Chapter One

 

Being attractive has always been a central fact of my existence. Let me change that and stop with the false modesty. Being beautiful has always been a central fact of my existence. I know you're supposed to be modest and pretend otherwise, but people have been calling me beautiful for as long as I can remember.

Beautiful people get treated differently. That probably doesn't shock anyone. It's not fair. I admit it. That doesn't mean I don't take advantage of it sometimes. I doubt there's any beautiful person who doesn't, even if they feel guilty about it on occasion.

Everyone is happy when you walk into a room. No one ignores you. It's rarely hard to get help with anything. In school, boys will be happy to help you with your homework, or even give you the answers. Need a ride? No problem! Want free drinks? Sure! Want to come to a party? You're invited! Want a job? We'll be happy to hire you!

So sure, there are good things about being a beautiful girl. I admit it. But there are hassles to it, as well, like... getting hassled. Everywhere! Guys watch me. Everywhere I go. They hit on me, everywhere. They're sometimes obnoxious and insulting and angry when I turn them down, however tactfully I do it. That's especially so if they've been drinking, or belong to certain really macho ethnic groups and think they're God's gift to women.

Good looking guys are often like that, in fact. They've had no problem getting laid all their lives, and if I turn them down they get indignant because they're not used to it. Well fuck you, buddy! I'm not interested.

What makes it worse for me is I've always been kind of a tomboy. I never wanted to wear high heels or skirts or dresses. I liked to wear overalls and play in the dirt and run around with my dog. As I approached adolescence I was into sports a lot.

Then puberty hit, as they say, and I started getting stared at and hit on all the time. It didn't help that I was blonde. Suddenly I was what every boy in school wanted for Christmas. Guys took bets on who would get my virginity. That sort of attention kind of freaked me out and I tried to avoid boys. That, combined with a bit of a furry voice, started rumors I was gay.

Which was okay if it kept guys from hitting on me, but now girls started hitting on me. Sheesh! Plus being thought of as a 'lesbo' was not exactly a good thing in south Texas. I grew up in Galveston, which is a podunk little city on the Gulf coast. It has nice beaches, but that's the best I can give it.

When I hit seventeen I took off, heading for Dallas, then L.A. Everyone seemed to think I wanted to be a model or actress, since I'm tall and blond but I had zero interest. Instead I found work at a shop that sold souvenirs and beachwear on Ventura Beach, and part-time work at a dojo, teaching jiu-jitsu, which I'd taken up in Galveston.

I'll say this for my parents, they don't take chances. They're preppers, and have a bunker, lots of guns and lots of supplies. So when I came along and started to look like I look, they figured It'd probably be a good idea for me to be able to defend myself. I was the youngest person in my first jiu-jitsu class, but by the time I was eleven I was at a black belt level - even though they wouldn't give me one because I was too young. Which pissed me off to no end.

And yes, they taught me all about guns too. It's fuckin' Texas, after all.

I was eighteen by the time I hit L.A, and started going to the Kojong Dojo. Before long I was helping with the training, and then was offered a part-time job doing that in the evenings. So I did that, and I spent a lot of time when I wasn't working at the beach, windsurfing or surfing.

And getting hit on. A lot!

By now I was away from Galveston, though, and far from high school, and far from people who were going to gossip and chortle and elbow each if they got a good story about me. So I figured it was time to start experimenting with sex.

Since most of the guys I met were at the beach or the dojo, I had a pretty good idea what their bodies were like, at least, and some time to get a glimpse of their personalities. I can't say I was really looking for love or a relationship so much as, like I said, experimenting.

Maybe I approached things the wrong way, kind of from a clinical perspective, you know? Like I said, experimenting, seeing what guys wanted to do and if I liked any of it. I have to say that there was little similarity from one guy to another, other than the obvious. Some knew how to use their hands, some didn't. Some were too rough, some too wimpy. A very few had good oral skills. Most were tentative, and treated it like a job to be gotten through before the good stuff happened.

Mind you, the guys were all similar in what THEY liked. There wasn't any point of difference between them on that! And while they weren't often very good at oral they certainly did appreciate receiving it.

Sex, in other words, did not seem to me to be nearly as exciting as it clearly was to the guys I had sex with. Nature kind of cheated women that way. Guys can get aroused in a nanosecond, are instantly ready to go, and can orgasm in a couple of minutes and be done. That was especially so as I perfected my oral skills.

