CALIFORNIA GOTHIC #3
The Black Security Guard
Chapter 3: More Reverb To The Moon
The night with Lana was special and surreal in the way that only Hollywood could make things—glittering and strange, like finding a pearl in a gutter.
I stared at her, the weight of the revelation pressing down on me. "Really. The Lana Del Rey?"
"The one and only."
"So when I said you looked familiar at the coffee house..."
"You were technically correct."
I sat down hard on the couch, the leather sighing under my weight. "Wow. I have never been this wrong while also being right."
She settled beside me, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something expensive and floral, with a hint of cigarette smoke clinging to it like a secret. "I just wanted to know if you’d like me without... all this." She gestured vaguely to the suite, to the champagne sweating on the table, to the ghost of her fame lingering in the air.
I smirked. "So what you’re saying is... I passed the test?"
"Don’t let it go to your head."
"Too late."
She laughed, low and throaty, and then she leaned in. "Shut up, Kevin."
And then—well. Let’s just say the rest of the night didn’t involve much talking.
I’m too much of a gentleman to recount the details with anything less than discretion, but by four in the morning, we were asleep. Her first, then me. I lay there in the half-dark, replaying the night in my head, the way her lips had curved around her laughter, the way her fingers had knotted in my shirt. Beside me, Lana had already slipped into another dimension. If not for the slow rise and fall of her ribs, she might as well have been dead.
My alarm woke me at eleven sharp. I turned it off and whispered her name. No response. I tried again, shaking her gently. Nothing. She didn’t stir, didn’t so much as twitch. She was either the heaviest sleeper I’d ever met, or she was comatose.
Suddenly, she rolled over, but her eyes stayed shut.
"I’m a dragon, you’re a whore," she mumbled, the words slurred with sleep. "Don’t even know what you’re good for."
"Excuse me?" I said.
She flopped onto her other side without another word, her breathing evening back out into soft, rhythmic snores.
I pushed myself up and padded to the minibar, pouring a glass of water from the machine. For a long moment, I just watched her, the way her hair fanned out across the pillow, the way her lips parted slightly as she dreamed. Two seconds ago, I’d been marveling at the fact that I’d spent the night with Lana Del Rey. Now, I was more concerned about the things she was muttering in her sleep.
The Chateau Marmont had the good Keurig pods—high-class shit. I checked my watch. I had to leave by eleven-thirty if I wanted to make it to my next client on time.
I waited. And waited. Lana showed no signs of returning to the land of the living anytime soon. Even after hours of sleep, she was still dead to the world.
"Lana?" I tried one last time. Silence. I had no choice but to go. The irony wasn’t lost on me—black security guard, slipping out at dawn. Only it wasn’t dawn. It was a workday, and I had shit to do.
“LANA!” I barked, louder than I meant to, startling even myself.
"More reverb to the moon, please," she murmured, and then she was out again.
More reverb to the moon.
I wondered how many people had heard her say things like that in her sleep. How many had woken up to this girl whispering half-formed lyrics and studio notes into the dark.
I swiped a handful of those fancy Keurig pods—payment for services rendered—and turned toward the door. One last glance at her, still lost in whatever dream she was chasing. Then I stepped out, left the Chateau behind, left Sunset, left her there, sleeping like the dead.
————
The call came at 3:17 AM, that dead hour when most calls mean trouble. A clipped voice gave me an address at the Mondrian and told me to show up presentable. No names, no details - which usually meant either someone important or someone who needed serious protection. Turned out it was both.
By 1 PM, the elevator opened onto a hallway lit with that subtle lighting expensive hotels use to make you feel richer just by standing there. At the far end, a figure leaned against the wall with the easy confidence of someone who belonged to the night. Even from behind, I recognized the posture - The Weeknd, though he'd soon tell me to call him Abel.
"You're late," he said without turning around. His voice had that trademark sleepy quality, like he was half in a dream. "I was about to send a search party into the velvet."
I started to explain but he waved me off, the leather of his glove making a soft sound. "Save it. Just come on."
Walking behind him, I caught whiffs of expensive cologne mixed with cigarette smoke. His outfit was all black leather - a trench coat that nearly brushed the floor, straps of some harness underneath, boots that looked like they'd seen every alley in the city. Like something straight out of The Matrix.
"Ever work with British artists before?" he asked as we stopped outside a suite.
"Can't say I have."
He flashed a quick smile. "Then this should be educational." As he swiped the keycard, he added, "By the way, I sleep so deep the angels get jealous."
Before I could ask what that meant, the door opened to chaos. The room smelled like whiskey and high-grade weed. A guy and a girl - my new clients - were arguing loudly about potato chips of all things. They barely noticed us come in.
"My ninjas," Abel announced, "meet your new babysitter."
Lil Big Mukk, who was shorter than I expected, finally looked up from the bag of chips he'd been waving around. "This him? Looks a bit serious, yeah?"
His partner Girlee Chayne Ganggg at least stood up from the couch. "Americans always look like that." She shook my hand, her rings cold against my skin. "You good at keeping paps away?"
Before I could answer, two more guys came in from another room - the regular security team. I knew the type immediately - military cuts, earpieces, the slight bulge under their shirts where their gear sat.
"Well well," the taller one said, looking me up and down. "Another freelancer."
