If you had told me one month ago that I’d be driving 80 miles an hour at 2 a.m. away from Las Vegas with Marilyn Monroe asleep in my lap and two goons only a rest stop away from my tail, I would have said you were full of shit.

Avoiding drama is my job. Keeping bombshells like this out of trouble is also my job. Though, in my defense, I’d never met a blonde quite like this.

I’m Lincoln McCall. I am a bodyguard. And I’ve just broken two of the only three rules I have. Rule 1: Don’t interfere with a client. Rule 2: Hands off the merchandise. Rule 3: Protect the escorts. Well, the jury’s still out on that one. Either way, I’m out of a job. So is she for that matter.

But I don’t give a damn about the job. It’s our lives I’m focused on right now. If I don’t figure out a way to outrun these goons chasing us, I’ll get killed. You see, I’m trying to stop them from hurting her. I fail and little Marilyn here will be used until she’s of no use. Then she’ll be dead. Really a lose-lose-lose proposition. Same Vegas story as any other gambler, except the stakes, are this lady, not poker chips.

So we’re going to keep on driving. I’ve got to stay awake no matter what, so I figure I’ve got two choices. I either tell you this story or I blare the radio. This doll in my lap needs to rest, she’s been through a lot, so I’m making an executive decision here. Listen close.

I won’t go all the way back. I had a whore for a mother and who the hell knows who my dad was? Though clearly he was large, because look at the size of me. Mom died when I was a teenager and she was five-three and a buck-fifteen at her heaviest. So yeah, my pops, whoever the hell he was, had to be fucking gigantic, because by the time I was fifteen I was nearly this tall and already bouncing at clubs in the city. That paid for mom’s habit, the rent, and boxes of cereal now and again for dinner.

I have five half-brothers who were in and out of our house; their stories are their stories. I’m sticking to mine here.

So real quick, you’re over 18 right? This shit is not for children, just a warning.

So where was I? Oh yeah, I’m 18, gigantic and other than football, on my own in high school. One thing I’m not is stupid, and I got a diploma despite my mom’s lack of ability to sign even one permission slip or make one goddamn after school snack.

The truth is I was never mad at her for it. My brothers were, but I get it, she was sick. Bottom line with junkies, they’ve got a disease and it’s fatal. My brothers say I have an overdeveloped sense of protectiveness. I’m like a lifeguard on steroids. That all started with her, whatever. In her defense, she did come to one football game. That was my favorite high school memory. I know. We’ve got a very special episode of Blossom developing here, so high school sob story over.

Anyway, after high school, it was straight into the military for me. The military was good pay and my experience as an MP served me well. I just expanded my skills as a bouncer. It was the same thing. Just more sand.

Now I could tell you a thing or two about the military. I highly recommend it if you don’t have your shit together, or if you need a steady job, and above all if you’re not a pussy. After I had got through it, I was back to bouncing in Vegas. My size and my nature, that protective streak I guess, put me where I was supposed to be, doing what I was supposed to do, which essentially means keeping bar patrons and the cash drawer safe.

You control the door, you control the violence inside, and you keep out dealers and users. Those are your three rules of bouncing. Funny, three rules is a theme with me eh?

I was in at least 300 fights in my days at the bars and have been sued half a dozen times. Customers who’d been thrown out or beat down didn’t like it. But in each case, the judge tossed out the lawsuits like I’d tossed out the “patron.” I put the beat down on people that deserved it and I could prove they deserved it in front of a judge. But those lawsuits got old.

So did drunken women hitting on me. If I had a dollar for every, “Your arms are so BIG!” or the opposite, “You’re not so tough, I’m gonna kick your ass. Here hold my beer,” I’d have retired back then.

So I moved into personal protection as a bodyguard. I know you probably think only movie stars need bodyguards. And I have protected movie stars, but so many more professions require personal security: preachers, bankers, teachers, politicians, convenience store owners, and prostitutes. I provided security for all kinds.

My only rule was you had to have a referral. I didn’t have a Facebook page or a marketing director. It was all word of mouth. If you liked my work and told someone who needed a sharp eye, a strong arm, and a closed mouth, you gave them my name.

The problem with it was the unreliability of the bookings. I could go a month with nothing and then three months non-stop. Then there’d be the douchebag who couldn’t pay. Collecting payment is like sorting laundry. I hate it and avoid it. All my socks are black. It simplifies things.

I needed a steady stream of income if I was going to set up my retirement. My retirement dream was a ranch in the middle of Montana. Blue sky, no neighbors, and horses, it was all I dreamed about. As a city kid, I only ever wanted one thing: wide open spaces.  Every dime I made went to it, but it wasn’t happening fast enough as a freelance bodyguard.

That’s when I got the job that would ultimately land me here.

I told you about those lawsuits? Well the last one from my bouncing days, the guy died.

Of course, his family sued the shit out of me. And this time, the judge did not agree with my clear innocence in the matter.

I was wiped out. I’d spent six years in the military and three years socking away every single penny, and the judge ordered I pay $250,000, everything I had, to this family.

He didn’t care that there were no criminal charges against me, he didn’t care that the drunk fell after I’d already thrown him out and cracked his head on the curb. He only cared that I was the muscle and my actions precipitated the death. The judge was a skinny, little Napoleon type. I suspected I was his revenge for some high school slight, lucky me.

So there I was, 27 years old, and nothing to show for it but a particular set of skills. I was wiped out. I was frustrated, and just like every other loser in Vegas, I was poor.

I left the courthouse as fast as I could. It was that or tear it apart. I’d never felt more frustrated or at the mercy of total bullshit. I hated being at the mercy of anyone or anything.

I had to start from scratch. My ranch was looking more like a dream and less like a reality as the ink dried on my cashier’s check to settle the lawsuit.

That’s when a limo pulled up in front of the courthouse steps. The chauffeur approached me, a guy almost my size.

“Mr. McCall, my boss would like a word with you.” He opened the door and indicated I enter. I was not in the habit of entering strange vehicles. Two shapely legs were all I could see.

Well, why not? At this point, I had nothing to lose. And the legs were really nice. I got in.

That’s when I met Petra Vallin.