Falling for a John

ASHTON

"Can you tell me anything about him?" I asked for what felt like the millionth time. Though I hadn't actually been keeping count, the annoyance in Perth's bite into his blueberry bagel made it clear that my question had died a bitter death at least five minutes ago.

Today was the day everything was going to change. It was doomsday, the day when my already unconventional and strange life would become colossally more complicated. I could handle shit storms while single-handedly propping up the Earth, but I liked to have at least some semblance of preparation for situations. Sure, I had a real switchblade tucked away in my pocket, but I wanted a metaphorical one too.

Perth swallowed his bagel before responding. "You want to know one thing?"

"Just one," I affirmed.

"He's your new bodyguard."

I blinked slowly, transforming my expression into a glare. "Thank you for offering up the one thing I already fucking know." It had been driving me up the wall like a possessed Spider-Man. I had the same bodyguard my entire life, until Rodney decided to retire recently.

Yesterday, I bid farewell to Rodney, and it was bittersweet. He wanted to spend more time with his wife and two kids, rather than being the 24/7 bodyguard to an internationally famous individual like me. I understood his reasoning. Selfishly, I wished he could have stayed longer.

Actually, scratch that. I wished he could have stayed forever.

Personal bodyguards were like spouses. Everyone in my immediate and extended family had one. They followed us everywhere, dined with us, and guarded our rooms if we brought home strangers-or in my case, "uncomplicated" hookups. Mind-blowing sexual encounters and one-night stands-now, that responsibility was being passed on to someone new.

I had never before had to introduce a new bodyguard to the intricacies of my life. It wasn't just going to be a day in the life of Ashton Johnson; it was a permanent position that would last for decades, unless he turned out to be an incompetent prick.

This pivotal moment had put me on edge because Perth, the head of Security Force Omega, refused to share any further information about him.

"Like I said an hour ago," Perth told me, "it's better if you meet him in person." Before I could reply, his cellphone pinged.

I hoped it was my new bodyguard. Glancing at my canvas wristwatch, I realized he was already twenty minutes late, even though Perth had assured me he had received the invitation.

The massive store, with its cozy atmosphere, remained empty. Since the employees hadn't arrived yet, only a few lights were switched on, casting a dim glow throughout the place. As I waited, the silence enveloped me. Behind the bar counter, I positioned myself and poured a glass of orange juice, making sure to clarify to myself that I wasn't stealing.

This establishment, known as J. Son Paradise, was a unique hybrid of a two-story comic book store and coffee shop, owned by my family. With its red and blue vinyl booths, stools, and rows upon rows of comic books and merchandise neatly displayed on shelves, the place exuded a nostalgic diner vibe blended with a modern comic store aesthetic. There were 85 such stores around the world, but the original one was right here in Philadelphia.

Over the years, the store had undergone several major renovations. The second floor used to house offices for a comics publishing company, which had since relocated to the neighboring building.

After closing the orange juice jug, I glanced to my right, where bright blue stairs ascended towards a loft area on the second floor. The space was adorned with colorful beanbags, sofas, coffee tables, and mounted televisions continuously playing superhero films.

If I were to rank my favorite places in the world, J. Son Paradise would come in at a close second, just behind any swimming pool. Any pool would do.

Taking a large gulp of my orange juice, I noticed that Perth's phone began buzzing with rapid succession, indicating incoming messages. I wiped my mouth with my forearm, observing the text message notifications lighting up his screen. "Looks like someone's quite popular. Hopefully, it's my tardy bodyguard," I remarked.

Perth cleaned his fingers with a flimsy napkin. "It's just one person," he replied.

Curious, I leaned over to catch a glimpse of the name on the screen.

Perth shifted the phone towards his chest, scrolling through the messages. "Relax. Eat. Try not to overthink, if that's even possible for you," he advised.

"It's not," I admitted, not mincing my words.

Perth smiled briefly but refocused his attention on his phone. His straight black hair brushed against his dark eyelashes, and the muscles beneath his blue Studio 9 shirt hinted at his formidable strength. There was no specific dress code for security detail; bodyguards usually dressed according to the occasion. For instance, when attending formal charity events, they would don suits or tuxedos.

