“Christmas Eve is just a bitch, isn’t it?” Cody says as I finish the glass of beer in front of me.

“Enough to drink to,” I reply gruffly.

The two of us are having a drink over what we call a lunch break at the bar down the road from my office. I don’t usually day-drink. Not on a weekday, at least. But on a day like today, I couldn’t turn down an invitation from Cody, because I’ve got my share of things to drink over.

The two of us are about the same height--a few inches over 6ft--and we have about the same broad, muscled frames, meaning our two bodies take up a hell of a lot of space at the bar. We almost blend together. For Cody, that’s a good thing.

Cody’s famous. He’s LA famous, in fact, one of the biggest up and coming faces on the music scene since the last big thing. Even though it’s relatively dim in the bar, he’s wearing a beanie, thick-rimmed glasses that are just for show, and a jacket with a collar that makes it easy for him to keep a low profile if he needs to. He looks a little more hipster than my dusty leather jacket, flannel, and jeans, but that just makes me the sore thumb sticking out.

He needs to go a little incognito for meetups like this. The bartender here knows us both, so it’s not a huge deal, but he likes to be careful. That, and I think he kind of likes feeling like he has to be careful. He’s always had a flair for theatrical shit.

That’s how his band got discovered all those years ago when we were still a couple of mob thugs in Vegas together. Never thought I’d owe my new life to this rock star, but there could be worse people, that’s for damn sure. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to hearing Cody the punk I saved from a fight in an alley suddenly doing things with a guitar over the radio I didn’t know were possible.

Even with Cody’s disguise and us looking like we’re looking for a fight, there’s a burly, stout guy sitting in the corner of the bar who’s been eyeing us since we walked in. I can’t tell if he recognizes Cody or if he has beef with me, and as long as he doesn’t bother us, I don’t care to find out.

“This is the same bar we were at last Christmas Eve, wasn’t it?” he muses, turning over the amber beer bottle in his hand thoughtfully.

“Don’t,” I say with a warning tone and a gruff smile to him.

“Just sayin’,” he says, returning it, “you make this a tradition and you’re on a steady path to becoming something like a... a depressing regular.”

I roll my eyes.

“Seriously though,” Cody says, “I didn’t set you up with that office down the road so you could drink yourself into an early grave.”

“You set me up in that office because you want me dead,” I say, taking the second round the bartender sets in front of us. “I swear they didn’t get all the asbestos out of it the first time.”

“Hey, I didn’t exactly have time to scope the place out,” he says with a chuckle. “You gave me enough prep time to throw a pair of pants on when you rolled into town.” He finishes his own beer and looks at me. “You still haven’t told me what that day was all about. I mean, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve known you a long time, Wes. I haven’t seen that look in your eyes in…”

“Not the time, Cody,” I grunt, downing a third of the beer pointedly. “That’s a conversation for 2 AM in Tijuana, not 1 PM at Burt’s,” I say, giving a respectful nod to Burt, the bartender. “Besides, Christmas Eve drinking is for something else.”

Cody screws up his face like he’s wracking his brain trying to figure out what I’m talking about, and finally, realization hits him. “Ohhh, your dad. Shit. Sorry.”

I do a little mental counting. “That’s...twelve years now and counting. Fitting for Christmas.” Twelve years ago today, that asshole walked out of our house and never looked back. So I never looked back either. Doesn’t mean I can’t drink to it, though.

Cody tilts his beer to me, and we clink bottles ruefully.

“Might be a little less sour if you’d take on a few of those jobs I know are coming your way,” Cody adds, and I shoot him a look.

“None of what’s coming my way is really my scene,” I say.

“Keep turning down jobs at the rate you are, and I’ll start to assume being able to afford food isn’t your scene either,” he snorts.

“Look, would you do a show at…” I pause, trying to think of an example. “I dunno, a kid’s birthday party?”

