The Galactic Empress' Bodyguard

  Copyright © 2019 by Ben Harrington

  All rights reserved.

  Dedication

  For Lara,

  my own personal Empress

  1

  Colton Shaw was way too tired for this bullshit.

  "Listen," he said, "If I wanted to vape, I wouldn't be asking for smokes, would I?"

  The gas station attendant stared at him like he had spoken Swahili. The guy was obviously not cut out for such a complex job. He seemed to be running on autopilot, like someone was pulling his levers from an outsourced control room, and whoever it was was on their lunch break at the moment.

  Just as Colton was about to really lose his shit, the attendant twitched back life, like somebody'd unpaused his brain. His smile returned and he said pleasantly: "Vaping is the healthy alternative to—"

  Colton took a sharp breath through clenched teeth. "Giving me my fucking cigarettes is the healthy alternative to saying another word about vaping."

  The attendant's smile was static. He probably didn't understand what he'd heard. After a pause, he said: "So is that a maybe?"

  Colton sighed, shook his head—

  —but in doing so, noticed something odd. The two guys by the chip rack were pulling ski masks over their faces. One of them had a gun. Wait, no, two. They were about to rush the cash.

  Colton slumped, shook his head. "Why now?"

  Suddenly, there was a muzzle pressed against his cheek, jabbing at him as the robber bounced around like he'd huffed coffee grounds for breakfast.

  "NOBODY FUCKING MOVE!" shouted the jittery little shit. "THIS IS A HOLD UP!"

  Colton rolled his eyes as the attendant raised his hands, cowering behind the counter. The second robber rushed up, knocking absolutely everything off the countertop like he was about to make mad, desperate love to someone right now — Colton's money was on the attendant. Delicate hands.

  "Empty the register!" shouted Mr Swipey, flailing his gun around like he wasn't entirely sure how to use it. "Do it! Now!"

  Colton tried to get the first moron's gun out of his cheek, but it was an uphill battle. The guy had committed to gun-poking, and gun-poking was what he was gonna do.

  "And smokes!" shouted the second perp, motioning to the display. "All of ‘em!"

  The attendant did as he was told, emptying the shelves into the bag he was given. All the fucking smokes. God dammit.

  "Hey," said Colton, nice and gentle so as to not startle anyone. "Leave me a pack?"

  "WHAT DID YOU FUCKING SAY?" screamed the first crook, way too close to Colton's ear.

  "I said could you please leave me a pack of cigarettes," repeated Colton. "It's all I'm after. All I want. Just one pack of cigarettes. Please."

  The second robber turned on Colton like a rabid weasel, snarling in his face and spewing hot whisky breath all over him. "You shut your dumb fuck mouth," he said. "Or I'm gonna blow it straight off."

  Colton nodded toward the other moron. "I thought that was his deal."

  "You testin' me?" the second robber snarled.

  "YOU TESTIN' HIM, MOTHERFUCKER?" shouted the first.

  Colton worked so damn hard to put on a pleasant smile. "No, I'm just asking nicely for a pack of cigarettes. That's all I'm doing."

  "Well what if I say no?" said snarl-puss.

  "Do you say no?"

  "Yeah," he said, twisting his head around like he was some kind of alien predator ready to strike. "I'm sayin' no. So what you gonna do about it?"

  A thousand thoughts ran through Colton's kind in a fraction of a second, and just about every one of them told him to play it cool, stay safe, don't escalate, don't take the bait. A thousand thoughts had told him, very clearly, to ignore that one thought that disagreed.

  But those thousand thoughts were missing one thing: justice.

  "Yeah," said the thug, right into his ear. "That's what I thought."

  In a split second, Colton leaned backward until the dickwad's gun was no longer pushing into his cheek, but pointing straight at his compadre's face. All it took was a tap to the wrist for the unhinged screamer to pull the trigger and create some juicy red fireworks.