Feeling the tension in my muscles, I rolled my shoulders back, longing to stretch and swim a few laps. Glancing at the time on my phone, I took another sip of orange juice, my gaze fixed on Perth as he continued to text.

"You know," I began, addressing him, "I'm not asking for the meaning of life or a map of uncharted galaxies. You could at least tell me his hair color, zodiac sign, or maybe a last name-"

"Nice try," Perth interrupted, his brown eyes meeting mine, silently conveying that I couldn't fool him, before he returned to his cell phone.

"Why don't you finish making your list for him?" he suggested.

"I already printed it out," I replied, noting that it was tucked away in the pocket of my jeans. Perth had advised me to create a bullet-point list outlining the "rules of my life" for this unknown person.

For instance, rule #32 stated: "I take pictures with fans in real time and allow them to post the pictures. Not all of my cousins or siblings do this. It provides the public and media with a timestamp of my whereabouts. And it's considered risky."

There I was, sitting at the bar, contemplating the constant safety threat that seemed to loom over my life. From the moment I entered this world, I had been thrust into the limelight. It didn't bother me much anymore if someone knew my whereabouts at any given time. After all, the paparazzi always seemed to find me, no matter how hard I tried to hide.

I took a moment to place my glass down, feeling the need to run my fingers through my disheveled, light brown hair. The color wasn't natural; I had dyed it from its original dark brown shade. But then again, you probably already knew what I looked like. My face had graced the front pages of countless tabloids, capturing your attention as you casually perused the supermarket aisles, perhaps picking up some two-percent milk, a Kit-Kat bar, or even a can of Rees' Soda.

My piercing forest-green eyes were notorious for their ability to strike fear into the souls of those who dared to mess with my family. With sharp cheekbones resembling knives and a lean, sculpted physique from my days as a competitive swimmer, my appearance didn't go unnoticed. And maybe you weren't aware, but both Burberry and Calvin Klein had scouted me when I turned eighteen. I declined their offers, though.

As I sat there, lost in my thoughts, my phone buzzed with a flurry of messages from Perth. He had been an integral part of my life for the past five years, even though he wasn't my personal bodyguard. Leading the Security Force Omega, he was responsible for managing the team, handling recruitment, transfers, and terminations, ensuring that the entire security system ran smoothly. He was the glue that held everything together.

Perth, a twenty-five-year-old Thai-American with a background in MMA and specialization in Muay Thai, also owned the popular Studio 9 Boxing & MMA gym just down the street. The place was always packed with people, and getting in without a referral was nearly impossible, especially in the evenings.

Breaking away from his phone, Perth looked up and locked eyes with me. His gaze seemed to convey a mixture of concern and frustration. "You really need to relax," he advised.

Impatient and acutely aware of the ticking clock, I responded firmly, "If he doesn't show up by eight, we have to leave." I couldn't afford to be stuck here when the store opened its doors. I knew the drill-I would be bombarded with autograph requests and photo opportunities for hours on end. And truth be told, I had a long list of tasks waiting for my attention.

Apart from my high-profile public persona, I was also the CEO of a charitable organization that raised millions of dollars annually. I had set an ambitious goal to raise $300 million for J.H.W. Philanthropies by December, but we were still far from reaching the halfway mark.

"He knows," Perth simply stated, his words carrying a weight of understanding. And he did know.

I straightened up, my body rigid as if I were about to join the National Guard. "Who the fuck is he?" I muttered under my breath. I couldn't help but wonder if they had chosen someone who could keep up with me. Would he sputter out after just an hour or two? My life was a constant whirlwind of driving back and forth from my townhouse to my work offices and to the gated neighborhood where my three younger siblings still lived.

"Relax," Perth said, holding out a calming hand. "I know you well enough. I wouldn't assign someone to your detail who can't handle your lifestyle." He casually pushed back his hair and adjusted his baseball cap, wearing it backward.

In that moment, Perth seemed approachable, even friendly. But I had witnessed him confront a grown man twice his size, a bulky individual known for using steroids who had once been my cousin Lincoln's bodyguard. And he had messed up. He had allowed a cameraman to slip into a public bathroom while my cousin was using a urinal.

Perth had unleashed his fury on the bodyguard, yelling and scolding him relentlessly. I watched as this much younger guy reduced the middle-aged man to tears, as if he had committed some grave offense. It dawned on me why most people warned against angering the SFO lead. Getting on Perth's bad side was like signing your own death warrant.

