Chapter 9: Silent Night

}0{

Everything about that night was a blur.

There was only one emotion which had reigned over her for days following the incident: shame.

The feeling of being carried by him was so foreign to her. She could only recall a handful of times as a child where she had been carried, but not like this - not in the way a man should carry his bride across the threshold. She could feel the strain in his muscles as he moved with her weight added to his, in a constant, heated battle against gravity. For this reason, she could never fully relax. She felt she had some obligation in relieving his struggle, but she knew no way to lessen his burden. The action of him carrying her body was a strain on both of them - in any other circumstance, it would have been a pleasant experience, but because he was literally trying to rescue her from danger, it was stressful.

She had only been vaguely aware of what was happening when he had escaped through a discreet back exit into the pouring rain. He threw open the door to her limo, aggressively tossed her inside and slammed the door shut behind them.

She hadn't thought about Bill or Sy or Tony being left behind. She hadn't thought about Billy Thomas or all of the fans in that audience who had been disappointed by her. She hadn't thought about the headlines that would be published in the week following this disaster. She hadn't even thought about the disturbing note she'd found in her dressing room earlier that evening. All she could think about now that she was safe, was that it was her bodyguard who was responsible for her safety.

He had placed his jacket on her shoulders, aware of how cold and wet she must have been after being carried out in the rain. She found the simple act of chivalry distressing, especially because such an expectation was not in his job description. He did not get paid to comfort her.

She held back tears of humiliation as she huddled in the back seat of the limo, her tentative fingers still trembling as they clasped the expensive fabric of his jacket tighter around her body. The scent of his cologne was so subtle, but it made her blush all the same.

Aside from the sparse few words he'd exchanged with Henry, Frank did not say anything the entire drive back to her home. Even when they'd gotten out of the car and walked into the house, he had not said a word to her. She had asked him to check on Fletcher, and in his signature silence, he'd carefully opened her son's bedroom door for her to peek inside before she went to her own room.

She had not been able to process everything that had happened that night, overcome as she was by the intensity of being assaulted by an audience - something that never would have happened in any of the usual places she had performed at. Sy's suggestion of The Mayan had clearly been too bold, but how would they have known it would end in such a horrific way?

All she could do was sit in paralyzed silence on the edge of her bed, staring at the ground, dreading the moment her bodyguard would turn the lights off and leave her alone in the dark.

But he didn't leave like she had expected him to. He had crouched down on the ground before her, hands hanging hesitantly between his knees. She had assumed he was trying to make eye contact with her, preparing to give her the lecture she surely deserved.

Her breath caught in her throat when he instead reached out and tugged one leather boot from her leg.

She was not aware that he was also required to undress his client after a performance.

Who had written his job description?

She was further astonished when his hand swept up her thigh, curling his fingers around the top of her black stocking. With painstaking slowness, he peeled the thin fabric off her skin, cupping her bare ankle in his hand as he pulled it away. He repeated the series of gentle actions on her other leg, removing each provocative accessory in subservient silence.

Even in studying his face, she could decipher not a single emotion. She had to wonder if this man ever felt anything. She would have called him robotic if it weren't for the overwhelming humanness he was displaying before her now. There was a tender fire to his touch that she could not reconcile with her normally aloof bodyguard. For the briefest moment, she caught an uncharacteristic warmth within his glacial gaze.

His hands moved to tug each of her gloves off her arms, then rising to his feet, he removed his jacket from her shoulders.

She could still not move from her place, stunned by everything she had just witnessed. He stood beside her for no more than a few thoughtful seconds before he sat beside her on the edge of her bed.

Surely now, he was ready to lecture her.

But no such lecture came.

Instead, he reached across with both hands and deftly unhooked the center clasp of her bodice. It wasn't the action itself that had both confused and aroused her, it was that he had been observant enough to even know how to undo such an unusual garment.

Her eyes held his deeply then, filled with equal parts desire and suspicion. He looked down as his fingers slowly undid the zipper along her back, leaving her in nothing but a strapless bra and her underwear. She wondered if she had been drugged at some point during the evening and had lost all recollection, because the scene she now found herself in made no sense to her.

