Trauma

THURSDAY

I plopped myself in the leather seat, not caring about my dirt covered clothes being on it. I laid my head back and closed my eyes in exhaustion. The pilot shut the door to the Gulfstream in preparation for takeoff. I drifted to sleep as the jet got airborne, awakened some time later by my phone ringing in my pocket. Looking at the screen I saw my boss's name and face and chose to answer.

"Hello." Choosing a casual response.

"I just heard. Are you okay?" he said. I could barely hear him, my ears still ringing.

"I'll live. Thank god I came prepared." Glancing at the black case on the floor of the plane.

"Take the rest of the week off. You deserve it." He directed.

"Honestly, I'd rather work. Keep my mind off it."

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed, "I've told the pilots to fly to Vegas. I already got you a suite at the Bellagio. Take the rest of the week off, have some fun, we'll talk Monday."

"I guess a free room in Vegas is acceptable compensation for taking a bullet for this company."

"It will never be enough for what happened." He said sincerely.

"Yeah, well I got out in one piece, that's what matters."

"Get some rest, see you Monday."

"Thanks boss."

He hung up. I threw the phone on the chair across from me and laid on the couch on the other side of the plane and slept.

It was dark when the Gulfstream 550 landed at McCarran. A car met me at the FBO to take me to the Bellagio. This time I felt bad sitting on the leather seats of the Mercedes in dirty clothes, apologizing to the driver. A short while later, I was checked into the hotel and was being escorted to one of the suites. The room was like a small apartment. The door led to a short hallway that opened into a sitting room. One had to step down to a black leather couch that faced the door, the 55 inch television on the wall opposite the sofa. Behind the sofa was a light tan table and chairs in front of the room wide windows. The door to the veranda was to the left of the table, illuminated by the Vegas lights. To the right of the table was the door to the bedroom. I grabbed the long black case from the bellhop as he gathered my other bag, asking him if could have a bottle of scotch delivered to the room. He said it was already done and on the veranda with a box of cigars. (My boss knew me well.). I gave the bellhop a hundred and immediately got in the shower, being careful as the bruise on my chest was growing very large.

I changed into my favorite suit, the light grey, three piece that I wore on the flight down to Tijuana, stepped out onto the veranda to open the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, but while there were glasses, there was no ice in the container. Not wanting to feel (to myself mostly) bedridden, I grabbed the bucket and headed downstairs to an ice machine.

Heading back upstairs after filling the bucket, I came out the elevator, and fumbled my key card. As I picked it up I was shoved face first to the ground. I quickly turned over and looked up at the 6'4", probably 280 pound black man in an all-black suit towering above me, as three more kept walking by, pushing a familiar looking blonde along. Looking up at my attacker, I said:

"You could have said excuse me..."

He grinned and walked into the door at the end of hall, right next door to mine. I looked over to the spilled bucket and sighed, thinking 'fuck it.' I picked up the empty container and headed into my room hoping that asshole slips and breaks his neck on the spilled ice.

About an hour or so later, I heard a knock at the door of the hotel room. As I approached the door, I remembered I left my .45 in its holster hung on the inside of the closet door near the room door. I cracked open the closet so I could reach it in an emergency (after the incident this morning, I wasn't taking any chances). Peering through the peephole was the blonde from before. She still looked very familiar, but I couldn't quite place where I had seen her. Swinging open the door, I confusingly greeted her.

"Can I help you?"

"Hi, I just wanted to apologize for before, that was a little uncalled for. I brought you some ice!" she said, enthusiastically holding up an ice bucket, also containing a bottle of wine. "Consider the wine compensation." She quipped.

"Ha, thanks." I laughed, still looking over this oddly familiar looking girl, she looked like a twin of a girl I went to college with, but that wasn't the case. Looking her up and down, she wore a pair of white casual, yet fashionable shoes, perfect fitting jeans, hugging a dream set of hips, and a black tight fitting t-shirt, showing just enough neckline to look hot but conservative. Her hair tied neatly in a ponytail. She was definitely a looker. Suddenly the salesman side of me kicked into gear as I took the bucket from her.

"It seems a shame to drink this alone."

She looked past me into the suite, then pushed me out of the way, barging into room.