Sex ranged from unpleasant to mildly fun depending on the abilities of the guy I was with. On occasions it was good, but was it really worth the hours of setup time? Usually not. I decided that what would eventually have to happen is I'd have to pick a guy and then start teaching him what to do. In the meantime, I experimented on seeing how good I could get at oral, which struck me as a quick way to 'disarm' a guy, if you know what I mean.

I moved from Ventura Beach to Santa Monica, and got a job working on the Santa Monica Pier. In case you live on the other side of the planet and don't know, the Santa Monica Pier is a tourist trap that's up on a huge pier that juts out into the Pacific. It's got a roller coaster, Ferris wheel, merry go round, games, restaurants, shops, fishing, an aquarium: you name it.

It's also got games. You know, the kind you find in a carnival. Everything from bust the balloons to get the rings over the bottles to get the ball into the basketball hoop. That was mine.

I'd been in LA a year by the time I moved to the pier, and I'd largely gotten used to the attention and used to taking it for granted and brushing it off. Most of the customers trying to get the ball through the hoop were male. Which meant I wanted to attract men to my little game and persuade them to try again when they failed.

I have long noticed that guys try to impress me in the damnedest ways. Doesn't matter how old they are or if they have even a prayer of getting anywhere with me. Seventy-year-old men like to impress me if they can. So do fourteen-year-old boys. I'm... bemused by it, most of the time.

Because I needed to attract customers (guys) I usually wore tight, faded, low-rise cutoffs and a midriff-baring tank top that showed a lot of flat, tanned belly. It also showed very clearly that I am not a flat-chested girl. My job was to smile at the customers, take their money, give them the ball, and then grab it when they missed to pass it back to them.

That involved a lot of moving around, turning, twisting and bending over. And because I look like what I look like that generally got a lot of guys hanging around my little game and trying to impress me by buying balls. Since I got a cut of sales that was exactly what I wanted and I took advantage of it.

The persona I took on was that of a kind of dumb, giggly blonde. I'll give men credit and say that most wouldn't want a dumb, giggly blonde for a girlfriend. But they sure did like looking at her and thinking about what they'd like to do to her!

There's a certain ickiness to that, in having a crowd of guys in front of my game watching me and probably thinking dirty thoughts about me. But I've gotten used to guys having their little dirty fantasies about me by now. I get the same on the beach in a bikini, if not worse, so I'd long given up worrying. Nothing I can do about it and as long as they don't share I'm okay. Since the pier had much better security than your average carnival I rarely had problems and I made decent money.

That didn't buy much in LA, of course. I sure couldn't afford to live in Santa Monica! The average rents there were over three grand a month. I lived in West Los Angeles in a low rise with no elevator. It was basically a box with a kitchen counter, sink, fridge and stove along one wall and a tiny bathroom just as you came in that had a shower because it had no room for a tub.

The far wall had big French doors, which were also the only window in the place, and gave onto a tiny balcony that basically overlooked an alley. And even that took half what I made. I put in a futon that could be converted to a bed, and stored my surfboard on the balcony. I didn't have a TV but I got an extra big monitor for my computer and got Netflix.

Most evenings when I wasn't at the dojo I was out dancing anyway, continuing my 'experiment' with guys while trying not to become an alcoholic given how many free drinks I was offered.

I'd been in L.A for a year and a half when I went windsurfing off Santa Monica. It was a really nice day and I let the wind blow me north, and I wound up going ashore in Malibu. And it was in Malibu I met Caleb.

I had drawn my board up along the beach and then parked it while I got something to drink at one of the beach vendors.

I was in my green bikini. It had triangle tops and a low bottom with a cheeky backside. I knew I looked hot in it, and I can't say that I don't like to look hot. I mean, I hadn't worn it without knowing I would be appreciated. I like being appreciated, as long as it's polite. But I was keeping eye open for troublemakers.

I was just sipping from my fruit drink when I saw this scruffy-looking guy pause as he walked by, look at my board, look around, then move in closer. I was already walking back when he picked up the board and started to walk away, kind of quick-like.

"Hey," I said.

He ignored me and kept walking

"Hey, asshole," I said, my voice hardening.

He continued to ignore me and walked faster.

I'm almost six feet tall and I have long legs. I was also in way better shape than this guy looked. I walked faster and caught up to him, then put my foot into the back of his leg just behind the knee. Generally when you do that the guy falls down, and this was no exception.

He fell down and dropped my board. Mission accomplished.