“That’s not the same thing,” Cody says. “Exact opposite, actually. Wes, you’re one of the best freelance personal bodyguards on this side of LA, especially for how short a time you’ve been in the city. You’ve got a reputation. And celebrities are starting to throw work at you, especially around the holidays. You’re only in a dry spell because you aren’t taking up any of the offers coming your way. The bait’s there, why aren’t you biting? Most people like you would kill for those kinds of jobs.”

“You make it sound like I’m more of a diva than you, rock star,” I say in a low tone with a cocky smile, and he ribs me with his elbow before I continue. “You know I don’t like all this glam and glitzy shit, man. The kinds of people asking for security were born choking on silver spoons. I did one of those gigs once, and it was some spoiled brat with a trust fund who had a theater career practically handed to them before they’d been born.”

“Exactly,” Cody laughs, “what’s wrong with taking their money?”

I frown.

“Well, it might be worth putting up with it, but then there’s all the strings that come attached with celebrity work. Paparazzi. Tabloids. Drama. I don’t know how you put up with it all.”

“Money is good, my friend,” Cody says simply. “The attention isn’t bad either. No such thing as bad PR.” I know he’s right, in some ways.

“That works for you, but there are the other strings attached that only us bodyguards get to deal with when we’re not getting paid,” I say. “Like the one coming toward us, for example.”

Cody looks in the direction I gesture with my finger from my beer, and we watch the burly guy across the room striding toward us.

I recognize him, now. He’s the ex-husband of that theater brat. I’d been hired to protect her during the divorce proceedings.

“Wes Jameson?” he demands, his brow knit.

“I’m off the clock,” I grunt, trying to brush the guy off--not that I don’t know that’ll just antagonize him. Hell, maybe I’m in the mood for a fight today.

“You son of a whore,” he says as Cody and I turn around to face him, exchanging a glance, silently agreeing how to handle this when it turns rough in a few seconds. “That bitch took everything I had!”

“I wasn’t her lawyer, pal,” I say matter-of-factly, and it’s true. “All you’re doing here is making a mistake.”

“Oh bullshit, all of you were conspiring against me,” he slurs, and I can tell the guy’s been drinking already. I would feel bad for him, if he hadn’t cheated on his wife with her mother and gotten violent with both of them. “I saw the looks she gave you. Did you screw that lying bitch, too?”

“No, but you’ve got a few things wrong there,” I say, standing up and looking down at the man. “It wasn’t my job to know details, but the way I heard it, you were the one who cheated on her--and buddy, with her looks and your personality, I’m surprised she stuck with you as long as she did.”

Yeah, I’m definitely looking for a fight. And now I’ve got one.

Red-faced, he slings a meaty fist at me blindly. This guy’s shorter than me, but the extra weight means he’s not someone to underestimate. Fortunately, I’ve dealt with this guy before. I’ve physically held him back before, in fact, so I know how much force is behind that punch.

I roll out of the way of the fist and catch him by the wrist. A drunk’s main weakness is his reflexes, obviously, so it’s the easiest thing in the world to use that against him. With his wrist in my hand, I side-step him and pull his wrist along with me, using his own momentum against him.

He’s surprised, and he stumbles. But a drunk also doesn’t think fast enough to panic, so even as he’s off balance, he throws another punch at me.

I catch it.

I like this bar, and I’d rather not send teeth flying across its floor, so I deliver a quick, strong knee right into his gut that knocks the wind out of him. I hear him wheeze hard, and that’s enough to tell me he’s done.

With a solid thrust, I send him stumbling backward and onto the floor, coughing.

I glance back at Cody and see that he’s already putting money on the bar with a boyishly apologetic smile to the bartender, who doesn’t look either angry or happy, as always.

“We settled?” I ask him, and Cody nods.

“Think it’s time we headed out. See ya next time, Burt.”

The bartender nods to us, glaring down at the man on the ground who looks like he’s about to throw up as we make our way out the door.

