Chapter 36: Brute of the Ball
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Though he absolutely loathed being in the tabloids, Frank had to admit it was something of a compliment to be noticed with Rachel at his side. Since their strategic appearance at Charlie's with Tina and Devon, the media storm had picked up with just enough information to fuel their thirst for details.
It took exactly one week. One blessed week of believing in miracles, before his name inevitably appeared in the media.
Who is Frank Farmer?: Rachel Marron's Mysterious Bodyguard, A Mystery No Longer
Fitzgerald had been the one to inform him, and Frank had buried himself away for hours after. He had been tempted by the idea of a drink (or two, or three), especially being that Ms. Pentecost seemed to have gratuitously placed a wet bar in every room of her mansion. But knowing this was the time for his senses to be on full alert, he dutifully abstained.
Once he had wallowed in his misery for a bit, he took the liberty of enforcing every spare security measure throughout the house. There were times when Frank felt that his paranoia could have been diagnosed as an illness, but it was a precious weakness he held, a secret catalyst that awakened his instincts to the level of a prehistoric predator. If tampered with, the effects could be devastating; but under just the right pressure, it could be his greatest asset.
After meticulously inspecting the cameras and restructuring the locking mechanisms on every door of the first floor, Frank found himself standing up on the four foot ledge of a magnificent window in the billiard room at the end of the hall, fiddling with the framework to check for structural vulnerabilities.
Without even looking over his shoulder, he sensed the presence of another person in the room with him. In such a compromised position, he wasn't able to turn around.
A flinty woman's voice carried up to his ears, "Mr. Farmer, in the billiard room, with a revolver…"
He recognized instantly to whom the voice belonged, and briefly considered jumping out the window.
Frank kept his face impassive as he locked one flawed window latch into its proper place and finally turned around to face Laura Pentecost. "It's not a revolver."
She laughed as she stalked toward him in her clingy black dress, her heels clicking dangerously against the expensive floor tiles with each step. "Mr. FitzGerald has done a fine job at protecting me for the past few years…" She paused when she reached the base of the window, staring up at him with a flirtatious twinkle in her eyes. "...But I'm flattered that you want to double check his work."
For a woman who lived in her mother's shadow, Laura Pentecost certainly had a supercilious way of carrying herself.
With well-practiced indifference, Frank spoke down to her, "No offense, but I'm more concerned about my own safety right now than yours."
She tilted her head and smiled up at him. "A little press never hurt anyone." He felt the most delicate of touches on his backside right before he jumped smoothly down from his spot on the window ledge.
"I guess you would know," he retorted in a detached voice.
He could see that she was slightly embittered by his remark, but she made a quick attempt to hide it. "I haven't made the headlines since the day my mother gave birth to me, and the paparazzi were camped outside the hospital."
Frank's stomach twisted at the thought that one day that could be Rachel's birth experience.
"That doesn't have to be your story," Laura said comfortingly, as if reading his thoughts.
"It already is," he muttered darkly, brushing past her to inspect the next window.
"It isn't easy being with someone so famous, is it?" she asked archly.
"I can put up with a lot."
She chuckled. "Obviously."
He turned to stare at her, arm frozen in place before he could lift himself onto the next window ledge. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Laura furrowed her brows with all the exaggerated effort of an awful actress. "Rachel isn't exactly the type to . . . commit to someone for very long. And I'd just hate to see a nice man like you get hurt."
He allowed himself a cynical smirk. "What gave you the idea that I'm nice?"
She grinned wickedly at him. "Are you saying you're evil, Mr. Farmer?"
He knew he was playing with fire, but in that moment he didn't care. "I've killed enough men to earn myself a spot in hell."
Her throaty laughter seemingly dripped with delight. "I had no doubt you were deadly." She brushed his forearm with the tips of her perfectly manicured fingers. "But just how deadly?"
All traces of humor disappeared from his face.
"Threaten someone I love, and you'll find out."
Her eyes turned stormy as she shook her head and whispered, "She's gonna break your heart."
"I don't have much of a heart left to break."