"You have a balcony? What the fuck?" Wincing in pain after the third blow to the chest today, I regained my composure and responded:

"Uh, yeah, don't you next door?"

"No!" She said. "I'm pissed."

"Well you're welcome to borrow mine." I replied.

"Deal. Although it appears I am a little under-dressed." she queried.

"Where I come from, if you are gonna drink on a balcony, you better dress for it." I responded.

"Should I find a dress then?" she asked.

"If you want to do this properly."

The blonde's hamster wheel was running over the decision as I pondered what I just got myself into. She walked over to me, got right into my face, her icy blue eyes glued to my own, her breath on my chin as she said teasingly, "I'll be right back" then walked out of the still open door back her own suite.

Quickly I sprang into action. I put the wine and ice on the table on the veranda and found some wine glasses. It took a few attempts to arrange them perfectly on the table. My paranoia kicking in suddenly as the pain on my chest began to throb again from the running around. Still thinking that she could be a cartel assassin coming to finish the job (also remembering, I didn't get her name), I ran back into the bedroom to get a tac-knife out of my suitcase, and slid it under a cushion of one of the chairs (here's hoping I sit here). Once set, I took my place on the veranda, along the railing, staring out over the lights of Las Vegas, thinking about my deck back home in Pittsburgh, on Mt. Washington overlooking the city, kind of wishing my boss just let me go home.

My thoughts turned back to the blonde who supposedly would be returning to the suite. Where had I seen her before? I know I have. Did I meet her at one of the hundreds of parties I had attended since taking this job last year? Another pretty face whose name I forgot?

The sound of someone clearing their throat behind me interrupted my train of thought. I spun around. The now even more gorgeous blonde was standing in the doorway of the veranda. Her tight black mini-dress hugged every curve to perfection. Her sizable breasts molded like two perfectly rounded globes. She had bright red lips and her hair still tied back into a pony tail, just accenting her neckline and the sapphire around it. What an absolutely gorgeous sight to behold. She caught me looking her up and down, but neither she nor I even cared. After a moment (which felt like several minutes to me) I finally regained my cool, and I had to ask:

"I never did get your name."

She fired back. "What? Nothing to say about the dress?"

"You look absolutely stunning." I calmly commented, "But it still doesn't give me your name."

She started a slow and sexy trot toward me, her black stilettos, with the signature Christian Louboutin red lacquer on the bottom making their distinctive clack on the wood floor, forcing me to look down at her shapely legs. She raised her hand to about chest level and softly said,

"Jen."

"Steve. It's a pleasure to finally meet you". I lightly gripped her hand and pulled it toward me, giving it a light kiss, my suave European business tactics coming into full force. She giggled at the gesture as most American girls do, unused to such formality.

"What's with the ultra-gentleman act?"

"It's how I was taught manners". (Actually trained...) "Forgive me for being so formal."

"You know I could go for a drink right about now". Seemingly trying to break the bit of awkwardness created by the gesture.

"I did invite you over for that, so let's break open that wine." I stated.

"I'd rather have some of that Johnnie Walker honestly". She replied.

"My kind of girl, you got it." I chuckled, "How do you like it?"

"How are you drinking it?"

"On the rocks for me". As I started pouring my glass.

"Make it two". I smiled and handed her my glass, and started making another for myself. She sat down on one of the chairs (thankfully the one without the knife), then asked, "So Steve, tell me, what brings you to Las Vegas?"

"Work put me up here til Monday as a bonus"

"One hell of a bonus."

"It was one hell of a day. How about you Jennifer? What brings you to Sin City?"

"Sin..." she said with a lusty stare as she took a sip of her whiskey.

I chuckled, "Good reason."

"I'm on a little vacation from work". She added.

"And what is it you do?" I asked.

"I'm an entertainer". She said with a bit of hesitation, and fair amount of sarcasm. And when she said that, that's when the gears started turning. Now I knew who this girl was. Now I know why a twenty-some year old blonde can afford a suite at the Bellagio and needs body guards. Now a new type of paranoia came to the back of my mind, instead of a potential assassin, now I was worried about the paparazzi as there was an Oscar winning actress in my hotel room. I scanned the night sky over the lights to see anything out of place knowing it was impossible anyway.