He had dared to stand up, dared to turn off the light, dared to take one step toward her door. After all that, he was just going to leave her there?

As if caught in a forbidden dream, her instincts were only to act on her desires, and he had left her no choice. She stood up and reached for him, her hand grasping at his elbow. He turned immediately to her, his eyes aglow with the fervor of one who wished only to fulfill her unspoken needs. At one point he may have been able to hide that, but he could not hide it anymore.

The goosebumps on her nearly bare body disappeared as she invaded his personal space, reveling in his body heat, in the inexplicable security she felt simply from being so near to him. It was too late to keep up any more pretenses; she was sure he must have understood that. It emboldened her enough that she was able to slip her hands around his sides, and tuck her bare feet between his black shoes, and lean into him . . .

His breathing was heavy yet somehow controlled, his face tilted away from hers at a calculated angle so that any contact would be impossible. "What are you doing?" he asked her in a calm, violated whisper.

With a furrowed brow she looked up at him, betrayed by his words but invited by his eyes. She wanted to ask him the same question – she had even opened her mouth to say it out loud, but he had stopped her. He discarded his jacket on her night table, and his hands came to lay on her shoulders so that he could gently turn her around.

She watched in agonized stillness as he pushed her dolls aside and turned down the sheets of her bed. As if everything before had been just an illusion of her mind, he wordlessly guided her to lie down and placed the covers over her body.

"Don't you want to know why I behave that way?" she asked him, needing an answer, needing him to speak.

"I know why."

Cryptic and indirect, his words left her more puzzled than before. He left her room and closed the door, but his scent still clung to her skin.

It took four hours for her to fall asleep.

}0{

It was the first morning since they'd arrived at the Sheraton that Rachel was able to wake up on her own without the aid of an alarm or Bill's fist pounding on her hotel room door.

She felt refreshed and ready to start her day – that is, until she remembered it was the first day of the Christmas special. That put a damper on things.

She texted Fletcher a picture of herself after just having gotten out of bed, with a caption that read 'Wish they had understudies for us washed up divas.'

Bill and Scott were already at a table in the dining hall when she showed up for breakfast. She sulked into her chair beside them and reluctantly began to force-feed herself a blueberry muffin.

"You ain't gonna make that face when you're up on stage tonight, are you?" Bill asked with a nudge.

Rachel stuck her tongue out at him.

"For God's sake, Rachel, when are you gonna start acting your age?" Bill pleaded. Rachel tossed a bit of muffin at her manager who promptly threw his napkin down on the table and got up to walk around. "I'm done here."

Pettigrew leaned over Bill's empty chair toward Rachel. "Can we please make it through this weekend without any more . . . drama?"

"Drama?" Rachel repeated, her voice more high-pitched than normal. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Pettigrew spoke in a tone that would brook no arguments. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Rachel slumped back in her chair and gave him an exhausted look. "What do you want me to do?"

"Well, for starters you can try to not throw your shoes at any more people."

Rachel smirked to herself in spite of her bodyguard's disapproval. His voice lowered as he added, "And no more foolin' around with Farmer."

The smirk melted from her face. She wanted to protest, but she didn't have a comeback. So she protested with action instead.

Immediately after breakfast, Rachel marched right over to the elevators and loitered in the hallway until Farmer finally made an appearance. He looked pleasantly surprised to see her standing there when he got off the elevator.

"Good morning," she said with a winning smile.

"Good morning," he echoed casually, carefully taking in his surroundings as he walked past her. She narrowed her eyes and followed his leisurely pace as he headed for the conference hall. He was about twenty minutes early.

"How'd you sleep?" she asked, her undertone suggestive.

His eyes twinkled as he looked over at her. "Better than the night before. You?"

"Same."

He smirked as he asked, "You ready for your concert tonight?"

"I'd rather have my eyes gouged out," she deadpanned.

"If I talked about my job that way, I'd be looking for a new one."

He had a point. Rachel conveniently ignored his comment and changed the subject. "So what are your plans for Christmas, Farmer?"

"I'll probably be working. You?"