He should not have kept eye contact with her while saying it. It backfired immediately. Laura's green eyes were heady with lust as she leaned closer to him and purred, "How tragic." Her fingers fluttered along his left elbow, uncomfortably close to where his scar hid just beneath his jacket.
"If you keep touching me like that, you just might end up unconscious in the ICU," he warned.
"If you keep looking at me like that, I just might end up unconscious in your arms."
The women of Hollywood were uncommonly forward.
"Don't play games with me." He shook his head. "You're going to be sorely disappointed."
"No, Mr. Farmer," she said with a scowl. "Another woman in this house is playing games with you, and I believe you will be sorely disappointed. Don't say I didn't warn you."
With that, she turned on her heel and left the room.
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"I was invited to a ball!" Rachel squealed.
Frank looked concernedly over at Ricky who had just returned from Rachel's private P.O. Box with a load of unread mail, including the invitation she now waved in her hand.
"A ball? What is this, a Disney movie?" Frank pried the invitation from her grip so that he could read it himself.
Miss Rachel Marron and Guest are cordially invited to the Getty Center of J. Paul Getty Museum . . . for a ball to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of esteemed Producer Paul Wilcox, Jr. . . . at seven o'clock in the evening on the seventh of June, 2003.
"Rachel, that's this weekend."
"I know!" she exclaimed. "I already put a call out to Oxana."
Frank groaned.
"I'll rent a limo," Ricky said with a wink.
Scott watched Rachel's perky departure from the room with a careful eye before cornering Frank. "You know why she was invited, don't you?"
"To get her to show face."
"With a 'plus one,'" he emphasized.
Frank sighed.
"We'll all be there, Frank," Scott reassured him. "We have a full crew now."
As he moved to stare out the window, Frank retreated into himself. If he had made one different decision four months ago, he could be fishing at Lake Tahoe, alone, with no obligations to impress anyone but himself. Instead, he was trapped in a retired celebrity's mansion, being forced to attend a ball where he would be the object of everyone's interest for an entire evening. Was it worth all of the sacrifices to finally now feel at peace when he heard Rachel Marron's songs on the radio?
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"It looks like . . . some kind of ancient Egyptian torture device."
"It's an eyelash curler, Farmer," Rachel said as she snapped the cosmetic tool from his hand. "Now quit stalling, and come look at the suit Oxana picked out for you."
Frank's eyes went wide as he walked into the wardrobe room where a rich green Armani suit had been displayed on its hanger.
"What is this, the Grinch who stole St. Patrick's Day?" Frank burst. "I'm not wearing that. It's too ostentatious."
"It's not ostentatious, it's understated!" Rachel protested.
"It's green!"
"It's forest green. I've seen you wear this color before, Farmer."
"Yeah, if it's a flannel maybe. But not a fucking suit."
"But it's Armani!" she sing-songed at him, failing to recall that designers had zero effect on him.
"Doesn't Armani make anything black? Or gray? Hell, even blue?"
She rolled her eyes at him. "Fine. Wear the fucking blue one." She grabbed Oxana's second choice from its spot in the back of the wardrobe. He would not have called it a particularly subtle shade of blue, but he was not about to complain.
"You're not planning to coordinate with me, are you?" he asked warily.
Rachel showed up at the top of the stairs two hours later, wearing a stunning starlight blue gown that hugged her curves in all the right places. Her black hair had been tastefully knotted along the back of her neck, with perfectly placed tendrils falling to the sides. Her jewelry shimmered gloriously under the lights of the chandelier as she descended the staircase to meet him at the bottom. Because they were not alone in the room, Frank felt it necessary to restrain his reaction. It pained him that he would have to walk beside her all night with her looking like that, keeping the distant thrum of desire deep in his belly until some ungodly hour when he could relieve it in their bedroom.
She smiled at him in such a way that he guessed her own thoughts were much the same.
"You look sexy, honey," she murmured as she tugged his silk tie.
He looked awkwardly down at her hand with a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.
Rachel groaned. "Tony, will you give this boy some encouragement, please?"