Quickly though, I kept my cool and also decided to play modest as it did take me, well however long it has been (I had no idea how long it had been), to figure out who she was. Let's keep playing dumb.

"And how do you entertain the masses?" I asked with a bit of flare. She looked out over the lights of Las Vegas, holding her glass near her lips, I could tell she was searching for an answer, maybe she liked the anonymity for once.

"I've done some small movie roles." choosing to remain modest herself. "Nothing special. And what do you do?" She said, once again giving me that lusty look from behind her glass.

As much as I loved that look and my job, I hated the question. Most people really thought differently of me once I tell them what I do, and as a person whose job it is to establish relationships with people, it is always difficult to explain what I do and why I do it.

"I'm in sales." Please God, don't ask what I sell.

"What is it you sell?" Damn...

"I sell high end products to the government." Please don't ask what those products are.

"So you're a lobbyist?" she asked.

"Essentially. I am more of a deal maker and handle distribution." I replied.

"So what are these high end products you distribute?" Damn again...

"If you tell me what movies you were in, I'll tell you what I sell."

"You know damn well what movies I've been in!" She said. There goes modesty out the door. Do I have a poker face today? Or is she just that good?

I looked down at my glass and smiled, "Forgive me for being modest, Ms. Lawrence. I didn't want to impose." I said almost like an apology.

"It's okay, I do appreciate it. I miss the anonymity sometimes."

"I can imagine. I'd end up shooting a pap."

She chuckled and leaned back in her chair, showing off her lovely legs. "Lord knows I have thought about it." She quipped.

I took a few steps towards her, still standing along the rail of the veranda, just admiring the view this gorgeous girl was giving me. On the plane, I just wanted to go home, but now, I just wanted to stand here and stare at her all week.

"So are you going to answer my question?" She asked again.

Thinking, 'well fuck, this will probably end the night,' I spoke up:

"What was it again?" Delaying the inevitable.

"What are these 'high end' products you sell?" she said, giving the quote fingers, sitting back in the chair with a smug look on her face.

"You will probably hate me if I tell you, but here goes." Letting out a sigh before finishing my statement, "I work for Heckler and Koch."

"And they make?" she implored.

"H&K makes guns for the military."

"Oh..." she sat for a second, thinking about what to say next. "So you're an arms dealer?" she said nervously. She's probably thinking what most people think when I say that. 'I sell guns to child armies in Africa.'

"Essentially, yes."

"Oh." She looked down at her drink. I could tell she was pondering what she should do.

"If it makes you any feel better, I only sell to governments. I don't sell old AK-47's to warlords in sub-Sahara Africa. Everything I do is legal and approved by the UN."

"Oh, uh...okay. Can I ask what got you a luxury suite in Vegas for the weekend?"

"I had a rough time delivering a shipment to the Mexican Army today. My boss decided that I deserved a break for getting the job done, so he put me up here."

"Can't imagine it being that rough." She commented curiously.

"I didn't imagine it would be either, but I adapted, went a bit above and beyond, and got the job done. But enough about me for now," (wanting to get off the subject of Mexico), and after a short pause, I finally came up with something to say, even if it was as dull as; "May I refill your drink?" seeing she had finished her glass. I figured that would be it, she would say good night, go back to her room, I would sit here, have another, jack off, and go to bed.

Yet surprisingly she said yes. Taking the drink from her hand, the light touch of our fingers on the glass making me jump inside a bit, I turned towards the table and refilled our glasses. When I turned back around she was walking towards me, the clack of her heels on the wood making me slightly weak in the knees. I held out her glass as she came close, a slight smile on her face just like the one I knew I had. She took the glass from my hand and held it up.

"To finishing the job, no matter what."

"Agreed." We toasted our glasses and took a sip. I stared straight into her ice blue eyes, trying to read her. She seemed to go from lusty, to good girl, to lost and confused, a few times tonight, and I had no idea what she was thinking, and why she, Jennifer Lawrence, of all people, would knock on a stranger's door, and agree to have a drink with them without even getting a name. Reading people may be a part of my job description, but I didn't care. I was just glad she was here. This girl was already causing me to have feelings I haven't experienced in some time.

She finished her sip and looked out over the city. I just kept looking at her, her face contrasting against the lights of the buildings.