Suddenly, our attention was drawn to the tinted windows of a nearby store. Four preteens had carelessly collided with the glass, bouncing on their toes in excitement. They screamed a jumble of names, including mine, and pressed their hands against the window, desperately trying to catch a glimpse inside.

A smile spread across my face.

It was amusing, really. If I didn't find it funny, I would be annoyed every single day. Typically, there was a line of people waiting outside the store until closing time, so it wasn't surprising that some were already here before eight.

The preteens began counting together, "One, two, three," before erupting in high-pitched shrieks, "Ashton Johnson!"

My grin widened.

Those preteens and the entire world knew me as Ashton Johnson. I was the CEO of a nonprofit charity, a one-time philosophy major, a competitive swimmer. I was the son of a sex addict mother and a recovering alcoholic father. I was the steadfast older brother to three siblings and the cousin to eleven others.

People were obsessed with my perpetually "single" relationship status. They had never seen me publicly date anyone. Occasionally, when I wasn't careful enough, they would come across photos of me with random girls or guys, but they knew I wasn't serious about them. They knew it would only last for one night, with no strings attached.

You don't know really anything about our bodyguards. Like how they exist in our lives as close as family members. It's their duty to maintain anonymity with the public, and you can't keep an eye on them or know them the way that we do.

So you know nothing about Perth Kitsuwon and the rest of Security Force Omega.

Perth grins at the three girls and one boy who can't see us, but we can see them flailing excitedly and taking selfies. "This shit never gets old."

I raise my OJ. "Immortal entertainment." Two homemade signs smack the window.

I read one: FUCK ME, ASHTON JOHNSON! She looks twelve, pigtail braids and braces.

My jaw muscle tenses. "Just kidding." That's not fucking funny. It should go without saying, but I'd never have sex with a preteen or teenager or anyone who looks on the cusp of being that young. Jesus...twelve. I have a sister that age.

I'm not against hooking up with fans. It's pretty much inevitable, but it has to be a.) consensual and b.) someone of legal age and c.) a one-time thing.

Perth scrutinizes the preteens. "The scary part," he says, "that shit doesn't even faze me anymore." He eyes the lock on the store entrance before returning to his cellphone.

The other sign from her friend: I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES, BLAKE!!

Blake is my fourteen-year-old brother.

My shoulders square, but I try to brush that sign off without a long thought. Perth resumes texting again. I lean forward. Still not able to see his screen.

"Hot date?" I ask.

Perth quickly says, "No." Then he removes his elbows off the counter. Sitting up. "It's Madison."

Madison Haynes. My nineteen-year-old cousin.

"Madison's blowing up your phone?" I give him a look. "Didn't you tell her that you're with me?" I needed a bodyguard just to drive here and meet a new bodyguard. The irony. I asked Perth if there was anyone available from Omega, and he offered himself.

"I thought she'd be asleep until nine, at least."

I wait for him to add more.

He stops there.

"Why?" I try not to snap. I swear the whole security team enjoys keeping me out of the loop. I could get twice as much information by just asking my family. But I restrain myself from texting Madison.

"It doesn't matter," he says evasively and eats another bite of bagel while messaging my cousin.

"It does to me. She's my family." She's not a part of security. She's on my side. Famous.

In the world of the Johnsons, the Haynes, and the Cobalts, our lives are intertwined in a way that can only be described as permanent. You see, our mothers are sisters, the infamous Rees sisters. And it is through this familial connection that our destinies are forever linked. The Reess, particularly my grandfather, had established a soda company called Rees', which has garnered worldwide fame. In fact, Rees' has even surpassed the mighty Coca-Cola in sales over the past decade. This company is a significant factor in our collective celebrity status.

As I voice my intention to reach out to someone through a text message, I make a move to grab my phone. However, the person in front of me relents and gives me a nod of approval.

After finishing his meal and swallowing, he begins to speak. "She couldn't stop yawning during our trip back from the state park. She didn't arrive home until three in the morning," he types out in another text message. "I should have known she would wake up." His gaze shifts towards me. "She suffers from FOMEFT."

Fear of Missing Every Fucking Thing.

