tagSci-Fi & FantasyLife as a New Hire Ch. 11

Life as a New Hire Ch. 11


This story plays fast and loose with Ancient History and Linguistics; be warned.

R&M and all the others that let me bounce ideas off them.

Strength is equal parts Body and the Mind, but true strength comes from a relentless Spirit.


(Late Saturday Morning)

"Why is she here?" Yasmin asked me, giving a nod toward Buffy. Buffy was a good ten meters away, technically fulfilling her duty as my bodyguard. Yasmin had agreed to meet me at a park.

"Her name is Buffy Dubois and she's my bodyguard for the weekend," I explained. "At least I'm back at my apartment."

"What happens with her if you don't go back to work Monday?" Yasmin inquired. "Does your 'bodyguard' kill you?"

"Nah, not Buffy," I gave a lop-sided grin. "My co-workers believe in overkill. I bet they'll send at least three to make it nice, swift and quiet."

"Why do you joke about this?" Yasmin studied me.

"As opposed to what?" I chuckled. "Lashing out is futile. Running isn't much better. I chose to fight when I must, love when I can and laugh when I should be crying."

"Do you think they will come after me?" she murmured.

What Yasmin really wanted to know was if her 3-year old son was in danger. From everything I'd learned and seen about Yasmin, she was tough as nails. I had given this some serious thought. I couldn't read Katrina's, or Hayden's minds, so I had to go on my limited experience. Yasmin had seen and heard a great deal yet Elsa let her walk away, and that had definitely been Elsa's doing.

Elsa was the worst kind of racial Supremacist - the benevolent one. She didn't base her status on some pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo. She based it on the feats of her ancestors, the training she had endured and the devotion she and her sisters dedicated to their craft - violence. She was better than the rest of humanity because she could kill us if she desired and take what she wanted.

We had what we had, even our lives, because she allowed it and she had no orders to the contrary. That was her generosity - her benevolent act.

"Might," I sighed. "If I fuck up my balancing act, they might use you to hurt me, or as an object lesson." Yasmin's face clouded with anger.

"Why did you invite me over if you thought things would develop this way?" Yasmin glared.

"Not being insane, I cannot fathom the minds of the insane," I reasoned. "As soon as I find a way around one challenge, they throw up something new. I certainly didn't know there was a 'members only' facility along with a gym for the rest of us peons." She looked down at her hands.

"They really are some kind of crazy cult," she muttered. She sighed. "You can't get out and now they know I exist...this is screwed up. What are we going to do?" She could be referring to herself and her son, or herself and me.

"I've got some money," I said. "A few thousand. I can get you plane tickets and you two can take off somewhere safer than here."

"You are a real man," Yasmin slowly smiled. What? Sensing my confusion. "You take responsibility for your actions, protect the weak and those in need, and you are brave in the face of pain and adversity. Where I come from, that is the definition of a man."

"Funny - where I come from that is the definition of bad Hollywood scriptwriting," I grinned.

"Ha," she laughed. She'd decided to stick around and fuck me despite the specter of eminent death. She was not callous to the fate of her child. Far from it. The only ally she had in this fight was me. She'd beat the fuck out of her husband with a bullet in her shoulder. When surrounded by hostile Amazons she still struggled to get to my side.

"What about your Jason Statham?" she prodded.

"He's English. Besides, I prefer Chiaki Kuriyama," I eyebrow pumped. "There is something about a chick with cast-iron balls."

"Who?" Yasmin searched her memories.

"Gogo Yubari from Kill Bill Volume 1," I informed her. Yasmin thought that over.

"That girl was clearly insane!" she thumped my chest.

"Believe me, female mental health issues have never stopped me in the past," I shrugged.

"I'm beginning to think you have low standards," Yasmin smirked.

"That implies you think more of me than most women who actually know me," I snorted.

"Let's go get something to eat. There is a place that serves authentic Acarajé and Vatapá close by," Yasmin stood and took my hand. I went with her.

"So, what are those things you mentioned?" I asked.

"You'll have to wait and find out. I owe you a few dozen surprises after what you've put me through," she teased. After a few seconds, I started laughing. Yasmin was confused.

"As bad as it is going to be for me, think how rough it is going to be on Buffy," I chuckled. "As far as I know, she doesn't even speak Portuguese, much less traveled to Brazil."

