Marcus’s idea caught me off guard, but it made sense. I was a glaring anomaly in his world. Anyone could easily pick me out as his personal security officer.
I agreed to alter my look, remembering my mission to blend in. Marcus’s assistant had brought me a heap of clothes to try on, so I needed a place to change.
There was a makeshift wall at the back, likely used for runway practice. I quickly vanished behind it, discarding half of the clothes she’d handed me.
I picked out a simple white shirt with what seemed like a Japanese tiger on the pocket. I paired it with regular fit, black jeans, the only pair that wasn’t riddled with holes.
Just as I was taking off my crisp dress shirt, Marcus peeked around the corner. He inhaled sharply, and I braced myself for a comment about my physique. I didn’t like to brag, but I worked out regularly and was proud of my results.
“Oh, no, Lucky. How did that happen?” he asked, pointing at my shoulder.
I wasn’t keen on discussing it, but I sensed he wouldn’t drop it until I did.
“Took a bullet during my second tour in Afghanistan,” I replied curtly.
“You were a soldier?” he said, his usual flamboyance noticeably subdued.
“Armed forces. Translator and interpreter for VIP escorts and contract negotiations.”
“Wow.” He murmured. “How the fuck did you end up working for me?”
“Long story,” I said truthfully.
“Do you speak Dari or Pushto? Maybe Arabic?” he asked.
“All three,” I replied. “How do you know the languages of Afghanistan?”
“I read a lot,” Marcus said dismissively.
I was beginning to see that there was more to him than just glitz and unicorns. Suddenly, his usual Marcus persona was back as he critiqued my clothing choices.
“Step out of your comfort zone for a bit, Lucky. You’d be surprised by how liberating it feels.”
I reluctantly swapped my pants for a pair with the least amount of rips and holes.
“You’re hopeless,” he said, giggling, and left me to change. I concealed my service weapon and put the suit jacket back on to cover it.
For the rest of the day, I watched from a distance. Marcus led his team fairly and efficiently.
Clothing racks were scattered everywhere. Some clothes were still being sewn, others ironed, but most were being fitted onto a group of models that had arrived in the late afternoon.
Marcus’s models were as diverse as his clothes. He didn’t discriminate in any way, and he certainly didn’t adhere to any gender norms.
A middle-aged girl with Down syndrome was dressed in a lavish tuxedo fit for any red-carpet event. A young Asian guy wore a long navy-blue satin skirt with nothing but a Bordeaux-colored classic Vero monogram necktie. A woman, stunning despite her age, strutted down the rehearsal catwalk in heels, black and white polka dot shorts, and a black frilly lace top.
The designs were a bit too avant-garde for my taste, but I had to admit they were putting on quite a show. I especially admired the inclusivity of his chosen models.
“And…?” Marcus asked, now standing next to me.
“I’m not used to your world, but I enjoyed the show, Your Majesty,” I said, allowing myself a smile.
“The boy is learning! He’s finally understood that he’s in the presence of royalty,” Marcus said, extending his hand for me to kiss.
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen!” I said firmly.
He patted me on the shoulder and said, “Baby steps, beautiful, baby steps.”
We were back in the car when Marcus asked, “Where are we dropping you off?”
“No can do,” I replied. “I haven’t had a chance to arrange an overnight security detail. I’ll be staying at your place.”
“Aren’t you supposed to buy me dinner first?” he said, placing a hand on my forearm. He clearly had a problem with personal boundaries.
“The sofa is fine,” I said, avoiding his gaze.
“I don’t think that will be necessary. Mi casa es bastante grande.”
“Me imagino,” I replied to his boast about the size of his home.
“Hablas español?” he asked, lifting his sunglasses to look at me.
“Sí, su majestad. Ich spreche auch Deutsch en een klein beetje Nederlands.”
“French?”
“Un tout petit peu,” I said, indicating with my fingers that I only spoke a little bit.
“So, you’re like Symillion’s translate bot!”
“I have a knack for languages,” I said casually. I thought about saying, “I read a lot.”
“No shit!” he said, clearly impressed.
“No sofa for the scholarly patriot! Lucky will stay in the VIP guestroom,” Marcus announced dramatically to his audience of two.
“That’s quite an honor,” Hugo said. “Only three people have ever been given that privilege.”
For a moment, I thought he was joking, but he didn’t laugh or indicate otherwise.
The moment Marcus stepped into his penthouse, his entire demeanor changed. His gestures and voice tone were noticeably different, as if he allowed himself to relax in his personal space.
His Park-view apartment was spacious but surprisingly not very lavish. The furnishings were minimalistic, allowing for a maximum amount of open space. I found the place unexpectedly cozy and tasteful for someone so flamboyant.
He seemed to guess what I was thinking and said, “I believe the mind takes on what the eyes see. Therefore, an overly stuffed home would only clutter my head.”
“I never thought about it that way,” I muttered.
“The canvas of my psyche needs to be clean in order for me to create,” he said, walking toward the expansive open-plan kitchen.
He pressed a panel in the center island, and an entire open bar rose up to greet him.
“Help yourself,” he said, indicating the rows of bottles.
“I’m still on duty,” I replied, not wanting to tell him the real reason why I didn’t drink. I had to admit that I was tempted; he had quite the assortment of premium liquor.
“Fine, I’m quickly going to change. Will you pour me a double vodka on the rocks?”
I was about to protest, but he was already gone.
When Marcus returned, I hardly recognized him. The makeup and nail polish were gone, and he wore a pair of sweatpants with a black hoodie and no shoes.
After handing him his drink, he took me for a tour of the apartment. I was instinctively doing a threat assessment and concluded that his home was very secure.
His bedroom was a fortress, unreachable from the outside. You’d have to navigate through the apartment first. I noticed cameras mounted in the hallways and the living room. Marcus saw my gaze and explained, “I throw parties now and then. Not all guests know how to act right.”
I asked, “Where does the footage go?”
“Only when I have company do I record. The hard drives are stored in my panic room.”
I was taken aback. “A panic room?” I hadn’t pegged him as the type to worry about safety. He seemed to play fast and loose with his own well-being.
“The previous owners had it put in. I use it as a safe for my valuables.”
Well, that made sense.
“Welcome to your new quarters, Mr. Bergen,” he said, flipping on the lights to reveal a room half the size of my entire apartment.
“Your private bathroom is over there.” He pointed to the left corner.
“…and behind that sliding door is a walk-in closet. It’s stocked with brand new clothes in every size, color, and style—except boring.”
Maybe the daytime Marcus hadn’t completely checked out after all.
“Pleasure to meet you, Felix.” He extended his hand.
“Likewise,” I responded, meeting his grip with a firm handshake.