The shorter one got right to business. "You bonded? Who's your insurer?"
"Ironclad," I said evenly.
The tall one smirked. "Cute." To his partner: "Freelancers are why we have security breaches."
"Probably carries illegal pepper spray too," the other added, eyeing me like I might try something.
Abel, who'd been watching with mild amusement, finally spoke up. "Play nice, kids." He turned to me. "Don't mind them - they're still sore about the last guy they approved who turned out to be a TMZ mole."
Girlee burst out laughing. "Oh shit, I forgot about that! His face when they cuffed him..."
The mood lightened, though I could still feel their eyes on me as Abel showed me around the suite, pointing out potential security issues with the ease of someone who'd done this too many times.
"They're harmless enough," he said quietly near the kitchen. "But their hangers-on attract trouble. Had some blogger try to sneak in through the bathroom last week."
I made mental notes. The place had too many windows, too many ways in. "Any specific concerns I should watch for?"
Abel gave me a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just the usual demons. Echoes of silence, ya feel me?” He handed me a plain card with just a phone number. "Call if things get... interesting."
My phone buzzed then, and Abel raised an eyebrow. "Expecting someone?"
"Just work stuff."
"Right." He clearly didn't buy it. "Well, don't let me keep you."
I stepped onto the balcony for some air. The text wasn't from Lana - just my landlord about rent. Two days with no word. I told myself it didn't matter, that I wasn't the type to worry about these things. The city stretched out forever below.
Inside, the chip debate had somehow turned into an argument about the royal family. Abel had vanished, leaving just his cologne and some strange comment about angels behind.
My phone stayed quiet in my pocket. Somewhere on the street below, a car alarm went off. The job itself was straightforward - keep these guys safe, stay sharp, don't lose focus.
But as I looked back at the chaotic room, at the other guards still eyeing me with suspicion, I realized the real threat wasn't outside in the dark.
It was the part of me that kept checking my phone, waiting for a call that might not come.
————
The next day, babysitting the British rappers passed without incident—no stalkers, no brawls, not even a single misplaced paparazzo. Just twelve hours of listening to Girlee Chayne Ganggg and Lil Big Mukk argue about whether prawn-flavored crisps were "a crime against humanity" or "the pinnacle of snack engineering." By sunset, I'd developed a throbbing headache and an irrational hatred of seafood seasoning.
Lana never called.
I told myself it didn't mean anything. Maybe she was busy. Maybe she was the type who played it cool, who let men marinate in uncertainty like cheap steak in supermarket marinade. Or maybe she'd woken up, taken one look at me snoring on the Chateau Marmont's Egyptian cotton sheets, and decided the whole thing had been a drunken mistake. The possibilities gnawed at me as I navigated Hollywood's neon bloodstream in my dented Audi A8 L.
Hunger eventually overrode my brooding. I pulled into the Chick-fil-A on Sunset, immediately regretting my choice when I saw the protestors. They'd been camped outside for weeks—ever since the CEO's latest "Biblical family values" sermon made headlines. Teenagers with rainbow flags pinned to their backpacks. Graying activists holding signs that read "HATE IS NOT A FAMILY VALUE." A harried-looking employee sweeping thrown food off the sidewalk.
I just wanted a damn chicken sandwich.
The cashier's smile faltered when she saw me. Not surprising—my black suit and earpiece screamed "private security," which in this zip code often meant "right-wing celebrity lackey." The waffle fries tasted like guilt as I stepped back into the evening air.
"Oh look, another homophobe supporting bigotry," sneered a pink-haired girl barely old enough to drive. Her combat boots kicked at the pavement like she was warming up for something.
Her friend—all nose rings and righteous fury—cocked her head. "Or maybe he's deep in the closet. That's always the loudest ones, right?"
I took another bite. "Or maybe I'm just hungry."
The first fry hit my shoulder with a greasy splat. Then came a straw wrapper. Then a half-empty soda cup that exploded against the pavement near my shoes. Around us, the protest's chanting swelled—"Hey hey, ho ho, homophobia's got to go!"—as if my chicken sandwich purchase had personally reignited their outrage.
A security guard emerged from the restaurant, hands raised in that universal "don't make me do paperwork" gesture. The girls flipped me off but retreated, their fury already redirecting toward the next customer exiting with a bag.
By the time I got home, the weird mood had settled into my bones. My apartment smelled like lemon-scented cleaner and loneliness. The city outside my window pulsed with the usual nighttime rhythms—sirens, laughter, the occasional scream. I tossed my suit jacket over a chair and stared at my phone like it might spontaneously combust.
Do I call her?
Nah.
I showered until the hot water ran out, then lay on my bed watching the ceiling fan wobble. Somewhere between "maybe she lost my number" and "maybe I should've taken that last fry to the face as a sign," sleep dragged me under.
2:03 AM. The buzz of my phone jolted me awake.
In the studio. Thinking of you.
No explanation. No follow-up. Just six words glowing in the dark.
I collapsed back onto the mattress, the weight of the day—the protestors, the rappers, the endless waiting—evaporating like sweat on summer concrete. Outside, a car alarm wailed itself hoarse. Somewhere in this godforsaken city, Lana Del Rey was thinking of me.
That’s cool enough, I thought.
———
ATILA
———
Comments
Post a Comment