Fucked raw under his care

The first time I saw Ashton Irwin, he was bleeding.

Not a lot. Just a cut above his eyebrow from where some drunk asshole had shoved him into a wall outside a club in West Hollywood. But there was enough blood that I noticed it immediately when Marcus flagged me down.

"We need you tonight," Marcus had said on the phone. "Not tomorrow. Tonight."

So here I was. One in the morning. Watching some rich kid dab at his face with a cocktail napkin while his friends took selfies. Senator Irwin wants him protected. Twenty-four seven. Someone's been sending threats. The kind that mention his son by name, times and locations. What he was wearing last Tuesday.

I looked at the kid again. He was laughing now, phone out, probably posting to I*******m. Completely oblivious that someone wanted him dead.

"Great," I muttered.

Marcus handed me a file. "Everything you need is in there. He lives in the hills. You start tonight."

"Tonight as in right now?"

"His father's orders. There was another incident today. A car followed him from UCLA. Got close enough to take photos through the window."

I took the file and flipped it open. Ashton Irwin. Twenty-three. Dropped out of political science. No job. Professional party boy living off Daddy's money. Perfect.

"That him?" I nodded toward the group.

"Yeah."

Marcus checked his phone. "I'll introduce you. Try not to scare him off in the first five minutes."

"No promises."

We walked over. The friends scattered when they saw Marcus. Ashton stayed, rested against the wall with that napkin pressed to his face. His shirt was half unbuttoned, hair a mess, jeans that probably cost more than my rent.

When he looked up at me, I noticed his eyes were blue. Not the color. The intensity. Like he was actually looking at me instead of through me.

"Ashton, this is Cole McKnight," Marcus said. "Your new bodyguard."

"Bodyguard." Ashton laughed and pushed off the wall. "I don't need a bodyguard."

"Your father disagrees."

"My father disagrees with most of my life choices. Doesn't mean he gets to control this one.

" He looked at me, up and down, slow. "No offense, but I'm not interested in having some military reject follow me around."

That got under my skin faster than it should have. I stepped closer, close enough he had to twist his head back to keep eye contact.

"I'm here because someone wants to hurt you. Maybe kill you. You can make this easy or you can make this hard. I don't care which. But I'm not leaving."

We stood there, too close. His friends were watching. Marcus was watching. But Ashton didn't look away.

"Fine," he said, voice quieter now. "You can drive me home. Then you can leave."

"I'm not leaving

."

"We'll see."

He turned and started walking toward the street. I followed, kept two steps behind. Marcus caught my arm.

"Good luck. You're going to need it."

Yeah. I was starting to figure that out.

Ashton's car was a Tesla. Of course it was. He tossed me the keys without looking.

"You drive. I'm too drunk."

"How drunk?"

"Drunk enough I might throw up in your lap if you take the turns too fast."

Great. Just great.

I got in the driver's side. He collapsed into the passenger seat, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. For a second I just sat there, looking at him. At the cut on his face that had stopped bleeding. At his throat. The way his shirt had fallen open.

"Stop staring," he said without opening his eyes.

"I'm not."

"You are. I can feel it."

I started the car. The engine was so quiet I barely heard it. Everything about this kid was expensive, soft, easy. Everything I wasn't

.

"Your place in the hills?" I asked.

"Yeah. Put the address in the GPS."

"Don't you trust me?"

"Don't know you."

He opened his eyes then and turned his head to look at me. We held that for a moment longer than we should have.

"Fair enough," I said.

The drive took twenty minutes. He was quiet most of the way, gave me directions when the GPS tried to take us the wrong way. When we pulled up to his house, I understood why his father was worried. Too many windows. Too much glass. A nightmare to secure.

"This is you?" I asked.

"This is me."

He got out, swayed a little, and steadied himself on the car door. I was around the car before he could fall. Grabbed his arm.

"I'm fine," he said.

"You're drunk.

"

"Same thing."

I walked him to the door. He fumbled with the keys, dropped them. I picked them up and opened the door myself.

Inside was exactly what I expected. Expensive furniture, art on the walls, everything white and clean and probably cost more than I made in a year. Ashton headed for the stairs and made it three steps before he sat down hard.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"Bathroom?"

"Yeah, upstairs and the first door."

"Can you make it?"

He looked up at me. There was something in his eyes I couldn't read.

I bent down, slid my arm under his, and hauled him up. He leaned into me, heavy but not as heavy as I expected. I could feel his heart beating, fast. I half-carried him up the stairs, found the bathroom, and got him to the toilet just in time. He threw up. I looked away, gave him privacy. But I didn't leave.

When he was done, he sat there on the floor, head in his hands.

"This is humiliating," he said

.

"You're drunk and someone tried to hurt you tonight. You're allowed to be a mess."

"Are you always this nice to people you just met?"

"No."

He laughed, rough and tired. "Then why me?"

I didn't have an answer for that.

I got him water, made him drink it. Then I got him to his bedroom. He fell onto the bed fully clothed.

"You're not leaving, are you?" he said.

"No."

His eyes were already closing. "Good. I don't want to be alone tonight."

And just like that, he was asleep.

I stood there for a moment, watching him breathe. Then I went downstairs, did a perimeter check, set the alarm, and found a spot on the couch where I could see the front door and most of the first floor.

Three hours into this job and I was already in trouble. The kind of trouble that came with a senator's son and blue eyes and the fact that I couldn't afford to screw this up.

The senator paid well. But he also had power. The kind of power that could destroy a man if he found out his bodyguard had crossed a line.

I wasn’t planning to cross any lines.

But as I sat there in the dark, I knew I was already thinking about it.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I don’t usually open messages like that.

This time, I did.

A photo loaded.

Ashton.

Asleep upstairs.

Taken from inside the house.

My blood went cold.