Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“What kind of drinker are you? You’re Scottish, so that’s a start. You know I have this bar I go to, total divey, hole-in-the-wall place. I should take you there after your shopping spree.”
I frown at him. “My shopping spree?”
He laughs. “You thought we were going shopping for me? Look, I know you saw me in that sweater this morning, but I can assure you I have a lot of clothes. Proper clothes. Not to say I won’t take a look if they have some new Tom Ford in, but no, James boy, this is about you.”
Einar glances at me, and though I can’t see his eyes underneath those ridiculous sunglasses, I know he’s feeling sorry for me. Poor new bodyguard, has to have the prince buy him new clothes.
“Your Majesty, really, I’m fine.” I throw the Your Majesty part in there to remind him that in the end, I’m here to protect him. Not to be a guinea pig in some makeover.
“James,” he says, slapping his fingers along his knee. “We’re going. Consider this your uniform.”
Guess I can’t argue with that. I look down at my gray suit and navy tie and wonder where I went wrong. It seems everything I learned being a PPO for Eddie and others has been thrown to the wind.
The drive to Oslo doesn’t take as long as I thought it would, and when we start getting into the city proper, my spirits rise a bit. I haven’t had any time to explore Oslo, and even though I am officially on duty, I can’t help but take note of what look like cool restaurants, museums, or bars. We eventually stop at a store in what seems to be an upper-class, boutique area of the city and park the SUV at the back, and I slip into my security role. Whether you’re protecting the Prince of Fairfax or the Prince of Norway, the job is always the same. My focus sharpens so much that it’s almost an out-of-body experience. I float to the store, every sense heightened, my eyes seeing everything, my ears hearing everything. The sense of power I get from having the role of protector never fails to get my adrenaline and endorphins running.
The owner of the store opens the back door, and Einar takes the lead and strides in, casing the joint. I stay behind Magnus, between him and Ottar.
The store is empty aside from three employees dressed in black. Their faces are so impassive that I’m sure Magnus’s shopping trips happen more often than I think.
“First off,” he says to me, “we’re going to get you a few new suits. Nice ones.”
I look down at my suit again. “What’s wrong with this one?”
“It’s fine,” he says. “If you’re working for the British monarchy. We’re in Norway now, James boy. Birthplace of death metal.”
Oh my god, where is he going with this?
“We’re a little darker,” he says, quickly running his hands through a rack of suits. “A little crazier. Unpredictable. You need to dress for the culture.”
If he pulls out a kinky leather suit, I’m going to be pissed.
“Here,” he says, snatching a suit from the rack and holding it out to me.
To my relief, it’s something Alice Cooper would never be caught dead in. Just a simple black suit, maybe a bit of a blue sheen to it, the lapels narrower than I’m used to. But harmless, really.
“What size are you?” he asks. “No, wait, you go by UK sizing. We’ll get you measured.”
And thus comes the slightly embarrassing scene where the tailor, who has ear hair growing out of his head like an overgrown field, measures me with Prince Magnus, Ottar, and Einar all watching. When he’s done, he jots a bunch of numbers down, goes back to the rack, and pulls out the suit in another size.
“Denne,” he says in Norwegian. Whatever he’s saying, it’s a command more than anything.
I thank him, “Tussen takk,” happy to remember my Norwegian from the other day, and then get changed in the dressing room.
The suit is a lot tighter than I’m used to. Normally this would be a problem, since I have to have a lot of movement, but it moves beautifully. Maybe it’s the material, but it almost feels athletic. Hides my gun well too, thanks to the drape of the suit jacket.
And, well, it shows off my junk just a little bit, for any discerning eyes out there. This certainly isn’t a suit for a modest Brit. For a brash Scot, aye, it will do the job.
I step out into the room, feeling like a million bucks already.
“You see!” Magnus exclaims. “Now you’re almost cool.”
I snort. “Almost.”
“You’ll never be as cool as Einar, though,” Ottar says, grinning.
“Not with those sunglasses,” I tell him.
Einar just grunts in response.
After we decide on the new suit, we get into the sweaters, dress shirts, five-hundred-dollar T-shirts, and jeans. I have to say, even though I still find the whole shopping experience with my boss—a royal on top of that—to be a little weird, it’s also kind of nice. I’ve never had anything like this done for me before. Growing up, I was lucky if the hand-me-downs and Salvation Army finds I was given didn’t have holes or stains on them. Most of the time they never even fit me properly. So this is an entirely new experience.