  Before the second robber's body hit the ground, Colton snagged his gun, swung it around, and put two bullets into the first robber's thighs. He kinda nose-dived onto the floor, screaming all the way. Colton kicked his gun across the room, then kicked the perp in the head to make him shut up.

  He turned back to the gas station attendant, who was staring in utter shock. Possibly because of all the blood and brains on his face. Possibly because his handler was still on break.

  "So," said Colton, setting the second robber's gun on the counter and sliding it to the side. "A pack of cigarettes, please."

  The attendant's blank expression finally gave way to reality, and he shuddered, took a shaky breath, and said: "Can I interest you in the a vape pen, sir? It's the healthy alternative to smoking."

  2

  Gus was not pleased. Gus was rarely pleased, but even on the Gus scale of displeasure, he was reaching a truly epic level. Bordering on cantankerous.

  "You're late," he barked, as Colton tried to sneak in the side door. To be fair, sneaking was pretty much impossible when, upon opening any of the doors, the deafening sounds of heavy machinery rolled in. But still, Colton tried.

  "Yeah, sorry, Gus. Had a—"

  "You're late," said Gus, again, for emphasis and/or because of his raging dementia. "Two hours late." He knew this because his whole fucking office was a museum to clocks. Just in case one fell out of sync, he said — this way, he'd always know when someone was tryin' to stiff him. It was the only way to be sure, he said. He had to have eighty-five clocks ticking away at all times, the loony turd.

  Colton gave up trying to avoid the situation, and approached Gus with the right level of regret. "I didn't want to be late, Gus, but—"

  There was a loud boom from outside — quarry work was a "booming industry" the guys liked to say — and the clocks on the walls all shuddered and bounced, close to falling, but somehow staying put.

  Gus snorted. "They didn't teach you to tell time in the Marines?"

  "They did, but I—"

  "‘Cause maybe it'd work better if I gave you your schedule in military time. What'cha call six-thirty in military time?"

  "Oh-six-thirty."

  Gus nodded. "Right. So. The same."

  "This is the last time, Gus. I swear. Won't happen again. I promise."

  Gus got off his rickety chair, squinting at Colton. Squinting real hard. "Is that blood on your jacket?"

  Colton looked down, and sure enough, there was a little splatter there. Also, his left boot was kinda soaked with blood. Oh, and his jeans. Shit, he was a mess!

  "Oh, uh, yeah, about that..."

  "You can't come to work like this!" Gus shouted. "I ain't enforcing a dress code, but damn, Shaw, you gotta take work seriously!"

  "I do, Gus. I am. I just—"

  Gus shook his head. "No. No. No way. I'm sorry, Shaw. I gave you every chance I could. But I can't do this no more. You gotta go."

  Colton was stunned. Stunned and confused. "But I—"

  "I'll mail your check on Friday."

  "But I need this job..."

  Gus screwed up his face as Colton and said: "Then maybe you shoulda tried a little harder."

  Something in the way he said it made Colton's blood boil. It wasn't the harshness of it — Colton'd had much tougher love than that before. It wasn't even the suggestion he didn't give things his all.


  It was implication, just under the surface, that he did give things his all, and his "all" wasn't good enough.

  That, he could not abide.

  "Yeah?" he said, blood pumping real fast now. "You can take this job and shove it up your ass! If you can find your ass, you dumb fat bastard!"

  Gus slammed his fist on the counter and snarled. "Get the fuck off my lot! You got to the count of ten!"

  Colton laughed. "As if you can count!"

  But he was done, and he knew it, so he stormed for the exit, delivering Gus a middle finger as a good-bye, and slammed the door as hard as he could.

  Half the clocks bounced clean off the wall, crashing on the ground, and making Gus shriek in horror. The sad part was, even if Colton had seen it, it wouldn't have made him feel any better.

  * * *

  He was halfway through his third beer before Chelsea noticed the blood on his jacket. She squinted at it, leaning in from across the bar in a way that her tank top was not designed to support. Or maybe that was the point. Colton wasn't drunk enough to tell.