A smile starts to form on my lips.

Madison, my younger cousin, actually came up with that term herself. The most predictable thing about her is her unpredictability when it comes to sleep.

It strikes me as odd that Perth, the person before me, is aware of these specific details about Maddie. But then again, he is her personal bodyguard. He has been assigned to protect Madison since she turned sixteen. If there's anyone who knows her daily routines and habits, it's him.

The realization hits me once again, a thought I've been trying to ignore but can no longer evade: someone is about to become intimately familiar with my own life habits as well.

Just great.

Leaning against the counter, I cross my arms over my green crew-neck shirt. As the lock on the tinted-glass door begins to turn, my muscles tense up.

Someone is entering. Someone who possesses a key.

My new bodyguard.

Finally, he has arrived.

ASHTON

To whom it may concern; I kindly request that you cease troubling me. Yours sincerely, an exasperated human.

As fate would have it, the very last person I desired to encounter today steps foot inside J. Son Paradise. I swiftly refill my glass of orange juice and observe as the familiar face enters through the door.

Standing tall at an impressive six feet and three inches, he dons a black V-neck tucked neatly into black jeans, secured by a leather belt. Protruding from his waistband is the handle of a handgun, while his dyed bleach-white hair sharply contrasts his thick brown eyebrows.

Although many individuals find Lennox Burke to be an intimidating figure at first glance, I, on the other hand, have grown immune to most forms of intimidation.

You see, it's a trait inherent in being a Johnson.

Allow me to depict Lennox in three significant ways:

1. Infuriating.

2. Exasperating.

3. A major annoyance in my life.

Considering that he serves as my mother's bodyguard and frequently accompanies her to this establishment, it is to be expected that she is not far behind his self-assured and unflappable demeanor.

Lennox carries himself as though he possesses ownership of the entire world, yet a perpetual sense of amusement twinkles within his brown eyes. At times, I suspect he deliberately channels the essence of James Franco from the Freaks & Geeks era-minus the marijuana, but magnify Franco's infectious smile by an astronomical factor.

Under normal circumstances, his presence should not capture my attention.

But alas, it does.

He does.

At this very moment, I endeavor to disregard his overpowering presence, focusing my gaze solely on the juice container while gingerly replacing its cap. Nevertheless, my eyes remain fixed on him, regardless of my futile attempts to divert them elsewhere.

This has been an ongoing struggle since I turned sixteen. Unfortunately, I have known Lennox for an extended period of time. I am referring to our early teenage years. Prior to being assigned as my mother's security detail, he was merely the son of our family's concierge doctor, constantly on call twenty-four hours a day for home visits and medical emergencies.

Thus, when my younger sister Primrose fractured her ankle while wearing five-inch heels, it was Dr. Burke who promptly arrived, accompanied by his son Lennox.

As I attempted to remove Primrose's boot, Dr. Burke commanded, "Step aside, Ashton," motioning for Lennox to take his place. It was a moment where he imparted basic first aid skills to his son, ensuring that he would follow in the footsteps of the esteemed lineage of Burkes before him-a family renowned for their medical expertise.

Such instances ignited my competitive spirit. If Lennox was propelled to the forefront, an irresistible urge beckoned me to be right by his side. If Lennox accelerated, I pushed myself even harder. And he never relented. With everything he did, he possessed an unwavering determination that refused to allow me to surpass him without a fiercely fought battle.

Around the time of my sixteenth birthday, I found myself developing a crush on him. It could be because he never lets me win easily. Maybe it's because he's five years older and a Yale graduate.

Or perhaps it's because he effortlessly does thirty pull-ups. It might also be the striking gray and black tattoos that adorn his fair skin, even extending to his throat. Symmetrical wings inked on his neck and crossed swords on his Adam's apple create a beautiful display.

Then there are his four visible piercings: a hoop on his nostril, bottom lip, and two barbells on his brow.

Perhaps it's the combination of all these things that makes my skin heat up, my blood rush south, and attracts me to him like a fool. He has taken up a permanent residence in both my mind and my desires, and I have no idea how to get him out.

When I was a teenager, it was easier to handle this crush, as I would secretly fantasize about the attractive older guy pleasuring me. I always knew he was gay, and when I turned eighteen, I publicly declared myself as bisexual. I thought there might be a chance that Lennox would start seeing me differently.