Anyone with the least amount of shame would have scrambled to his feet and took off. This was not such a guy.

"Fucking cunt!" he screamed as he got up.

I was a bit taken aback by how angry he was. I mean, what the fuck right did HE have to be angry?

"Leave my board alone," I said as he bent to pick it up again.

He ignored me and picked up the board. So I did a leg sweep and he fell down again. This time the board fell on top of him.

"Fucking cunt!" he screamed.

This time he got up and swung a wild haymaker at me. I dodged back and threw my drink in his face, which didn't cool him off much. Instead he repeated "Fucking cunt!" and swung another wild haymaker at me.

That was when I kicked him in the face. He fell straight back onto his back and didn't move. Didn't call me any names neither.

"Fucking asshole!" I shouted.

I picked up my board, carried it back to the vendor shack, propped it against the wall, and ordered another drink.

The guy gave it to me for no charge.

"On the house," he said, grinning. "It was worth it. That guy's been a pain in the ass for days."

"Well maybe someone should call a cop then," I snapped.

He snorted. "Yeah, but it takes a while for them to show up and by then he's gone."

He went to get something for another customer, and then this big guy sidled up to me.

"That was very impressive," he said.

I like big guys. For one thing, I'm not looking down at their heads. For another... what can I say, I like guys who are bigger than I am. It's probably instinctive. In this case, I liked the looks of this big guy, and the sound of him. He sounded Scottish. He had tousled brown hair, dark glasses, and wide shoulders.

I shrugged. "He pissed me off."

"Most women would have been too frightened to approach him, or would have run off when he threatened them."

"Most women aren't five feet eleven and most of them don't have a black belt in Jiu-Jitsu," I said.

He shook his head and took off his sunglasses. He had cool gray eyes.

"Most women, regardless of what training they've had, would have retreated," he said. "Most women lack the sort of aggressiveness you showed."

I shrugged.

"My name is Caleb," he said, holding out his hand.

It was a hell of a big hand. I gave a sort of mental shrug and shook it. I was used to guys introducing themselves out of the blue, and he looked... hot. For an older guy. I mean, he was probably around thirty.

"Madison," I said.

He grinned. He had nice teeth. "Do people call you Mad for short?"

"Only when they want to make me mad."

He chuckled. "Mad has a different meaning in Scotland. It doesn't so much mean angry as crazy."

"Some people would describe me as both," I replied.

"There's a coincidence."

"What?"

"People have described me as mad for years."

"Mad as in angry or mad as in crazy?"

He grinned.

"What do you do for a living, Madison?"

"Why?" I asked challengingly. "Wait, you're a producer and have just the role for me. It involves bikinis and kinky sex."

He grinned more broadly this time.

"I see that as an excellent role for you but not what I had in mind?"

"Really?"

"Well... not primarily what I had in mind."

I snorted. At least he was honest.

"You think I'd make a great lingerie model and you want to be my agent?"

"You're a cynic, Maddy. I like that in a woman."

"Uh-huh. Life has made me cynical about men."

He was wearing, by the way, faded jeans and a white shirt. That combination is pretty sexy on a good looking guy. He reached back and pulled out a wallet and then flashed a badge at me.

"If you're a cop how come you didn't take care of him?" I demanded.

"Did I say I was a cop?"

I felt confused and probably looked it. He held the badge out again. It certainly looked like a police badge, only it said 'Marshal', instead of 'Police'. It said Malibu Marshal's Office.

"I'm still not getting it," I said. "I never heard of Malibu Marshals, neither."

"We're a private policing organization. We provide special protection services to our clients in Malibu, most of whom have a lot of money and little desire to wait twenty minutes for the cops to show up. Nor do they want their private affairs in the public record."

"So? I suppose these beach vendors aren't clients."

"No."

"So then?" I asked.

"One of the many benefits of working for yourself is you can go down to the beach and get a cool drink and watch the pretty girls go by pretty much whenever you want to," he said.

"I suppose."

"When I'm not racing through the streets chasing criminals, that is."

"Uh-huh," I replied.

It wasn't that I wasn't interested, or that I wasn't a bit impressed. And I appreciated how casual he was being even as he tried to impress me.

"Do you chase a lot of criminals?"

"An amazing number."

"Shootouts up and down the highway, I bet?"

"Every day."

"It's amazing how brave you are," I said mockingly.

"Well, I know how to handle myself."

And now you want to handle me, I thought cynically.