Tony stepped up to the plate with admirable enthusiasm. "You look great, Frank, really! I can't even explain why I'm having such a visceral reaction to this ensemble. It pleases me on so many levels." He glanced at Rachel and continued with exaggerated excitement, "In fact, if you were to shove me in an MRI machine right now, I guarantee you my brain would be lit up all over the place just from looking at you!"
Rachel smirked at him as they filed out the doors. "Alright, big guy, you've made your point."
Frank swallowed his nerves as he settled into the back of the limousine with Rachel and Scott. He was warmed slightly by the intrusion of her fingers between his, knowing she was attempting to comfort him. It was ironic how terrified he could be at something as simple as attending a ball in Los Angeles with the woman he loved. He would have found hunting down a serial killer in the streets of Tijuana less intimidating.
He listened to the rowdy voices of Tony and Ricky in the front of the limo singing along with "Macho Man" by Village People, wishing he could disappear. By the time they made it to the strikingly lit fountain entrance to the museum, his hands were positively shaking.
Frank made a face at Scott for daring to open the door for him. He stopped and turned around to help Rachel out, watching as she lifted the heavy fabric of her gown with a practiced elegance that only a celebrity could manage. He wasn't ready for the cameras as soon as they came out of the limo.
Everyone else seemed to be so unaffected. Rachel smiled at the mob of strangers with cameras as if they were old friends she happened to be passing by. Tony and Scott stiff-armed the crowd with an enviable kind of invisibility that only a bodyguard could possess. Meanwhile, Frank was tortured by the black and purple blots that blurred his vision following the fluorescent assault of flashing lights.
Beside him, he could hear Tony still singing "Macho Man" under his breath. "Come on, Frank, sing it with me," he said with a convincing nudge in his back. "It'll give you an indescribable rush of confidence. You gotta try it."
Frank conveniently ignored him, but he couldn't help cracking a smile.
Shortly following their security check, Frank caught the vague upward tilt of Scott's chin, gesturing for Frank to follow him into a back hallway off the lobby where no one was watching.
"I know you don't like this," Scott said, somewhat roughly.
Frank didn't make eye contact with the man as he replied, "I know I'm not good at hiding it."
"Yeah, you fucking suck at it."
Agitated, Frank shifted, hands on his hips. "What do you want me to do?"
Frank's heart skipped a beat when he heard the familiar sound of a pistol being unlatched from a holster. "You ever thought about how hard this is for me, Frank?" Scott was saying, his mouth moving quickly and discreetly so as to not draw attention to them. "You're twenty years younger than me with a 20% faster reaction time — you could have a guy pinned down in a headlock before I could even draw my pistol."
Frank felt the weight of Scott's back-up pistol being added to his own holster, then his jacket was put casually back into place.
"Don't tell Rachel," Scott ordered.
It put Frank's senses into overdrive, having all of these people staring straight at him. He knew that Rachel was the true draw, but her persona was not a mystery like his was. His eyes scoured the room, taking in the marble pillars, the contemporary art pieces, the hordes of attractive couples in glitzy evening wear, the other black-suited men in the corners of the vast room – the ones who were doing his job, the ones who could remain in the shadows. Frank had never longed to be on the clock so much before in his life.
He suffered in silence, with Rachel as his faithful guide. She brightly introduced him to other celebrities, who had a strange way of shaking hands – strange, that is, that they did not shake his hand but rather grasped it loosely, tugged him close, and placed an air-kiss on either side of his face. His brain felt as if it were melting away slowly as he half-listened to them making small talk, fishing for compliments, name-dropping, boasting about their recent excursions.
After approximately fifteen insufferable minutes of barely feigning interest, Frank gently broke his hold on Rachel's hand to meet Tony by the hors-d'oeuvres table.
"How you holdin' up?" Tony asked as he discreetly shoveled several bites of baked brie into his mouth with a cracker.
"If I have to listen to one more person brag about who designed their shoes, I'm gonna chew down the chandelier like in Phantom of the Opera."
"Rachel seems happy," Tony observed.
For a moment, Frank felt guilty for not having noticed it himself.
