5

LENNOX

Fear does not grip me, not even the looming threat of losing my job. For three long years, almost every hour of every day, I have dedicated myself to shielding his mother. It's no trivial matter. She is a timid person with an insatiable craving for attention from the opposite sex. Despite her tall, slender figure and delicate features that lend her an everlasting youthfulness, she attracts unwelcome gazes. Those who seek to torment her view her as an easy target.

I have endured countless instances of being spat on, taking blows meant for her—hooks to the jaw, uppercuts to the ribs. I even broke someone's cheekbone while defending her and ended up facing a lawsuit. But he was the one crossing boundaries with her.

I have confronted gunmen, knife-wielders, and troublemakers brandishing absurd objects like water pistols, bags of glitter, and even sex toys—anything to inflict harm. I have whisked Regina away from fervent crowds that posed a threat to her safety, ensuring every room and bathroom was clear before she entered. My mission was crystal clear: no one would lay a finger on her.

My actions define me, proving that I excel at what I do. If someone wanted to dismiss me, they would have done so long ago, especially when I ignore communication and leave gaps in my daily reports, which only fuels speculation among the security team instead of safeguarding my client.

Ashton tosses my pillow aside and asks, "So, is this a promotion or a demotion for you?"

I rearrange my black comforter and respond, "It's a transfer. In security, everyone earns the same amount, except for those leading a Force, who receive more." The unrelenting heat continues to bother us, and we wipe away beads of sweat from our foreheads.

Tony uses his shirt to dab his forehead, accidentally revealing his well-defined abs. Damn. I quickly avert my gaze, attempting to act unfazed.

Nonchalantly popping another bubble with my gum, I say, "But this housing situation is undoubtedly a demotion." I grin as he points to the door with his middle finger.

"If you can't handle it, there's the exit," he retorts.

"I can handle anything, Ashton," I assert, widening my smile as I continue to chew my gum. "I'm simply stating the truth. This townhouse is old and cramped. Where I used to live was a brand-new mansion in an affluent gated community not far from here, where families like the Johnsons, Walshs, and Haynes reside." The suburbs of Philadelphia.

In that very neighborhood, just a street away, two magnificent eight-bedroom mansions were purchased solely to accommodate round-the-clock bodyguards. It was where Security Force Alpha and Epsilon resided, the dedicated protectors of both the parents and the underage children.

As bodyguards entrusted with the protection of the eighteen-and-older children, we found ourselves scattered in different locations. Our living arrangements mirrored those of our clients, leaving us with no say in where we resided. We simply lived wherever our clients did. This resulted in frequent reshuffling of bodyguards.

Occasionally, someone would quit to prioritize their family or personal life, while others were dismissed due to incompetence. Some sought a change in their life's path. Regardless of the reasons, whenever a vacancy arose, the three leaders of the security team would often reassign many of us.

And this time, it was my turn.

I never really fit in with the cliques that formed within Security Force Alpha. The idea of cliques repulsed me, and I was always too much of a nonconformist to be accepted by the older, disciplined bodyguards. Now that I was part of Omega, I would have less interaction with Alpha, which suited me just fine.

Tony meticulously tucks in the final corner of my comforter. "So, when the security team found out you'd be my bodyguard, did anyone send you condolence cards or suggest that you should escape to the moon?"

He's trying to gauge how the security team perceives him, given that Rodney clearly didn't provide much information. "No one had the time to send me cards," I reply. "But if they did, most of them would probably wish me luck in handling your unpredictable nature."

"That sounds about right," he responds. "Is that all?"

Wow, he really has no idea. If I were to come face-to-face with Rodney right now, I'd shake his hand and tell him he's a complete jerk. But the truth is, I'd have to do the same with two-thirds of the security team. Each of us has a different relationship with our respective clients.

Personally, I prefer a mutual understanding.

"No one would pity me," I say as I slide my empty duffel bag under the bed. "It's not like when Davin was reassigned to Sandro's detail. We all threw a farewell gathering for him." I greet Tony with a raised eyebrow.

