I don't need a babysitter

LOGAN

“I don't need a freaking bodyguard. I'm not a baby who needs a babysitter!” I yelled into the phone, fuming with rage as I paced the floor of my room. I was barely keeping my anger in, and I didn't even need to.

“He's not babysitting you, Logan. He's just there to keep you safe. You can't —”

“I don't need anyone to protect me. I'm fine the way I am. No one even knows I'm your son. There's no harm in that. To them, I'm simply a regular school kid. Adding a bodyguard would only make it obvious!” 

If only he would listen to the voice of reasoning, and see things the same way I do, but it was nearly impossible for him. For someone like my father, who always does whatever he wants without thinking of others, it would take more than yelling for him to even listen to me. Even if he listens, he might not do things my way. 

“That's why I employed someone closer to your age. He's 25 and —”

“Bloody 25??? How is that even close to my age?! I'm 20 for fucking sake!”

“Language!” Father yelled. “You might have gotten older, but that won't stop me from spanking your arse!” 

I gulped, froze in my steps as I thought back to the many times I had gotten spanked or whipped. It was the most dreadful time of my childhood. Being the son of a five-star general made every day in my life seem like I was in an army centre.

I spent all my summer in the camp, though, and my father expected me to follow in his footsteps, only to be disappointed when I told him I wanted to be a psychologist. 

He had been heartbroken about it, but couldn't do anything to change my mind. He knew he couldn't force me, and when I got the chance, I left home. At 17, I was already living on the school campus and hardly returned home unless during Christmas. Whenever I do, I only spend a few days before I run back to school, away from that home that brought back my tough childhood. 

To my father, he was training me to be strong enough to withstand everything, but to me, it was horror. I still get nightmares about it to this day. 

Though he made me strong enough to throw a punch and fight my way out of rough situations, it took a ton of therapy to help my mental state. 

“There's no need to fight this, Logan. I'm only doing this for you. It's dangerous out there. What it will take is someone getting your information to —”

“It won't happen,” I cut through his words, letting out an exasperated sigh. “I don't need a bodyguard, Father. I can take care of myself. You taught me enough for me to know how to defend myself.”

“But it's not sufficient. Jules will be with you shortly. Make sure you do nothing childish,” he said before he disconnected, not listening to me. 

“Fuck you!” I yelled out, throwing my phone on the bed. I felt like tugging my hair as I let out obscenities at my father, but I held the urge back. It wasn't as if it would make any difference. He wouldn't hear the curses and if he did, he would spank my arse until they turned red, instead of listening to me. 

I plopped down on the bed and let out another sigh, looking up at the ceiling. I felt weak in my bones, thinking of how my day would be with a bodyguard. I could already picture it, and it worried me. 

When I heard the doorbell a few hours later, I already knew who it was. No one aside from my father had been to my house. While I lived a reckless life on campus, whoring my way out with guys, I hadn't brought anyone home before. I always stayed over at their house or in a hotel. 

My house was my sanctuary. Letting anyone else into it didn't sit well with me. It felt like exposing my deepest secrets to the world, to someone who might not even stay long in my life. 

Halfway to the door, I realized I was only putting on boxers. 

Fuck. 

I had to return to my room to put on shorts and a loose polo before I went to answer the door, carelessly opening it without asking who was at the other end. 

When I opened the door, I didn't know what I was expecting, probably an older man with frown lines and a stern glare. I had seen the soldiers who worked for my father, and expected the man to be the same, but he wasn't. 

He looked different, almost unreal, like the Italian Mafia boyfriends I had read about. My eyes started from his hair, which was tied up in a bun, to his eyes. I stared a tad bit longer at them, wondering if they were real. The colour was somewhere between silvery and golden, so beautiful and unnatural. It complemented his dark blonde hair, enough to make him look like a Greek god. 

Slowly, I ran my eyes down his body, past his chest and pronounced abs to his slacks. My eyes lingered a little longer on the bulge down there before it completed the checking out, right down to his black dress shoes. 

He coughed, and I looked up, frowning as I folded my arms and acted like I wasn't just blatantly staring at him. 

“Who are you?” I lifted my brows in question, keeping a frown on my face. 

“Jules,” he said, reaching his right palm out. “Your father must have told you about me, right?”

That voice… There was something undeniably attractive about the deep tone. It was like a low-frequency thrill, a subtle vibration that sparked something primal within me. I had always been attracted to men with deep voices. They were my weakness..

If only he weren't my father's loyal dog. It wouldn't have hurt to have a tumble in the hay with him.