The restaurant taught me a few things. Yasmin was a regular, the men knew her and were afraid of her. A little bit of eye-ball psychology taught me that Yasmin was apparently a one woman domestic abuse arbitrator. Translation: if you were a man who hit your wife, or girlfriend, she pointed you to the closest Emergency Room after she was done with you.

In Brazil, men could use the 'machismo' defense; basically, the bitch had it coming because she threatened my manhood. In Yasmin's New York City, machismo worked a 'little' differently. Essentially, there wasn't a 'straight' Brazilian man alive who would admit that Yasmin, a woman, had beat the ever-living Hell out of them.

The Brazilian ladies who stopped by introduced me to another quaint Yasmin term. It was called 'parroting'. Parroting was what happened when some butthole became a real, repeat problem. Yasmin dragged them to the roof of whatever building she found the dumbass in and threw him off - technically aiming for the closest dumpster. The men often flapped and squawked like parrots as the plummeted down, thus the term.

Women were stopping by because I appeared to be an aberration - a man on a date with Yasmin. Best of all, 80% of the conversation in a language I didn't know. The first serious question thus caught me out of the blue.

"Do you date many women?" one sultry number purred.

"I'm not sure I would say 'many'," responded after some feigned concentration. "I only date women from Manhattan...and the Tri-State Area...pretty much the East Coast...and the Ohio Valley and the Mississippi Valley. I should include the Deep South...okay, maybe every women this side of the Rockies...and the West Coast...Hawaii and Alaska would be a change of pace as well."

"I've met some nice Asian girls," I continued to muse, "and South America is looking real promising at the moment. At this point," I looked over the small clique of women hanging about, "ignoring Africa, Europe, India and the Middle East would be short-sighted."

"Do you fuck as good as you exaggerate, (along with some pet name I didn't know)?" the waitress asked. I could so do her.

"No," I sighed. "I'm a virgin boy fresh out of Catholic School and have never known the intimate touch of a woman." For a second, they all wanted to believe that.

Guys aren't the only ones who want to 'break in' a virgin, believe me. I've used the 'I'm a nervous virgin uncertain if I want to attempt sex' mystique more than once. It is a win-win. Sexually under-confident women know they won't be judged against any other women and when the sex becomes stellar, they think they are great teachers so they become more willing to experiment.

After all, if they get it wrong, I - the young virgin - won't know the difference. Now, it is not that I always lie. It is just that the truth doesn't normally get me what I want. As an example, if a girl is terrible at giving a blowjob - don't tell her that. Tell her she's doing fine, but maybe this (a technique you know works) might feel different (i.e. better/less painful).

Sure, I lied to her. Instead of making her upset and not want to continue in the art of fellatio, she learned a valuable lesson and will not only make me happy, she'll make happy every other man she is with later. Others can keep their slavish devotion to honesty. I'd rather dispense happiness. Besides, I'll give them other reasons to be pissed with me soon enough.

"Hardly," Yasmin laughed. "I imagine the closest you've come to religion is thanking God when you've discovered your date had a horny sister and was willing to share."

"Wow...break room talk much," I had the decency to appear embarrassed.

"Why yes," Yasmin smirked. "Ms. Reichmann was very expressive in her recounting of your bedroom antics with her and her sister after the sister's date passed out."

"To be fair, I hadn't had sex all day and I was kind of wound up," I offered up.

"Do you like toying with women's affections?" my original questioner asked.

"Wha - wait," I frowned. "You think I'm going out with Yasmin because I want to have sex with her?" Of course I was. "She's interesting and we both practice Brazilian jujutsu."

"Why would I hunt down a studio when I found a perfectly good practitioner on the job? Plus, my work place had the sparring mats," I explained. Remember, when lying, tell a lie your audience wants to believe. Yasmin was a feminine titan, standing alone (with her son) against a hostile male world. The women around me counted on that. Dating a hot, physically fit hunk for the purpose of sexual gratification was totally realistic.

Dating me because I knew her martial arts style was far less believable, but made them happier, so they went with option B - the workout buddy.

"The truth must be like gold to you," Yasmin snickered. "It is so valuable, you hardly ever use it." She looked at her buddies. "I have wrestled him to the mat and he was VERY interested."

"Yasmin, that wasn't me hard. When aroused, I'm much bigger," I pleaded.

"Liar," she smacked me in the bicep. "I need to take care of something. Don't run off with him," she told the girls - in English - for my benefit.

Yasmin left our small table and headed for Buffy who was leaning against the wall right inside the doorway. I couldn't overhear what they were saying. Buffy smiled, nodded and took a table.