He smiles faintly and shakes his head a few times. "Sandro."

Sandro Walsh, Tony's nineteen-year-old cousin and the oldest among the Walsh children, is famously challenging to keep up with. One day he might be in Ibiza, the next in Paris, and then off to Japan. He's spontaneous and unpredictable, and among all the children, his candid tweets and remarks often go viral.

In an instant, Tony's face contorted with displeasure, his cheekbones accentuating his sour expression. Whispers circulated among the security team about Tony and Sandro's strained relationship, rumors that I had heard before.

I had been a witness to their heated arguments on previous occasions. If Sandro and Davin rarely spent time together, it meant that my opportunities to see Davin would be few and far between.

That was just the way things were.

Ashton's attention flickered to his vibrating phone, but he quickly returned it to his pocket. "Today, we'll have lunch at my place," he suggested. "You can make yourself at home here, do whatever you need to do. Around two, I'll head to my office in Center City. I'll text you when I'm in the garage."

"I need your number," I stated matter-of-factly.

He furrowed his brow. "Haven't we exchanged numbers before?"

I took my time chewing my food before responding. "We've never had to, wolf scout." Our paths only crossed when I accompanied Regina on her on-call appointments or during occasional holiday gatherings at the Johnsons'. Labor Day cookouts and a few birthdays were the only times I really saw Tony. We weren't exactly friends.

He was merely fifteen when I was already twenty, busy hanging out with friends my own age.

I tilted my head, observing him as his gaze wandered into the distance. Waving my hand in front of Ashton, I quipped, "Did I lose you?"

He brushed my hand aside, snapping back to the present, and then reached out. "Give me your phone. I'll add my number to your contacts."

"Or you could just give me yours."

"No."

I rolled my eyes at his firm refusal but decided to comply, handing him my phone for the time being. It wasn't a battle I needed to win. "What about after you finish work?"

He entered his number into my phone and handed it back. "Dinner plans are uncertain. If I decide to go to a restaurant, I'll let you know."

"Will you be free for the rest of the night after dinner?"

Before answering, Ashton peeled off his damp shirt and crumpled it in his fist.

I stared at him, my eyebrows arching in surprise as I admired his perfectly sculpted physique. His body was a masterpiece, with broad shoulders reminiscent of a professional swimmer and a lean, glistening torso adorned with beads of sweat. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine, a prime target for paparazzi searching for that flawless shot. Some of his clients specifically requested that these ‘money shots’ be blocked from the camera's view, while others proudly displayed them on I*******m, rendering them worthless to the paparazzi. It might seem like a trivial concern, but Ashton lived by his own rule, Rule #67: don't worry about money shots. They held no importance to him.

The sight of his long arms catches my attention, their graceful curve commanding my gaze. Unable to resist a teasing remark, I quip, "Do you practically live at the gym? Because your mother used to be the epitome of a couch potato." Memories of my own past, where my scarce moments of leisure were split between Studio 9 and unconscious slumber, flood my mind.

Ashton, still perspiring from his workout, wipes his forehead with his bicep. "Just the pool," he responds.

"Just the pool?" I raise an eyebrow, skeptical of his claim.

"Yep," he confirms.

My throat itches, the tattoos of swords adorning my skin reminding me of their presence. "I can count at least eight locations on your body that suggest otherwise," I nonchalantly remark, pointing towards his well-defined abs.

Ashton scrutinizes me intently. "You don't seem impressed," he observes.

Accustomed to people openly fawning over him, he fails to elicit the desired reaction. I begin to smile. "That's because mine are superior, wolf scout," I retort.

He lets out a huff, glaring at me before gesturing towards himself. "Take off your shirt, and we'll settle it."

I pop my gum, relishing a good challenge. Swiftly, I remove my V-neck, casting it onto the nearby mattress.