“Man, that just makes me miss our times running security back in Vegas,” Cody says wistfully as we step out into the cool winter air. It’s LA, so it’s not exactly bitter cold, but it’s enough for a jacket.

“Trust me, you don’t miss it that much,” I say with a gruff laugh as we shake hands. “There’s easier ways to get that out of your system if you’re just hungry for a fight.”

“I’ll take that as an invitation to kick your ass someday,” he says with a wink. “Just like old times.”

“We’ll see about that,” I say with a laugh. “Merry Christmas, asshole.”

He throws me the middle finger as he walks away, and I grin, heading the opposite direction back to my office.

It’s a short walk, which makes it a miracle I’m not an alcoholic. The building I’m in houses a handful of other small businesses. They’re nothing fancy, and like you’d expect from a place where a bar is just a short walk away, it’s not the fanciest part of town, but it’s not exactly rough either. Sure, there’s graffiti on the side of the building, and maybe a window or two needs changing, but it’s comfortable.

I head up to my office and find a few letters shoved through the mailbox as I step inside.

The office is cramped. It’s about half the size of a studio apartment, which is all the space I need. I keep it tidy and simple--there’s a desk, a few drawers for papers, and everything else is electronic. LA is big about the “carbon footprint” thing. A little hard to get used to for someone from Vegas, but I’ve come to like the space it saves.

I pick up the now-cold coffee on my desk and drink from it as I thumb through my mail. It tastes like shit, but it chases the beer well enough.

And it gives me something besides the mail to frown at.

It’s more offers for work from the annoyingly stereotypical Hollywood crowd. I have to admit, it felt good to turn down a few of those offers when I was first on the rise here in LA. Now, though, I have to admit, the work is coming in a little less often.

I set the coffee down and pull on the string of the window blinds, letting light flood my office as I stare out onto the street. Less light than usual.

There’s not much of a view anymore. Recently, a massive billboard went up on top of the buildings across from me, stretching across three rooftops and blocking out most of the sunlight. There’s a massive picture of some famous actress on it, her cascade of dark hair taking up half the picture, shining bright and artificial in the picture that’s advertising a shampoo brand. It could be a worse sight. She’s gorgeous, with amber eyes, fuller lips than I’ve ever seen on anyone in my life, and tall as you’d expect a stunning model to be--presumably not the 50ft or so the billboard is. The name “Molly Parker” is stamped in fancy golden cursive writing under the brand name. A big, glitzy name blown up in my face all day, belonging to some spoiled brat who’s raking in cash for looming over the street.

People like that are exactly why I cringe at the idea of working for them.

I toss the envelopes into the trash. It feels like being between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, the Hollywood scene makes me sick, but Cody’s got a point. If I want to stick around LA, I’ve got to bite the bullet and play their games.

Because the idea of going back to Vegas makes me want to break out the bottle of whisky under my desk.

My personal cell phone buzzes.

I pull it out of my pocket and look down to see Cody’s name. Furrowing my brow, I wonder if I accidentally took his card or something as I answer the call.

“Miss me already?”

“Fuck you,” Cody says. “Hey listen, Wes, I just got off the phone with one of my friends who’s got ties with a studio working on a big A-list movie right now. Heard something you might be interested in.”

I roll my eyes. He heard about a job. Despite being in music, Cody still has an ear to the goings-on of the Hollywood celebrity scene, so every now and then, he tries to toss a job my way. I should have known.

“You know I’ve got a voicemail for junk calls, right?”

“Ha ha,” he says in a flat tone. “Look, I know it’s not exactly work hours, but that’s why you’ll want to hear about this one. It’s Christmas Eve and this client needs someone ASAP, tonight. Like, immediately, and what they’re offering in pay shows that.

I raise an eyebrow, take a breath, then step to the window and glare at the billboard before saying, “Alright, you’ve got my attention. What’s the job?”

I listen to Cody rattle off the information, and as I hear the details, my eyes go wide, and not just because of the huge paycheck being waved under my nose. I hear the name of the client.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I say.