the sheer effort that went into creating that number of illusions.

But wasn’t I in there, with her? My qualifications meant fuck-all to any of these people. They’d never known a day of real pain or real work or real achievement in their lives. I realized then, standing like a rent-a-monkey, that they had hired me just because I looked the part. I was to be just another player on the Jenna show, and it occurred to me for a moment that the best way to draw more attention to yourself was to hire a private bodyguard. After all, hadn’t her agent insisted I work alone even when I told them a pair of officers was safer?

I stood there guarding the door and stewing, looking on at the little parade of inanity playing out in front of me. I had left the Navy for damn good reasons. But by the time two hours had passed with no sign of me being able to leave, I was decided: I would not do this kind of work again. No way, no how. I’ve seen some grisly shit on missions, I’ve been involved in life-or-death situations and hostile negotiations and I’ve roughed it in territories so harsh most people wouldn’t survive an hour in them. But goddammit I’m a man of principle and I decided there and then, while watching the hairstylist throw a tantrum, that there were some levels I would never stoop to.

Still, I didn’t let them know this. I was polite and courteous as they bustled past me. My feet ached and I was getting hungry. But for $900 an hour I could certainly find it in myself to wait it out. Besides, it’s not like I had someone to go home to this afternoon in any case. Sure, I felt alone as I stood there, the goon of an entourage, but in truth I would have felt even more alone at home. So fuck it.

By the time hour three rolled around I was getting impatient. Miss Jenna Hope burst into the corridor and flustered past me, looking utterly transformed with that big beauty pageant hair and a skin so glossy and smooth it looked like they had spray-painted it on. I can’t describe the sense of unease it gave me, to look at her. She was so young, but so cynical. She had the face of a schoolgirl and yet the way she moved and bossed around the assistants put me in mind of one of the hardened generals I had dealt with in the gulf back in the day.

She blustered past me and then stopped, looked me up and down, then smiled like she was a kid playing at being Cruella de Ville.

“Still ogling, huh?” she cooed.

I couldn’t tell if she being friendly or mocking. Or if she was doing that thing that crazy people do when they deliver their most sinister threats with a big smile just to bewilder their enemies. I had seen that trick used by British interrogators on a suspected terrorist once on a support mission. Of all places in the world, I did not expect to see it here, back home, on the face of this young girl.

Once more I could think of nothing to say. She winked at me and flounced off in a cloud of tittering and laughing staff, each of them wearing little pink headsets. She disappeared off to do her interview and I stood, fuming. I forced my fists to relax and tried to remember the meditation techniques our trainers had drilled into us. I was an expert in hand-to-hand combat and could physically dominate and overpower civilian and soldier alike. I had done advanced courses on criminal psychology and knew the finer details of practicing diplomacy in militarized regions. But women? Fuck. I knew nothing about women.

This girl was half my age, half my height and half my weight. I could tell by looking at her that she was probably two meals away from death and had no idea how to survive outside of this little bubble of money she had made for herself. And yet …it didn’t matter. She was what the world considered a success. She with her glitz and her condescension and her hair extensions and her hollow, fuck-me expression.

But I was worse, because I agreed to play along with it all.

I had started out that day feeling like this new gig was an omen, a fresh start on my security business and a sign that I could integrate, that I could leave the burning wreck of my old life behind and build something new, out here in this shit show they called ‘real life’. But I ended the day more confused than ever. By the time I had escorted Miss Bitchface back to her villa and made my way back to my own apartment, it was late into the night.

Hawking your expertise as a security consultant after being a Navy SEAL is like giving music lessons to toddlers after you’ve spent your life as a first violinist for the New York Philharmonic. As I began to peel off that stifling suit, I almost wished my old mentor was here to see me now. What would he say? Keeping my dignity while scratching around for money in this godforsaken town, and my best shot so far was babysitting some pop slut? Was that a ‘mission’ too?

I rubbed my face. It had been a long day. I was just tired. I had wanted this new life. Me and the boys had left after the September mission and I was still convinced it was the single best choice I had made in life so far. I was done with the Navy, no question. But I was beginning to wish that my alternatives were a little more appealing.

I tossed the suit trousers and jacket over the edge of the sofa and walked to the kitchen to make a protein shake and take some vitamins. I’d allow a bit of self-pity, but there was no excuse for slipping on my daily routines. A man can find surprising amounts of sanity in his daily routines. I might have felt like I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up some days, but that didn’t mean I could neglect my macros and stop going to the gym.

I slumped down onto the sofa and looked around my new apartment. It didn’t look like anyone lived here at all. I peered through a crack in the curtains. This apartment complex seemed full of retirees and old folks, which suited me fine since they all were in bed this time of night. Everything was silent. I had run out of tasks to do and there was still some day left over. A man can find surprising amounts of insanity in his daily routines. I don’t know how people live ‘normal’ lives, with the oceans and oceans of empty time to fill. What the hell do people do all fucking day?

My mind wandered over to that irritating little bitch again. I still felt angry. Mad that such an ignorant little whore felt she was able to judge me. That she had thought nothing of taunting me simply because she knew she was hot enough and rich enough to get away with it. I sat there and nurtured that little flame of resentment until it was raging hot again. She had no idea about how many good men out there in the world were responsible for the luxuries she enjoyed in her stupid little life without a second thought…

One hundred and sixty grams of protein, eight and a half hours of sleep, and daily earnings at a neat $4000. By all the usual metrics it was a good day. But something was missing. I reached down and idly slipped my hands into my boxer shorts.

What was the point of staying in peak physical condition when you jerked it into your own hand every night? What was I going to do with four grand when this apartment already seemed too big for me?

I needed a woman.

I closed my eyes and conjured her.

She’d be sweet and sincere. She’d have a juicy ass and puffy lips and long, soft brown hair that felt like butter between the fingers. She’d know how to make this horrible apartment pretty. I’d press her up against that kitchen counter and fuck her long and good, and she’d smile and look back at me with nothing but gratitude. An angel.

I stroked until I was hard.

She would look at my abs and understand what it took to get them. She’d admire me. She’d look at my cock like she was mildly surprised by its size. She’d have a kind, normal name like Melissa or Kate and she’d help me fill this awkward space with all those stupid things couples do. I’d tell her to hurry up and get ready. She’d let me hold her hand and buy her dinner. She’d let me fuck her every night, and she’d open her legs for nobody but me, whenever I asked…

I came quickly and urgently. The old ‘combat wank’. I’d eventually have to get out of the habit of getting myself off as soon as possible. When I found a woman, I’d have to be in proper operating condition. I’d have to give no clue that I’d been jerking off alone for months in a dark room (ok, years), feeling sorry for myself.

It’s all mission. I had survived the September incident in one piece and I was limping along with my business, one way or another. I was OK. I didn’t know how yet, but I was going to be OK. My next goal was beginning to take shape.

I had to suck it up and try dating again.