  "Are you bleeding?" she asked, brushing her blond hair from her eyes to see clearly. "Jesus, Colt. What happened?"

  "Not my blood," he said, allowing her to manhandle him so long as she didn't spill the beer. "Just a little hiccup on the way to work."

  "What kind of hiccup does that?"

  "The ski mask kind," he sighed, and took another few gulps.

  Chelsea went back to drying glasses, but didn't stray too far. Not that there was much call for it; the joint was mostly empty, being ten in the morning. Only Colton and the old-timers who sat at the back table and talked shit about ‘Nam and the economy and the benefits of prune juice. Lovable fuckers.

  Colton finished the beer, slid it to the side, and gave Chelsea a wide grin that he assumed looked cuter than it did. She laughed a little, slung the rag over her shoulder.

  "You after another?" she asked.

  He didn't budge.

  "You think just because you don't ask for it, you don't have to pay?"

  He didn't budge.

  "I ain't gifting you shit, Colt. You have to ask."

  Still, he didn't budge. So Chelsea leaned across the bar again, this time nice and intimate, so her glossy lips were close enough to taste, and she looked at him with those big blue eyes, her hair getting in his face for a change, and she whispered: "So how about it? You want it, Colt?" She bit her lip, mischievous.

  Colton swallowed. "Yes ma'am."

  She took a slight breath — and then popped back across the counter and started filling another glass. "So explain the ski masks," she said, like nothing had just happened at all.

  It took Colton a second to regain his, uh, composure. "Robbery at the gas station, out by the highway," he said.

  She set down the glass. "Wait, what? When?"

  "This morning. On my way into work. Two fuckleheads with more ammo than brains."

  Chelsea looked at his jacket again, this time in a whole new light. "Jesus, Colt... are you... are you OK?"

  He shrugged, gulped at the beer a bit too long for someone who was entirely OK. When he finished, he gave her a wink and a thumbs-up as an answer.

  "So what happened?" she asked. "Did they get away?"

  He shook his head a little. "Nope."

  "So... the police...?"

  He shook his head again. "Nope."

  "Did... you...?"

  He did a real bad job of not looking pleased with himself. "Yyyup."

  Chelsea bit her motherfucking lip again.

  * * *

  They bashed into the bathroom stall so hard the door popped its top hinge, but neither of them cared. Colton pinned Chelsea against the wall, mouth locked to hers as her fingers scraped up his back, beneath his shirt. Their blood was pumping so hard, it was like a frantic drumbeat egging them on.

  When he finally came up for air, Chelsea looked at him with mischievous eyes.

  "So how about it?" she breathed, and she peeled off her tank top, revealing just how much it was supporting after all. "You want it, Colt?"

  It was kind of a dumb question, and she knew it, so to save him from answering, her buried his face in her breasts. She let out a little cry as he lifted her up, letting her legs wrap around. Gasps, moans, shudders...

  She yanked at his jacket, trying to pull it free but not wanting to disturb his work — but when his right arm came free, something else hit the ground with a plasticky thud.

  Colton caught sight of it, past Chelsea's bright red bra, out of the corner of his eye.

  A pack of smokes.

  And suddenly the drumbeat in his ears went silent, and his kisses tapered off, and he let Chelsea's feet back onto the ground as he knelt down and picked up the cigarettes like they were the most delicate things on Earth.

  "What the fuck, Colt?" Chelsea said, fixing her bra and snatching her tank top off the floor. "What's wrong with you?"

  Colton let out a long, pained breath. And said nothing.

  3

  It was one of those showboat storms: thunder and lightning, but no rain; gusts of wind, but no twister; ominous skies, but no climax. Still, it spooked the crows off his roof.

  He pulled his truck into the driveway crooked — not because he was too drunk to do it right, but because it matched his mood. He sat there, hearing the thunder rattle his mirrors, watching the fraying flag off his porch go apeshit in the wind. The world got him. The world understood.