She shrugged. "Everyone on my team has the holidays off this year, so it'll just be me and Fletcher. I thought about maybe taking him somewhere, but Pettigrew doesn't want us traveling alone."

"You don't spend Christmas with family?" he asked, genuinely surprised.

She shook her head. "Nicki was really our only family. Everyone else is gone or estranged."

Frank looked saddened by this piece of information. Not wanting to get emotional about it, Rachel deflected, "You're telling me you don't have any extended family that you should be seeing on Christmas?"

He tilted his head in consideration. "If I'm not working, then my Great Aunt Dorothy will probably reel me into spending Christmas with her and her army of cats."

Rachel choked on a laugh as she imagined Frank sitting in an oversized armchair with dozens of noisy cats clamoring all over him. "Crazy cat lady Christmas. Can't beat it."

"I'm not a cat person," he said diplomatically.

"Neither am I. Not a real dog person either, honestly." Rachel shook her head, nostalgia taking over again. "Buddy was Nicki's. He loved her and Fletcher. Hated my guts."

"Dogs can tell when you don't like them," Frank agreed.

"After Buddy had to be put down, Fletcher begged me to get another dog. I told him it wasn't gonna happen. He has to get his own place if he wants one that badly."

"Poor kid. I know what it's like to lose a dog. Foster passed right before dad did."

Rachel gave the obligatory condolences, though secretly she could not understand why anyone would want a dog around the house. "So are you going to put your dad's cabin up on the market?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Still renting it?"

"No, I haven't rented it out since my divorce was finalized."

"So it's just sitting there?"

He looked hesitant to explain, but he couldn't ignore her prying gaze. "I want to move into it eventually. I just have to figure out what I'm doing with the house in Chatsworth."

"Let me get this straight," Rachel interjected. "You live in an apartment in West Virginia, and you have two whole houses on the west coast that aren't even being used?"

He sighed heavily. "I've just been working a lot. It's hard to coordinate everything remotely. Once my contract with Knox is over, I'll be able to focus on the properties."

Rachel was just about to ask him when exactly his contract was ending when they were interrupted by Pettigrew.

"Rachel?" he called out from a few yards away down the hall, wagging his finger for her to follow him.

Rachel looked apologetically at Frank, but he was all too understanding. "Go ahead."

"Maybe I'll see you later?" Her question was quiet yet hopeful.

"You have to work tonight, Rachel," he reminded her, his eyes dark.

She tilted her head down and whispered, "I meant after the concert."

Pettigrew cleared his throat, now standing just several feet behind Rachel. Knowing she had to be discreet, she carefully lifted Frank's spare hotel card key just enough to peek over the pocket of her purse. Frank glanced at her bodyguard just over her shoulder, having taken note of her sleight of hand.

He just looked at the ground and smiled a boyish half-smile before heading into the conference.

If she hadn't been in a public setting, she would have dropped her panties right then and there.

}0{

He thought often of the day he'd first met Rachel.

He remembered how out of place he'd felt when he first entered the room. At first glance, he'd thought he had walked in on an orgy. Usually when Frank first met a client it was in a conference room or a comfortable public setting. He never met clients at their home. Much less one that looked like a hazy, poorly lit den of iniquity.

It was easy for him to dismiss the gravity of the situation when he saw the way she behaved. Her home was open to every stranger on the street, it would seem. There had to have been at least fifty individuals in the room, all of them engaged in various activities in unseen corners, holding unknown conversations which were concealed by a blasting base. He had to remind himself that he had not even accepted the job yet. All he could do was make a mental list of every mistake in the room, and he wasn't even getting paid for it.

Would it even be worth three grand a week? He had wondered then.

Ten years later, and Frank Farmer was still protecting Rachel Marron for free.

He didn't think this Brock Chutney character was an outright threat to her, but obviously there had been some kind of altercation at the pool which had prompted her to use pepper spray on him. Then again, this was Rachel. She had a flair for being dramatic.

It still didn't stop Frank from walking the fifth floor, just to pass by Brock Chutney's door for the third time that day. He rarely felt afraid anymore at his age, but the instinctual sense of dread that overcame him when he saw a lone white piece of notebook paper peeking out from under the man's door was unparalleled.