His gaze sweeps over the black ink that envelops my chest, ribs, and abs. Nearly every inch of my fair skin showcases a mosaic of vivid skulls, crossbones, swords, tumultuous waves, and sailing vessels. The grayscale pirate imagery intertwines with vibrant sparrows and swallows. His eyes continue their descent, tracing the ink until they reach the hem of my black pants.

Under different circumstances, I might assume he's checking me out. However, Ashton possesses more ethical boundaries than an entire sports complex combined. He would sooner impale himself with a sword than compromise his principles.

"Mine are better," he asserts confidently.

"We'll need an unbiased judge," I propose.

Ashton glances towards the door. "Willow isn't home yet."

"I said unbiased," I remind him.

"Find someone who doesn't know me, and then we can discuss it," he replies, acknowledging the near-impossibility of such a request. Then he adds, "Is my list still in your back pocket?"

"Yeah," I confirm.

"You might want to retrieve it and make note of this," he advises.

His meticulously thorough list of rules lay before me, but it was clear that he conveniently left out some crucial details when it came to matters of intimacy. Not a single mention of nondisclosure agreements adorned that piece of paper, despite the fact that he must have them if he intended to engage in casual encounters without fretting over his belongings being stolen.

"I assure him," I confidently assert, "I can commit whatever you need me to remember to memory." In truth, I had already memorized his 132 rules during our car ride, and I quickly skimmed through the eight-page document. With steady hands and a sharp mind, I had managed to graduate at the top of my class in medical school, much to the chagrin of many faculty members. I didn't fit their preconceived notions of what a successful student should look like. Each day, I endured comments such as ‘remove your piercings’ and ‘cover your tattoos.’

When I made the decision to get tattoos on my neck and hands during my second year, it nearly caused a collective heart attack among the faculty. Nevertheless, I defied their expectations and graduated in the top one percent.

Without bothering to ask me to fetch a piece of paper, Ashton forges ahead. "At some point," he begins, "not tonight because I'm still processing this new arrangement—"

"Relationship," I interject, causing his shoulders to instantly tense up. It's abundantly clear that the notion of us being connected in any way greatly annoys him.

Disregarding my comment, he continues, "Soon, I'll go out to a nightclub, and I'll find someone to have sex with. It's purely about sex, NSA—a one-night stand. And I need you to remember the next part."

"What?" I ask, bewildered.

"You can't refuse," he asserts.

My nostrils flare, and my eyes roll in the slowest possible motion. "Are you serious?" I inquire, exasperated. His glare confirms that he is. "Tony—"

"Ashton," he corrects me, causing me to shake my head and nearly roll my eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time. Everyone in his family and security circle refers to him by his nickname, but the media and the public stick to calling him Ashton. I suppose he's including me in the same category as tabloids in an attempt to provoke me.

He gestures towards me. "For someone with such a remarkable memory, you seem to forget to address me by my full name quite often."

"Ashton," I emphasize dramatically, and he responds by flipping me off with both hands. I proceed to address the real issue at hand.

"If anyone with malicious intentions tries to approach you for intimate purposes, all the security personnel would undoubtedly decline. And I'm advising you to be more cautious than that."

As a billionaire celebrity, he attracts people who covet his wealth, fame, or even his physical presence. Often, it's a combination of all three, and some individuals are willing to cross boundaries to attain their desires. They might resort to slipping him a drugged drink, or I might stumble upon conversations he wouldn't catch.

The potential risks are limitless.

He contemplates my words for a brief moment, his mind processing the implications. "You have to rely on my instincts, just like Rodney did," he states.

The taste of stale gum remains in my mouth, devoid of any flavor. In the midst of this odd sensation, his words reverberate in my ears. "I'll trust your instincts until they fail you. How about that?" The statement lingers in the air, daring me to prove myself. With unwavering determination, I respond, "Alright. Because they won't let me down." As he turns and walks towards the exit, leaving my room behind, I'm filled with a mixture of resolve and anticipation for what awaits me in the future.