"Evening, gentlemen," an older man with overly tanned skinned and obviously dyed hair nodded at them from the other side of the table. He perused the offerings before taking his plate and sidling off to speak with another celebrity.
"Shit, do you know who that was?" Tony asked excitedly.
Frank shook his head.
"Robert LaSaca? He's like the richest guy in California." Tony seemed shocked by Frank's ignorance. "The guy is like Scrooge McDuck. He has a literal pageboy at his house."
Frank listened idly as Tony gossiped to him, pointing out different characters around the large room. "... and that's Albert Opala. He's the guy who used to practice his golf swing on the roof of that dead mall on Frasier Run... Then this broad over here with the motherfuckin' Chicken Run grin on her face, that's Maureen Ignacy… Oh, and that guy over by the doors there, that's Lyle Breiding… looks like if Shaggy from Scooby Doo had sex with a gingerbread man."
With great restraint, Frank managed not to laugh out loud.
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Rachel had to admit, some part of her had missed this. It felt so invigorating to be in her element again, feeling important, feeling recognized, to be the obvious talk of the night, and the belle of the ball. It didn't hurt that she had some mysterious man candy to flaunt at her side . . . at least, he had been at her side a few minutes ago.
She was frantic in her search for Frank, only for an instant, until she spotted him beside Tony on the other side of the room. It was mildly infuriating how he was unable to let go of his tendencies. He couldn't seem to relax at all, even with two of his own bodyguards on duty. But for how tortured he looked, he was still the most handsome man in the room. His perfectly tailored blue suit and tie brought out the blue in his eyes in the most devastating way. He could annihilate someone with that gaze.
"I thought you said we weren't going to split up tonight," Rachel murmured as she slid her arm delicately through the crook of his elbow.
With her free hand, she grasped a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing server. She lifted it to her lips to take a sip, but was left with her mouth hanging open as Frank slipped it swiftly out of her hand.
He didn't have to say anything. All it took was one look of warning and she remembered why she couldn't drink.
Rachel noticed that Frank relied on holding a drink in his hand to protect himself from opening up during conversation. He had done it on their very first date, and he'd continued the strange practice almost every time they'd been out for drinks together, and even sometimes during meals. He used the champagne flute like a shield, carefully lifting it to hide his mouth, or drawing it illustratively away from his body every now and again, only to draw it back with measured intent. He held it in such a way that showed he relied on it to relieve any awkwardness, even though most of the time he wasn't even drinking from it.
She could tell he was growing anxious with all of the stares they were receiving, and she hated to see that flicker of disquiet in his ever-vigilant gaze. After a few more casual introductions with other celebrity couples, Rachel surreptitiously pulled him into a separate area of the museum to let him breathe for a bit.
"You looked uncomfortable," she said.
"You could tell?"
She gave him a pitying smile. "You've spent more time making eyes at Pettigrew across the room than mingling with the other guests."
"I don't mingle," Frank said stiffly.
"The more you run, the more they'll chase you," she warned as her hands gripped the lapels of his jacket to pull him closer.
He squirmed under her touch, eyes darting around the exhibition as if the statues of Roman figureheads were actually watching them. "Rachel, what are you doing?"
She cut him off with a consuming kiss, her fingers drifting beneath his jacket to press against his stomach. "Helping you relax," she whispered against his jaw before kissing him again.
He whimpered in protest, eyes fixed nervously on the lone archway that led to the crowded ballroom. "What if someone sees?"
"Don't worry, I got Tony to cover for us."
Frank veered his head to see Tony standing just on the other side of the archway, leaning against the wall. He looked over his shoulder at them with a cheeky smirk before dutifully turning his attention back to the ballroom.
Rachel pulled Frank back and slammed him against the marble wall between two large Renaissance paintings, her hands pulling lustfully at his hair as she kissed him. This time, he didn't have the energy or the willpower to resist her. She had seen the way he was staring at her tonight; as much as he tried to contain all emotional responses, she knew him too well at this point. All she had to do was look at his hands. Frank's hands were a precursor to any action he intended to execute with his entire body – she could tell what his desires were, from just the subtle twitch of his fingers against his thigh.