But he didn't.

Then, exactly three years ago, he became my mother's bodyguard.

Suddenly, the attraction I felt toward him became even more ethically wrong than it already was. I constantly remind myself that he knows nothing. The only person I've confided in about my crush and lapse in judgment is my best friend Willow, and I trust that she would never betray my secret.

As Lennox enters the doorway of the store, he takes a large bite of a red apple.

His brown eyes immediately lock onto my forest-green ones, and in an instant, I can tell that he knows. It's as if he has this all-knowing look.

I attribute it to his tendency to act like a know-it-all. I must have displayed my slight irritation because his lips curl up into a smirk as he chews and swallows his fruit.

I quickly gulp down my orange juice before speaking up. "Look who the wind brought in." I place my glass on the counter.

Lennox raises his apple to his mouth. "You mean blew in."

"No," I say firmly, planting my hands on the pearly counter. "I meant threw up."

He rolls his eyes playfully, his smirk growing wider and wider. Then, he casually kicks the door closed and locks it with his spare key.

My body tenses up. "Where's my mom?"

Lennox finally puts away his cellphone, the one he's been glued to since we arrived here. "Regina's bodyguard transfer was finalized this morning."

Transfer.

As I stood there, observing Lennox's confident stride as he approached the vinyl stools, my mind seemed to fry, my jaw sharpened, and my breath grew heavy. He possessed a certain masculinity and nonchalance that emanated from within, a self-assuredness that belonged to those who truly understood themselves.

Drawing nearer, he casually rested his knee on the stool next to Perth and uttered the words that instantly sent my pulse racing at an unnatural speed, though I maintained outward composure. "I'm your new bodyguard," he informed me.

I took a deep breath, struggling to process this new addition to my life. It was unsettling, and I found myself eerily silent, attempting to block out the complications that would inevitably arise. Lennox Burke, my new bodyguard.

Meeting my gaze directly, Lennox asked with a mischievous smile, "Excited?" as if he already knew the answer.

Excited? How could I possibly be excited about my former crush becoming a permanent fixture in my life? And to make matters more complex, we were bound by ethical guidelines to maintain a platonic relationship.

If I were to choose my words honestly, I would describe the situation as sexually frustrated and incredibly complicated. But for now, I opted for the word "excited" to avoid unnecessary friction.

"That's one way to put it," I replied, downing the rest of my drink in one gulp. "But what's the actual reason behind this?" I gestured towards Lennox with my empty glass. I understood the weight of the decisions made by the security team, who took various factors into account when assigning bodyguards.

I couldn't simply demand a replacement like a entitled jerk. The bodyguards worked as a team, and they were individuals, not mere action figures. I respected them enough to trust their choices.

Besides, they had no idea that I had once imagined Lennox in compromising positions.

And they would never know.

Perth chimed in, "The usual. We consider the location of your residence," referring to my townhouse in Philly, "your lifestyle," which was always on the go, "and other security variables, and then we make a match."

"So it's like Bodyguard Grindr without the sex," I quipped, trying my best to ignore Lennox, although my eyes involuntarily kept glancing in his direction.

Lennox raised an eyebrow at me, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

I wanted to groan and smile at the same time, the conflicting emotions surely evident on my face.

Perth responded, "We won't market it like that, but essentially, yes."

"Essentially," Lennox interjected, "Regina wanted me to be your bodyguard." Regina, my mom.

Perth's gaze locked onto Lennox, a mixture of intensity and secrecy. Clearly, Lennox had shared more information than he was supposed to.

He even added, "Word-for-word, she said Lennox is the best."

"I don't believe that," I retort, my voice filled with disbelief. "My mom would swear on her life that no one could ever be better than Drake." Drake was her first bodyguard, and I had never seen her so emotional when he retired.

Lennox, casually rotating his apple, searches for another spot to take a bite. "Well, she broke her promise for me," he replies matter-of-factly. His voice is deep and rough, yet there's a subtle sensuality to it, like gravel wrapped in silk.

A rush of warmth spreads through my muscles from head to toe. "Wow," I manage to say, my tone strained. My mind is elsewhere, consumed by this new reality and the presence of Lennox.