A minute later, Yasmin had ordered food for Buffy then came back my way.

"Is that your girlfriend?" my waitress asked. Why she wasn't working wasn't clear to me.

"No, she's his bodyguard," Yasmin interrupted.

"Yes, she is," I countered half a second later. I looked at Yasmin.

"You know that woman who beat me into the ground?" I met Yasmin's gaze. She nodded. "Well, she was giving Buffy crap for all kinds of reason; only peripherally for befriending me. I didn't have sex with her to get back at that lady. I did it because she needed me and I needed her. After this, we can't engage in intercourse for...71 days. It's complicated."

"Sex with you is some sort of gift?" another one taunted.

"Absolutely," I grinned. "Ask every other woman I've been with. Hell, they love me so much, when we break up they normally take some sort of weapon to me, books being the most popular, but I've been shot at, stabbed, punched, slapped and wracked too."

There was a moment of silence. Yasmin had her own war story that was well known.

"I've seen him naked," Yasmin's smile cut through the tension. "He has the scars to prove it."

"You peeked when we were changing?" I gasped. I wasn't really all that surprised.

"Yes," she snickered. "They only have Women's changing rooms where Cáel works," she related to the other ladies. The conversation may have flipped back to Portuguese yet the words were definitely descriptive. Either that, or my penis had slipped passed my zipper and the buttons on my shirt had burst off exposing my broad chest and rock hard abs.

Yasmin looked at me and said, "É o meu P.A." The girls all laughed.

"Anyone going to clue me in on the joke?" I requested. By mutual consensus, they agreed not to - bitches. For a while, this man had been yelling from the kitchen. If finally dawned on me, and our waitress, the cook had been calling her to pick up her orders.

I could have ignored her short denim skirt and seductive sway of the hips, but that would have been disingenuous. Besides, in some cultures, if your 'man' wasn't noticing the women around you, he was somewhat less of a man. I unleashed my inner 'machismo' and oinked. Yasmin shoved me while laughing. The other women found my being distracted amusing as well.

I could really get used to Brazilian culture especially when that included Brazilian women. After lunch, we picked up Buffy on the way out. Buffy 'thanked' Yasmin - in Portuguese. Mother-fucker. That was so unfair. Never one to miss an opportunity to make a bad situation better - or worse, I asked Buffy what 'É o meu P.A.' meant.

Buffy said something to Yasmin in Portuguese. Yasmin responded. They both laughed - bitches.

"It is a term of endearment," Buffy assured me. Sure it was. That is why neither one would tell me what it meant - I repeat yet again; bitches.

[FYI: 'É o meu P.A.' (P.A. stands for Pinto Amigo) literally means 'my friend Penis (or) my penis friend'. In Brazilian Portuguese slang (many thanks to a buddy from Portugal who saved me from a grievous linguistic error) this is a term of sexual endearment indicating trust and a sexual history, but don't tell Cáel that.]

Yasmin and I walked a ways before she had to head in a different direction. We kissed. I kept my hands firmly on her hips like a good boy. She put her hand down my pants and stroked my cock for about a minute, in public.

"Next time, I think we have sex," Yasmin winked before departing. I watched her walk away until she vanished in the crowd. She didn't look back. She was far too confident.

"Well, she seems nice," Buffy caught me off-guard. She'd snuck up while I was watching Yasmin and she was still being so horribly friendly to me. Best of all, she assured me she'd be back to her normally aggressive self-come Monday morning - right about the time I finally got used to her being nice to me.

"Yeah...she is," I sighed.

"What's wrong?" Buffy inquired compassionately.

"What do you mean?" I stared evenly at Buffy. "Hanging out with me could get her killed, that's what's wrong."

"That's not likely to happen," Buffy to reassure me. I shook my head.

"I'd ask you if you were nuts, but I know you are nuts," I grunted. "Elsa wouldn't kill you yet she'd kill Yasmin and her son without batting an eye if she felt a severe lesson was in order. Buffy, you work for animals. We both do. The difference being that you are one."

"I don't think you appreciate how popular you are with the company," Buffy insisted. "You've worked really hard to impress them and they value your efforts." I screamed to the Heavens. Elsewhere, I would have drawn some serious looks. In NYC, I barely drew any notice.