Because ninety-nine percent of Frank Farmer was a self-assured, confident, calculated man with every bone in his body bound by bravery. The other one percent was a little boy who was still scared of getting tackled in the end zone.

}0{

Rachel tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for the valet to bring her car around the front of the hotel. Every time someone entered or exited the building she had to shield herself behind Pettigrew from the frigid air coming through the doors.

Bill stared at her in horror. "Where's the garment bag with your dress?"

"I left it at the theater, Bill," Rachel replied coolly. "I'm not gonna carry that thing around with me back and forth every night."

A look of relief passed over Bill's face.

God, didn't they trust her anymore?

Rachel stared at the clock on the lobby wall. She was not looking forward to seeing Myra and Brock at this thing tonight, nor was she very thrilled about having to sing her least favorite song in front of a live audience. And to think she had to do it two more times after tonight. . . All the more reason to get it over with, she thought.

"Oh, finally, there's the fucking valet," she said as she saw their car pull up outside.

Just as they had started for the door, they were stopped by a frantic male voice calling from behind. "Wait!"

His voice always had a strong effect on her. But in a rare state of urgency, it gripped her even harder.

She turned to see Farmer jogging over to them with a piece of paper in his hand. Several onlookers in the lobby had stopped to watch as he approached them, nearly out of breath.

"What's going on?" Pettigrew asked, his hand quickly grabbing Rachel's elbow.

Frank's eyes darted from Pettigrew, to Bill, to Rachel, then down at the paper in his hand which he quickly folded up. "Will you follow me to the security office, please?"

"Farmer, what–?"

"I can't explain here," Frank said pointedly, as more people started to recognize Rachel. "Please come to security."

"Rachel's gonna be late for the show," Bill complained, gesturing to their car outside.

Rachel felt a familiar sense of dread as Frank simply stared at her. Suddenly she was thrust back to that night at the Oscars, catching his reflection in her mirror as he had come to warn her.

Frank shook his head. "I don't think there's going to be a show tonight."

}0{

Rachel's heart was pounding as they followed Farmer down a short stairwell, and through the lower level of the hotel, his breathing unusually strong in the quiet carpeted corridors.

He opened a door at the end of the hall and allowed them to file inside. They entered a dim, cramp room filled with blinking circuit boards and walls lined with screens running camera feeds from all areas of the hotel. They were greeted by two security officers who worked at the hotel; one of them a tall, broad no-nonsense looking man with a square face, and a stockier, younger looking man with a dark beard and a baseball cap.

The older man gave a nod of familiarity to Pettigrew, obviously having interacted with him before.

"What's all this about, Ted?" Pettigrew questioned.

"You know who this man is?" The officer named Ted gestured to a camera still of Brock Chutney leaving his hotel room earlier that day.

Pettigrew squinted at the screen then looked expectantly at Rachel. "That man was at the pool with you and Tina the other day, wasn't he?"

Rachel nodded. "It's Brock Chutney. He's performing in the concert tonight." Confused, she looked over at Frank who was still fiddling with the paper in his hand.

"So you're both in this Christmas show at the Benedum tonight?" Ted asked.

"Yes… What happened?" Rachel demanded.

"Farmer here discovered a note under that man's hotel door about ten minutes ago. It's a bit cryptic but we believe it may be a bomb threat. It references the Benedum."

"A bomb threat?" Rachel shouted in disbelief as Bill covered his mouth in shock.

"We haven't made it public yet; we're waiting on the police to come and confirm."

Pettigrew looked at Frank. "Can I see it?"

Frank handed over the note and placed his hands on his hips as he stood back, turning to watch the camera feeds.

Rachel peeked over Pettigrew's arm to see what the contents of the note were, but all she could make out was some poor handwriting in pencil.

The younger security officer spoke up, "Right now we're backtracking on the cameras to see who may have left it there."

Bill exhaled loudly through gritted teeth, shaking his head.

Pettigrew flipped the piece of paper over, inspecting to see if there was any writing on the back. He looked over at Frank with raised eyebrows. "What luck, you just happened to check his floor."