  It took him three tries to get the front door to stay shut, and two tries to realize the light switch wasn't working because the power was out. He felt vaguely guilty about opening the fridge to get a beer — spoiling the food, no doubt — but then he discovered he had no food, which made everything OK.

  He sat at the kitchen table, bottle on his lap, and stared at her picture.

  It was a framed photo. Not the best shot, not the best frame, but dear God she was far and away the best woman he'd ever known. And there she was, laughing at some stupid nothing he'd said, that pretty little dress hugging her like it knew what was what, and he...

  He drank down half the bottle. Or more. Or all of it.

  He reached into his jacket pocket, came back out with the cigarettes. Slapped them on the table in front of her picture. Drew his hand back like it weighed a ton.

  "Wrapper's still on," he said, voice hoarse and tired. "I'm down to a pack a week, which is pretty great, considering. Won't be long before..."

  He scratched his chin, thought a little.

  "Lost my job today. Guess you know that already. Didn't deck Gus. I feel like I deserve a prize for that. Gold star. Ten dollar bill. A better job."

  He noticed the blood on his jeans. On his boots. Tried drinking more, but the bottle was empty. He set it down on the table, frowned.

  "I'm doing what you said, trying to move on. Won't lie, wasn't as awful as I thought it'd be. Girl's got oomph, I'll tell you that. But she..." He looked at the photo, at the smile, at the dress, at the loss. "I miss you, babe."

  A knock at the door jerked him out of his daze. He wiped at his eyes, put the photo back on the shelf, made an effort to reach the door before their third round of bang bang bang bang.

  "Deputy?" he said, bracing against the wind.

  Outside were two men: Deputy Hoben, a good-natured guy who looked like a praying mantis fucked a koala and it all went downhill from there. The other man had a face like a slab of rock, and the US Marshal uniform to match.

  "Afternoon, Mr Shaw," Hoben shouted over the thunder. "Marshal Weyland and I've got some questions for you, if you don't mind."

  Colton didn't see much of a choice, short of slamming the door in their faces. But given his recent experience with the wind, that was probably doomed to failure anyway.

  He set them up at the kitchen table — the only reliably-
solid surface in the place — and offered them each a beer. Neither accepted, which only meant more for Colton. Double-fisted.

  Hoben flipped open his notepad, ready to scribble. "So Mr Shaw..."

  "Captain Shaw," said Weyland, the Marshal.

  "Pardon?" asked Hoben, confused.

  "Captain Shaw. US Marine Corps," said Weyland. "He's a captain, not a civilian."

  "Discharged," said Shaw, sipping at beer number left.

  Weyland squinted at him. "You can't take the soldier out of a man."

  Colton shrugged. "No, but you can drown him if you try hard enough." Beer number right.

  Hoben was oblivious to everything else going on. He was busy reading his notes: "Now, you said you didn't know the two fellas at the gas station, is that right?"

  "That's right."

  "But they had masks on," he said, like he was a real detective. "So how can you be sure?"

  "'Cause I don't know any dipshits."

  Hoben seemed amused by that, wrote it down verbatim. "And you were there to..."

  "Buy cigarettes."

  Weyland pointed at the pack, still in the middle of the table. "This them?" He reached for them—

  Colton caught his hand. "Don't."

  Weyland got a curious grin on his face. "Any reason why, Captain?"

  Colton's jaw crackled. "They cause cancer."

  Weyland smiled, stopped trying to be an asshole. Briefly.

  Hoben continued: "The second suspect is in critical condition. A little touch-and-go for now. And the first suspect is..."

  "Dead," said Weyland.

  "Yes, dead," said Hoben, frowning at his notes. "Shot in—"

  "The head," said Weyland. "A little extreme, don't you think, Captain?"

  And there it was. The accusation. Colton downed beer number left. "He was threatening to kill me."

  "We saw the security camera footage, Captain. The dead man's gun was not aimed in your direction at all."

  "But his friend's was."

  "And if his friend were in the morgue, I'd be more agreeable to your case, sir. But as it stands, it looks very much like you straight-up executed a man far outside the bounds of necessity."