"You live around here?"

I shook my head and snorted. "I'm not nearly rich enough to live anywhere near Malibu! I work in Santa Monica, and I live in West L.A.. I surfed down here."

"Well, why don't you let me drive you back home?"

I did a rapid calculation and decided he was probably safe. I mean, it wasn't easy to assess someone's personality this quickly, but he didn't strike me as the kind to try to force himself on me. Though I didn't doubt he might get handsy. I could always put a stop to that, though.

I shrugged and got my board, and wound up in the parking lot, where he had a big black Cadillac Escalade, which is a very impressive vehicle, if you've never seen one. It also suggested his company wasn't some bottom of the barrel, two-bit outfit. And maybe he wasn't entirely full of shit.

I know it might seem dumb to accept a ride with a stranger in his big black car, but there was something that felt very solid about Caleb. Not safe by a long shot, but not like some crazy fucker who would turn around and try to strangle me or something.

There was a shotgun locked in a rack between the seats.

"Do you guys actually need guns?"

"Mostly we don't. We respond to calls for assistance and get there faster than the police, and we do some investigations on behalf of our clients where we... show more aggressiveness and less political correctness than the police are allowed to. But guns impress people, especially the clients."

"They don't impress me," I sniffed.

"Yes, well, you're from Texas. I imagine you had one in your cradle."

I didn't ask how he knew where I was from. My accent was as obvious as his.

"You think every cliché about Texas is true, kilt-boy?"

"Touché," he said.

He started the engine and pulled onto the highway.

"So people pay you to be their unofficial cop?"

"You know what we have in Malibu, Maddy?" he asked.

"Sand? Beaches?"

"Rich people. Celebrities."

I nodded.

"The median home price in Malibu is about three million dollars. And if you take out the ones without an ocean view that would triple. Rich people expect special treatment. They don't want to wait in line. Why should they when they're willing to pay for the best? Also, we're not restricted by the same regulations which govern the police. We can go that extra step."

"What's that extra step?"

"Well, for instance, if that fellow on the beach had been bothering people around one of the establishments we are contracted with I'd advise him that it would be a good idea to go away and not come back any time soon."

"And if he called you dirty names?"

"That would depend on who was watching. Let's just say that eventually he would get the message that it was better and healthier to go somewhere else."

He kept glancing at me as he drove, which was normal enough, but I knew it was also because I was in a bikini and because I'm pretty attractive in a bikini. I wasn't often alone with a guy, in a car or anywhere else, where I was wearing so little in the way of clothes. That added some sexual tension to the ride, especially since I hardly knew him.

Like I said, this was far from a 'harmless' guy, and he was attractive as hell. I even liked the Scottish accent. He was sure not a guy I would turn down for a dance, in other words. And if he was as easy to talk to as he seemed to be, well, I wouldn't mind experimenting with him.

"You're kind of far from home, aren't you?" I asked.

"You know what the weather is like in Scotland?"

"I'm guessing not sunny and warm."

"Not often."

"So you came here for the weather?"

"I came to the states to wander and explore. This was as far west as I got. I stopped here because I liked the mood, the atmosphere, the view."

He glanced at me and let his eyes flick downward a bit as he grinned.

"The attractive women?" I asked lightly.

"Doesn't hurt."

"And then you decided to become a private... whatever you are?"

"I fell into it by accident. Did you plan on doing whatever it is you do for a living?"

"Nope."

"That's generally how life happens. What do you do, by the way? Model? Actress?"

He said those with a smile and I snorted.

"I work on the boardwalk in Santa Monica now. Selling balls in a hoop game. I also teach Jiu-Jitsu in a dojo."

"Ahh, one of those kung Fu girls."

"Kung Fu is actually a different form of martial arts," I said, though I knew he was joking.

"I'll have to be careful," he said. "I'm very delicate."

He looked far from delicate.

And he was turning off down a winding, tree-lined road heading east which had very little traffic.

"This looks like the kind of place they find girls bodies," I said.

He snorted. "The one thing you don't have to ever worry about with me, Maddy, is being harmed in any way."

Oddly, he was very convincing.

We didn't go far before turning into a dirt parking lot in front of a one-story commercial building.

"I have to stop here briefly to put things away and check on messages," he said.

He got out, and nodded at me to come in with him. I felt kind of awkward doing so. I mean, I was in a bikini. It felt weird enough being alone in his car in a bikini, but I followed.