I nod.
“The company needs someone like you; someone like all three of you actually. We need men who can react-” He steps closer to me, his eyes boring into mine; “And men who’ve looked the devil in the face like you have and lived to know what it takes to walk away; what it means to keep a piece of your humanity when it seems like you can’t.” He smiles suddenly at me, breaking the spell; “So that’s why you’re wearing that fucking monkey suit, Hudson.” He smirks and winks at me; “Think of it as a uniform. I’d think even a Marine could wrap his grunt head around that way of looking at it”.
I grin and look at myself in the mirror again, still amazed at the image looking back at me of the man I never imagined I could be.
“It’s a responsibility, Hudson; that’s something else I don’t take lightly.” His voice is quieter, and when I look up I can see the solemn and somber look in his eyes.
“Yes si-”
“You’ve come a long way, Hudson, but there are demons still on your back I’m going to need you to shake at some point.” I’m still drinking, and we both know that. I mean, I’m drinking less, but addiction is addiction no matter how you quantify it.
“I need you in control, Hudson.” His eyes flash as he looks at the visage of the new me in the mirror; “Are you in control?”
P R E S E N T
This is getting ridiculous. This girl is way too hot for me to be doing this whole pseudo-bodyguard thing, even though I can tell she's the type that doesn't even know it. I honestly don’t know what the fuck Logan and Bryce were thinking; hell I don’t know what I was thinking signing up for this, but this is too much. I mean a man can only take so much.
We’re at the gym, and she’s working out; in fucking yoga pants and the worlds tightest, clingiest tank top. I mean honestly, how am I supposed to fucking deal with that?
At least the place is secure. Reagan might eschew her father’s money, but she’s got enough of it herself along with some sense to pick a gym that caters to the those who don’t want their picture being taken while they’re grunting out a squat or puffing away on a treadmill. The fact that we’re entirely alone in the gym has a secondary bonus too, in that no one’s around to see that I’m rock hard inside my gym shorts as I watch her.
I mean, I’m trying to tear my eyes away from the ice queen herself here, except the ice queen happens to have a fantastic ass, and from where I’m sitting pretending to do arm curls on a bench behind her while she climbs the stair-master, it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to grab her by the hips, yank those skin-tight yoga pants right off that ass, and bury my face between her legs.
Jesus Christ, get a hold of yourself, psycho.
She’s barely tolerating my being there, but she knows she’s stuck with me thanks to the board at Archer Holdings and thanks to Donald and his rigid schedule. I mean, I get it; she wants to be taken seriously as a real candidate and not just some pretty little rich girl with a killer smile (and a great rack, for that matter) who wants to play politics. But as annoying as he is, Donald does have a point; you gotta work those strong points, and Reagan's strong points do happen to include the fact that she's young and hot and fit. Give the people what they want, and all that.
Hence, the mandatory gym visit on today's schedule.
“Stare much?”
I shake my head and drag my eyes up, seeing that she's stopped the machine and is giving me a strange look over her shoulder. Her straight red hair is pulled up in this adorable little ponytail, and I just want to grab it and use it to guide my-
Jesus I need to get laid.
“Huh?”
She rolls her eyes; “I said, 'stare much', as in, quit staring at my ass, perv.”
Put on some fucking snow pants, or a burka or something and maybe I will I grumble to myself, knowing I probably still would.
“Ray, your staff said you had a new bodyguard or someth-”
I turn at the sound of the door to the weight room opening and instantly lock eyes with a younger, blonde version of Reagan.
“Oh, it’s you.” She’s got the same look on her face Reagan had on this morning, without of course the distracting element of being Reagan; and of course, not standing there in just her panties.
“Lovely, another warm welcome.” I plaster on my biggest, most fake smile for the Old Man’s youngest daughter and Reagan’s little sister; “Hello, Chelsea.”
“What are you doing here, Hudson?”
“Just waiting for smiles like yours, sweetheart.” I smirk at her. Jesus, do all these Archer girls walk around with chips on their shoulders all fucking day?