She turned back to me and asked, "Do you like what you do?"

"I do, very much so." I replied, and the truth is I did love my job, even if it did nearly get me killed this morning. "How about you?" I asked. "Do you like what you do?"

"Yeah, I do. Sometimes the petty drama just becomes totally intolerable. You know? Some people take the small things like jokes and food just a little too seriously."

"I think every workplace has that, not just a movie set."

"Does yours?"

"Of course."

"No risk of getting shot?" She said with a chuckle.

I jokingly said "You never know!" and we both laughed. Sad part is there was. But she didn't need to know that. Joking about it has always been my way of getting through things, and today would be no exception. An incident like that is not going to rule my life.

I took another sip of my drink and stared out over the city again. This time she was looking at me. She was studying what I was thinking. Let's see how well she can read people.

She stepped closer and put her drink down on the table behind me, her body achingly close to mine. I turned to look at her. She took my drink out of my hand and put it on the table as well, creating a look of confusion on my face as she looked back. She then placed her hands on my shoulders and started running them along my arms, feeling the silk of the suit. I stood frozen, for once unsure how to play my next move. A wonderfully intoxicating smell of vanilla canceled out the faint whiff of gunpowder I could still smell. Her hands drifted to my chest, her light touch causing me to shiver on the inside as she ran her fingers along the vest line.

"I've always liked a three piece suit." She said softly. She then ran her hands up behind my neck wrapping her arms around, drawing me in for a kiss. For a moment I was in a bit of shock, but the feel of her soft lips and her body pressed against mine was sheer nirvana. The moments of hell and terror I experienced this morning now washed away by this beautiful blonde's touch. After a few more moments, I finally had my confidence back and placed my hand on her waist, pulling her in closer. Our mouths opened and our tongues danced as we kissed each other harder. After what seemed like hours we broke the kiss. I looked once again into those endless blue eyes, soaking up every moment of it. She leaned forward into my ear and whispered, "Let's take this inside" moving her head back in front of me, slightly biting her lip. I nodded and she turned around, taking my hand and leading me inside to the bedroom.

As we walked, I looked to ensure that my rifle case was hidden underneath the bed. At the foot of the bed she turned around and kissed me again. She reached into my jacket and slid it off my shoulders. I allowed it to fall to the floor, reaching back around her and this time letting my hand slide down and cup her impeccable behind. She kissed harder, biting my lower lip with a giggle as she started undoing the buttons on my vest. She once again reached inside it, sliding her hands across my chest to remove it. My hand forced to leave her lovely backside to allow it to come off as well. This time my hand went back to her hip, slowly sliding down her leg to the hem of her dress, reaching underneath it, only to slide back up her bare leg toward that ass again, needing to feel it once more as she undid my tie and the buttons on my shirt. The silky soft skin of her ass like butter in my hands, her leg now bent up and resting on my thigh. My other hand started up the back of her dress toward the top, looking for the zipper, but she had finished the buttons on my shirt and once again placed her hands inside to feel my chest. Her warm hands causing the bruise to throb even with her light touch, this time she broke the kiss to look down at my chest, and her eyes went wide in shock at the sight of the purplish-black mark stretching clear across my chest.

"Oh my god! What happened?" She nearly yelled. Her hands tracing the outside of the mark.

"That's why I got the week off and a suite in Vegas." I said.

"What is it from?"

"Sniper."

"You got shot!? Oh my god! Are you okay?"

"Yes. I was wearing a vest."

"What happened?" She looked up at me, still lightly touching my chest, I really didn't want tell her, for it would spoil the mood, but fuck it, I really did need to talk to someone about it.

"I was delivering a shipment of new rifles to the Mexicans outside of Tijuana. I was advised by the colonel in charge that we may encounter some of the cartels who were causing problems in the area. Suited up with them and was in the Humvee with the colonel, my local sales guy, and a driver. The lead Humvee in front of us took a hit from an RPG. Disabled it. A few injuries, but thankfully no one was killed. Bullets started hitting the side of our vehicle. I got out, got under the front wheels, took out the guy with RPG, and two others before the rest of the convoy scattered the other shooters. When it quieted down, I stood up and got hit square in the chest."