Lennox lowers his apple, and I notice my cheekbones tightening as his brown eyes graze over my most distinctive feature.

I meet his gaze, and in that sudden silence, a thick tension hangs in the air. Both our lives are about to change with this transfer, and there's an unknown factor at play.

I can't even begin to imagine what having Lennox as my bodyguard will be like. Perth, observing us, is assessing how well we're getting along. But his guess is as good as mine.

And I have no answer.

I have no clue how to navigate a new relationship with a bodyguard. I've had the same one for nearly twenty-two years.

Lennox tosses the core of his apple into a nearby trashcan. Then he swings his leg off the stool, visibly more relaxed than my rigid posture. "Let's start with the basics, wolf scout."

"Out of all the things you could call me..." I trail off, but Lennox never fails to use that nickname. My aunt established the Wolf Scouts as a wilderness and survival scouting organization that includes all genders. It gained national recognition, and yeah, I still help out in the summer as a troop captain. "And what basics are you talking about?"

"The basics," he replies, moving closer to the edge of the counter. His face is just inches from mine. "Every time you leave your townhouse, I'll be by your side. I'll walk ahead of you. I'll enter rooms before you. I'll go wherever you go until you return safely home."

I blink slowly, my skin tingling with heat. The thought of Lennox being with me every day, all day, is like downing a gallon of milkshake in one gulp-I'm left with a brain freeze. I rub my jaw, feeling the sharpness of its edges.

Lennox tilts his head. "Okay?"

"I need to make a revision," I finally say, my gaze shifting to Perth. They exchange a look that I can't quite decipher.

I sidestep their conversation and press on, determined to make my point. "You walk into places beside me-"

"No," Lennox interrupts immediately. He runs his hands through his shockingly white hair, pushing the strands away from his face. It's a habit of his, a way to buy himself some time before responding. Sometimes it signifies that he's about to get serious.

Perth leans his elbow on the counter. "Tony, he needs to assess the room before you enter, just like Rodney used to."

Rodney is not Lennox. My previous bodyguard preferred to keep our interactions strictly professional, to the extent that I hardly knew anything about him personally. Lennox, on the other hand, is someone I know in a way I never knew Rodney.

This completely changes the dynamic of the bodyguard-client relationship that I'm accustomed to.

"Then, when we're out on the street," I continue addressing Lennox, "walk beside me. You don't have to be in front of me all the time like some kind of guide dog."

"A guide dog," he echoes, a mixture of amusement and annoyance playing across his face. "You couldn't have picked a more submissive animal, could you?" Before I can reply, he adds, "I'll consider it, but I can't promise I'll follow through in every situation."

That seems reasonable.

I nod a couple of times. "When did you find out about the new assignment?" He appears unfazed, but if he were a superhero in a battle zone, a comic book panel would show him relaxed on a destroyed bench, effortlessly surviving and adapting with his powers.

In contrast, I consciously exhibit my readiness for chaotic situations: my back straight, shoulders tense, and head held high.

"I was informed last night," he replies.

I let that sink in. "So, you only had an eight-hour head start on me."

"Technically, twelve," he corrects, a hint of satisfaction creeping onto his lips.

I suppress my own smile. "Thank you for the technical adjustment."

"Anytime, wolf scout." He leans forward, lowering his voice to a seductive whisper. "Just remember that I'm better than you at most things."

It takes a great deal of effort not to stare at his lips. "Sounds like a parallel universe."

A corner of his mouth quirks, and then he leans back.

Suddenly, a loud noise shakes us both, and we turn our heads towards the store windows. People are pressing against the glass, trying to catch a glimpse inside, while others chat loudly, eagerly awaiting the official opening of J. Son Paradise.

"We should go," I state the obvious.

It truly hits me that the "we" in this situation refers to Lennox and me. Not me and Perth. Not me and some guy I recently met.

It's just him and me.

And not in the way I had fantasized. Lennox is now obligated to protect me, maintain a professional relationship, and ensure my safety at all times.

Imagining a polar bear eating Fritos on the moon is easier than picturing Lennox as my bodyguard. I think it's a sign.

A sign that things are about to get incredibly weird.