"Do you know how badly I want you right now?" she whispered between kisses, grinding against him where he leaned into the wall.
His hand quickly found access to her bare thigh through the slit of her gown. "I have an idea."
She distracted him with another forceful kiss as her fingers fumbled around his waist, attempting to undo his belt buckle.
"What the hell are you trying to do to me?" he hissed.
"Give you a blow job."
In a momentary lapse of self-control, she could feel him harden against her hand. Despite it, he pushed her off insistently, eyes fixed on the doorway where Tony still stood guard. "Are you insane?" He attempted to pry himself away.
She giggled innocently as she wrangled him back with his necktie wrapped around her wrist. "You're not on duty anymore, Farmer. We can fool around all night in here if we want."
"And if they come looking for you?" he asked hotly. "Imagine that headline!"
"Then let's tell Ricky to bring the limo around back," she suggested.
He glared at her. "Only if we can go home."
"Not yet, honey. One more hour."
He groaned.
She tugged his belt again. "If you let me in here, I can help hold you over—"
He swiftly snagged her hand and tucked it behind her back. "Thirty more minutes. Then we leave."
"Fine."
He finally managed to work himself free from her wandering hands and attempted to straighten himself up before walking back in. Tony looked questioningly at Rachel, but she waved him away. As they entered the ballroom, Scott met Frank's gaze from across the room and gestured to his head. Frank quickly raised his hand to brush his disheveled hair back into place.
"Oh, God," Rachel moaned as she noticed a familiar figure approaching.
Frank stared ahead as Rachel's ex-boyfriend Preston Pierce came towards them, clutching the arm of a busty platinum blonde in a purple dress. "Look who it is," he drawled, "Raunchy Rachel and her 'hired help.'"
"At least I didn't have to pay my date to be here," Rachel retorted. "Unlike some people who have to bring escorts everywhere they go."
Preston looked even more offended than the woman on his arm. "Her name is Tanya."
"Oh, that thing has a name?"
"Wow, Marron. You're even more of a bitch now than you were back when we were together," he said, each word seeming to punch the air as it left his mouth. "Is it the hormones or the dying career?"
"Dying career? I've had more media attention in the last two weeks than you've had the last decade," Rachel said snidely.
"I guess negative attention is better than no attention at all, eh?" he muttered back.
"I wouldn't be talking, Pierce. I'm not the one who's stooped to making alien movies for Crude Studios."
"And how many movies have you made in the last ten years, Marron?"
Rachel could feel Frank's hand clutch her elbow as she struggled to keep cool. "You'd better watch it, boy, or the real aliens are gonna get ya. Maybe they'll come down and shave a crop circle on the back of that freshly buzzed head of yours!"
Preston let out a hollow laugh, about to walk away when he stopped, thought for a moment, then turned back to Rachel and Frank.
"So are you two, uh, married yet?"
Rachel's heart sank as she forced out the answer. "No."
Preston looked down pointedly at Rachel's belly then raised his glass of wine.
"I never claimed to be a saint, Preston," Rachel said hotly.
"No shit."
"Fucking tool," Rachel muttered beneath her breath. She reached out and tried to grapple at him, but Frank pulled her back. She could see both Tony and Scott in her peripheral, approaching from either side of the room.
Preston shook his head in mock sympathy. "Take it easy, sugar, you're with child."
Rachel fumed, "Oh, honey, I could still fight you if this baby was sittin' on my hip! How about that?"
He snickered at her. "I'm sure your bodyguard here wouldn't approve of that."
"You know what else he doesn't approve of? Asshole ex-boyfriends who have to dig their way back into my life just to stay relevant."
"Looks like your bodyguard dug his way into a lot more than that." For the first time since their altercation began, Preston made eye contact with Frank. "Now that's what I call a 'security breach.'" He gestured to Rachel's belly with a dry laugh.
This time, it wasn't Rachel who needed restraining. With barely a moment between blinks, Frank had lunged at the man, pushing him forcefully into the archway that led into the hall of Roman Figureheads.