"Yeah - great. Remind me to clap like a pet seal Monday morning. Buffy, you, Katrina and a few others are grinning, thinking you've made great strides on this New Directive and the crime for a security guard shooting me as I walk in the office every day is the same - a transfer to someplace less pleasant. Correct me if I'm wrong," I laid into her.

"The difference is that they don't want to shoot you," Buffy countered.

"Wow, if you put 'you-Buffy' in place of 'you-Cáel' you will realize how inconsequential that is," I informed her. "I'm a human being - unless I'm in Havenstone. Inside, my well-being is based solely on your sufferance - just like a test monkey."

"If you really empathized, you would realize the only other people that walk around think 'gosh, I shouldn't murder that person today' are serial killers. Yet you expect me to be thankful for tap dancing faster than you shoot at my feet. You have this happy dream that I've accomplished anything," I shook my head.

"In 71 days one of you is going to kill me - that is the reality I'm staring down," I gazed at her.

"Why do you think we'll turn on you then?" Buffy actually appeared upset.

"Havenstone has been letting me play with this '84 Day' fiction because it amuses all of you," I took a deep breath. "Whatever I can do in the last 71 days of my life probably won't matter."

"You've made a difference with Aya and Oneida," Buffy rallied.

"Great, I saved the life of someone who would stab me in the heart if I slapped her," I countered. "As for Aya...I dread to think what she will go through when she figures out you've put me down like a rabid dog. I help her because I have to try, because the rest of you have written her off."

We walked the rest of the way to the apartment in silence.

"Katrina is not going to like the results of our little chat," Buffy mumbled. I laughed.

"Buffy, she knows. When the time comes she's sending Elsa to take me alive. I don't know how I'm going to beat her. It is one of the thousand, or so, things I'm working on," I chuckled.

"I know Katrina better than you do," Buffy rolled her eyes. "I think you under-estimate her affection for you."

"I don't doubt her affection for me," I told Buffy. "I simply deem it to be valueless. Listen, it took me ten seconds to figure out what Aya needed at the Archery range."

"Not a God-damn person who knew her their entire lives would have ever done what I did," I continued. "It wasn't that they didn't understand what needed to be done - show a little faith in her. It was that none of them would have ever had the humanity to do it. Katrina could think the Sun rises and sets on me. It doesn't change a damn thing that happens in 71days."

I neglected to say that Katrina murdered/dueled her own grandmother to bring Desiree into the Epona fold. That was the head of her household. I wasn't an Amazon, or even a woman. Buffy was making shit up to keep the insanity of her life at bay. Oh, she'd kill me if Katrina gave the order. She'd hate herself for it. That wouldn't do me a damn bit of good though.

(Saturday Afternoon and then some)

Our conversation died for two reasons as I led the way into my apartment. First off, it was Havenstone business and neither one of us was foolish enough to talk about it in front of Timothy and Odette. The other reason would have been Brooke and Libra sitting on Timothy's sofa. Those two stood up as we entered.

"Hi..." I got to say.

"We just came around to tell you that you are an..." Libra spat but then, "Which one is this?"

"You could have called first," I snapped back. I reached for my phone...which wasn't there. Odette sheepishly lifted my phone up from her side. I imagine that bitch had been ringing off the hook since my departure.

There was a major bitch-fest coming down the pipeline. I wasn't going to let that happen. There is an advantage to people having a low opinion of you. It gives you the unspoken permission to act like a crass asshole whenever you feel like it.

"This lady is Buffy Dubois and she's my bodyguard for the weekend," I tried to sound bored.

"Listen, the restaurant we went to was long on sizzling hot food and short on ceiling fans, so I'm going to take a shower," I callously stated. "Brooke, want to join me?" No, Brooke didn't want to join me. She wanted to rip my hair out in large, painful clumps. She was the Princess and I was the bottom feeder with dirt under my fingernails (huge salary be damned).

"No, I don't want to shower with you, you Jerk!" Brooke snarled. Sadly, now I was making poor use of my loyal Odette. Such is life. "We only stayed long enough to give you a piece of our minds."

"I'll come with you!" Odette peeped. She had been on the floor, back to the small space of wall between the workout alcove and the door to my bedroom.

Timothy was leaning on the portion of the living room wall next to the short hall that led to the bathroom and his bedroom. He seemed more and more amused as the encountered unfolded.

"No," Brooke squalled. "I'm not done with him yet." She followed me to the bathroom. Now normally, I would get a towel from the bathroom, go to my bedroom to strip down then return to the bathroom for a shower, or soak in the tub.

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