A quiet suspicion overcame Rachel as she glanced at Frank from her peripheral. She got the sense that he wasn't focused at all on what he was staring intently at.

She looked down as Pettigrew showed her the note.

7:45 PM Benedum. Prepare for a SILENT NIGHT.

"Silent Night…" Rachel suppressed a shudder. "That's the song Brock is supposed to sing tonight."

Ted and Frank exchanged glances. "That could be confirmation it was intended for him," Ted said.

"Well, it was found under his door," Rachel interjected. "Who else would it have been intended for?"

All five men in the room looked at her.

"Oh, Christ, other celebrities get crazy stalkers too, you know."

Bill shifted awkwardly. "Have you been in Brock's room during our stay, Rachel?"

"Hell no!" Rachel almost gagged.

"We all know you have a history with him," Bill reminded her, as if she could forget. "You're not lyin' to me, are you?"

Rachel crossed her arms and wagged her head at her manager. "Do I look like I'm lyin', Bill?"

"But you were at the pool with him?" Ted inquired. She hated the suspicious tone of his voice.

Rachel threw her arms up in defeat. "He just happened to be there when I went." Anticipating that they may have camera footage of her altercation with him in the pool, she added defensively, "And I only pepper-sprayed him because he was trying to grab my ass."

Both security officers raised their eyebrows in surprise, while Pettigrew touched her arm in concern. "Pepper spray? What?"

She looked imploringly over at Frank, but he had conveniently become immersed in the camera feed of the hotel lobby.

Before Rachel could explain, Bill began to press her further, "You're sure you weren't anywhere else with him?"

"Yes, I'm sure Bill." Rachel was getting fed up. "Look, if this note were intended for me, it would've been left under my door."

The younger security officer chimed in, "Don't worry, we're backtracking our cameras on your hall as well."

Rachel froze.

"Drew, pause that feed right there," Ted ordered the young man, pointing to a rewound clip of Rachel entering the stairwell door in her night robe.

"Wait, she left her room at midnight on Thursday," Drew called out.

"Midnight as in Thursday morning?" Bill asked.

"Yeah," Drew replied as he toggled between two camera feeds. "Looks like you went down to the twelfth floor," he directed at Rachel.

"Is that where Brock's room is?" Bill crossed his arms.

Drew shook his head. "No, he's on the fifth floor…"

Bill turned to Rachel and demanded, "Rachel, what were you doing on the twelfth floor in the middle of the night?"

All she could do was avoid eye contact with anyone in the room as she felt her face turn red. "Uh…"

"Time stamp?" Ted asked, tapping a few keys on the keyboard.

"12:19 A.M." Drew confirmed.

Ted used his mouse to zoom in on the room number. "She used a card key on 1275."

"Isn't that his room?" Drew pointed at Frank.

Frank shifted awkwardly and grasped his jaw with his hand.

"What in the—you were in Farmer's room?" Bill looked outraged. "Scott, did you know about this?"

Pettigrew looked sheepishly at Rachel before confessing, "Yeah, I knew."

Frank let out a humorless laugh of disbelief, and Rachel's blush deepened.

Drew observed the awkward scene from his seat by the cameras, chuckling and grinning from ear to ear.

"Alright, alright," Ted gestured for them to settle down. "That's not why we're here. Give me the feed on five again."

All of the occupants in the room squinted at the camera feed as a figure paused in front of Brock's door. It was a lithe figure with a graceful gait, and although she was wearing a hoodie, Rachel would have known that mug anywhere.

"I'll be damned," Rachel sounded off. "Myra Dailey."

Bill glanced between Rachel and the screen in shock. "Myra left the note?"

"That's the woman you threw your shoe at earlier today?" Pettigrew mumbled to her.

Rachel laughed bitterly. "Hah! That bitch!"

The door to the security office was then assaulted by a series of rough knocks. Frank opened the door to let in two young police officers.

The taller of the two spoke in a heavy Pittsburgh accent, "Yinz got the note?"

Pettigrew promptly handed it over to the cop.