Rachel followed them into the exhibit, shouting at them to stop. But her screams were of no use. She could do nothing but watch the juxtaposition of crude modern day combat against a backdrop of stoic marble statues, listening to the echo of their grunts and muffled Mozart in the vast white room as they brawled.
She watched in horror as Frank repeatedly threw punches at her ex-boyfriend until he had him pinned against the bust of Cicero. Though he may not have been a match for her former bodyguard, Preston Pierce did not go down without a fight. He managed to twist Frank's suit jacket clean off his arms as he flung him off to the side. Before Preston could stand to his full height, Frank already had him in headlock. Rachel winced as Frank tossed the man down to the ground like a ragdoll.
It was strange to see Frank in such a state – sans suit jacket and sans suspenders – looking nothing like his usual composed self. Rachel had never witnessed him executing such needless violence before. She was certain that his unwanted newfound fame had something to do with his brutish behavior.
Preston clamored up from the ground, about to charge at Frank from behind, when Tony made a quick intervention and pulled him back. Preston extricated himself by stepping on Tony's instep just as Frank whipped around, drawing his pistol without a shred of hesitation.
Preston stumbled backwards against a marble pillar, hands up in surrender as Scott and Tony converged protectively on either side of Frank, their own guns drawn.
"Jesus, Marron, are your boys in the fucking mafia?"
Rachel could only stand there with her mouth hanging open at the scene before her. She heard a sudden shuffle from behind as a group of uniformed police officers surrounded them, weapons out. She glanced over at Preston's little blonde sidepiece to find her cowering in the corner, cell phone in one shaking hand.
"Put your weapons down! All of you!" one of the officers shouted.
Frank was the last to follow the officer's instructions.
Rachel's view of the scene was suddenly obscured by the onslaught of curious guests and museum security staff as they checked to make sure she was alright. She roughly attempted to brush them away, but by the time she made it back over to the rest of her party, the cops already had Frank in cuffs. The expression on Frank's face looked oddly satisfied in spite of the circumstances.
"Didn't they check you for firearms at the door?" one of the officers interrogated him.
Frank made brief eye contact with Scott. That was when Rachel realized that Scott must have smuggled the gun in for Frank at some point during the night. Her initial feeling on the matter was close to rage, but the look on Frank's face sent her into a storm of confliction.
She listened as the cops asked Preston if he wanted to press charges. All it took was one glare from Frank in his direction, and a wide-eyed Preston shook his head 'no.'
The officer released Frank from the handcuffs, and they were promptly kicked out of the museum for violent disturbance. Ricky looked scared shitless as two police cars pulled up to escort their limousine off the premises.
Rachel glowered at Frank when he climbed into the back seat beside her.
"I'm startin' to understand why your dad said you had a short fuse."
He didn't say anything.
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"I gotta be honest, Farmer, it kinda turned me on watching them cuff you in there."
He glanced over at her with piercing eyes as he pulled his dress shirt open under the dim light of the bedside lamp.
Rachel propped herself up on her pillow with a sigh. "But I thought I made it clear to you that the only place I would tolerate your misbehavior is in the bedroom."
He quietly justified, "He was harassing you."
She rolled her eyes. "This isn't the Wild West. We don't whip out a gun on someone just because they insult us."
His jaw stiffened during a moment of reflection as he sat on the edge of the bed and finished undressing. "I wasn't going to shoot anyone."
"Oh, so you're just using weapons to threaten people now?" she asked snarkily as he shut the light off and settled into bed, lying on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling. "Not only that but you're making Scott break the rules for you, too."
"It's frustrating not having the clearance for carry at some of these places."
"You're not a hired bodyguard anymore, Frank." She glanced over at him. Even in the darkness, she could see the crisis brewing in his eyes. "Don't you trust Scott and Tony to do their jobs?"
Frank exhaled roughly. "What if they miss something?"
"You're the one who's missing something," Rachel said before turning on her side.
She didn't have to wait long before he caught her meaning. He rolled over to embrace her from behind, his warm hands resting against her belly beneath the covers. "I'm sorry."
Rachel sighed. "I guess I just have to get used to the idea that my man's love language is holding out a handgun."