"You said the recipient's name was Brock Chutney?" The cop asked as he inspected the piece of paper.

"Yeah," Frank responded. "He's not in the hotel right now, though. We're not sure if he made it to the Benedum already."

"Oh, he's there," the cop assured. "We got someone on standby outside the theater."

Ted gestured to Rachel. "This woman tells us the person responsible for the note is someone named Myra Dailey."

The two cops smirked at one another. "Myra Dailey just got in a fist fight with Chutney earlier today."

A sense of amused relief seemed to set in on the room.

Ted's eyes moved from Frank to the police officers. "So what's your call?"

"She won't confess to anything, but we gotta play it safe," the cop shrugged. "Cancel the show."

Saved by the bell, Rachel thought with a grin.

}0{

"I could kiss you, Farmer," Rachel swooned when they were finally out of the security office. She had lingered behind the rest of the group to personally thank him.

"You've already done a lot more than that," he reminded her in a soft voice, his eyes like spears.

"So, what are you now? Some kinda self-appointed vigilante?"

He turned away from her as they walked together, smiling slightly to himself. "Well, you know I have to be diligent in checking all the floors."

"Uh huh." Rachel grinned.

"The man came close to physically assaulting you at the pool," Frank said in a low voice, a flaring bite to his tone. "I'd say he was a suspicious character in need of monitoring."

"And you took that upon yourself instead of just telling Pettigrew?" she asked with a smile.

He stopped when they reached the top of the stairwell, his expression alone seeming to say a thousand words.

"Sounds like you told Pettigrew quite enough for both of us," he hinted.

Rachel felt herself blushing again. "Aren't you proud of me for being honest with my bodyguard?"

He smiled bashfully at her. "I was surprised."

Rachel leaned closer to him and said quietly, "Well, thank you for looking out for me."

His eyes were warm. "You're welcome."

"You got a pen?" Rachel asked.

He looked confused.

"So I can write you a check for three grand?" she teased.

"No," he whispered. "I volunteered."

}0{

Incidentally, Tina was more upset than anyone about the cancellation of 'Sugarplums and Stars.' She made Rachel promise to visit her next time she was on the east coast for a private performance. Thinking it would likely never happen, Rachel agreed reluctantly. Half the cast who was to perform at the Benedum became scared out of their wits as whispers of a potential bomb threat broke out over the news that night. They booked their flights home early, and as a result, contracts were broken, funds were wasted, and the rest of the weekend shows were canceled, too.

Bill almost threw a temper tantrum when he saw the nasty press release as they stopped in the airport lounge.

'Rachel Marron, the Kiss of Death? - It seems every time the 90s starlet makes a public appearance, danger and death threats follow…'

She would never escape it. No matter how much she tried or how much time had passed, she would always be the girl who got shot at during the Academy Awards that one year. No one cared about her music. No one cared about her movies. They were just obsessed with her in a 'can-you-believe-this-actually-happened-to-her' kind of way.

She was damn sick of it.

On the flight back to California, Pettigrew spoke with her candidly about the events that had taken place during their trip.

"We all know that Myra was just being petty, but if that bomb threat had been real then Farmer may have been responsible for saving your life again."

Rachel looked down at her lap, saddened by the implication. It's not that she wasn't relieved to leave early and get back to Fletcher, she just wished she had gotten to say a proper goodbye to Frank before they left. Senator Knox had been invited out to a fancy dinner for his final night in downtown Pittsburgh, which meant his bodyguard had to follow. The conference didn't end until Saturday evening, and Rachel's flight left for California at seven in the morning. Saying goodbye had ended up being impossible. Well, perhaps not impossible, since she did still have his spare hotel key. But she'd been too shy to presume she was welcome in his room again. Rachel rarely was too shy to do anything, but she felt differently after this trip. Still, when the morning came, she almost regretted not just showing up to his room unannounced. Part of her wondered if they would ever see each other again.

It was her pride alone that kept her from just texting him before she left.

Author's Note: As usual I love hearing your thoughts! Thank you for reading, and I hope to crank out at least a couple more chapters before things get busy for me around Christmas/New Year's.

xox, Mack