ASHTON

As I left the J. Son Paradise café in my sleek red Audi, I felt a strange tension in the air between Lennox and me. It all started when I handed him my eight-page list, and now we were on the freeway, heading who-knows-where. Lennox was sitting silently, reading through the list, while I focused on navigating through the traffic. Paparazzi vehicles tried to chase us like old friends, but I skillfully sped past them.

Lennox finally looked up from the list and glanced at the cars around us. "I should be the one driving in this relationship," he said casually.

I couldn't help but stiffen at the mention of the word 'relationship', I quickly added 'platonic' in my mind, but the memory of my sixteen-year-old self, infatuated with Lennox, was still lingering.

At twenty-two-years-old, I was annoyed that Lennox was occupying my thoughts in such a way. He was never meant to be in my spank bank.

"Number twelve," I pointed out from the list, trying to change the subject.

He locked eyes with me for a moment before focusing on the paper. "It says you're not used to letting other people drive," he remarked, though the list actually said I always drove.

I shot him a sly look. "I didn't realize you can't read," I retorted as I changed lanes.

He chuckled. "Always a precious smartass," he commented, flipping a page. "You have a typo on number thirty-two."

The word "precious" bothered me. What did it even mean? I tried to shake it off, but it kept playing in my mind like a constant loop. "What typo?" I asked, irritated.

"You forgot a comma," he replied.

I groaned in annoyance. "This isn't a term paper. Don't critique my grammar," I said, trying to regain control of the situation.

Lennox casually put his foot up on the seat, balancing his forearm on his knee. He nonchalantly bit off and spat out a staple from the papers. It made me nervous trying to watch him and the road at the same time.

He had this peculiar way of moving his hands, with precision and care, almost like a surgeon or someone skilled enough to disassemble and reassemble a gun blindfolded. Those hands had occupied my fantasies countless times, and I desperately tried to push those thoughts away.

Lennox thumbed through the pages and warned me, "You're about to miss our exit."

"Shit," I exclaimed, quickly making my way to the right lane and avoiding more paparazzi.

Lennox folded most of the pages, keeping only two sheets in his hand.

"What are you doing?" I ask, curious about his actions.

He waves a folded stack of papers in his hand. "How about you let go of eighty-five percent of your rules and be less of a rigid wolf scout, wolf scout?"

I shake my head in disagreement. Those rules are a reflection of how I currently live my life. "This is my damn life, Lennox."

He looks serious as he responds, "And you need to make space for me. We can find a way to navigate together, but not if you restrain me even before the game begins."

I honestly believe he dislikes being confined by strict rules that he didn't create himself. "Rodney followed those rules."

"To his own detriment," he says bluntly. "You have a habit of speeding. I should be the one driving."

We're back to this argument again.

"I'm the one who drives," I assert. "You have plenty of other options. Watch me drive. Observe the other cars. Look at the horizon. Count the road signs. Play with the music-"

"Inaccurate," he interrupts, licking his thumb and rapidly flipping through the pages before settling on one. "Number ninety-two. I prefer no music in the car until noon." He tilts his head towards me. "Because...?"

"I usually need to make business calls. For charity," I emphasize, knowing he's aware that I work for a nonprofit organization. Every day will be like taking Lennox to work with me. It's strange. Even stranger is the fact that he's currently working as well. He's not just here in my car to chat; he's on the job.

"Are you planning to make a business call now?" he asks.

"No."

"Then it should really say 'I prefer no music in the car until noon when I have business calls,'" he remarks, opening the center console and grabbing a pen. He rewrites the rule. "You also have another typo-"

"Stop obsessing over the damn typos," I interrupt, adjusting the air conditioner. My frustration rises as his smile widens.

To break the silence, I turn on the radio and tune it to an EDM station. The heavy bass reverberates through the speakers.

"Music before noon," Lennox comments. "I've already started loosening his strict rules."

With one hand on the steering wheel, I use the other to give him the middle finger. "I love how you take credit for the stupid things in life. It's so generous of you."

Lennox almost laughs, but our lightheartedness fades as two paparazzi SUVs suddenly flank my car and cut off my path for a right turn.

"Get off Market Street," Lennox suggests.

"That was my plan," I reply, accelerating to forty miles over the speed limit in an attempt to pass the SUVs. However, they have a blue Honda blocking my way. The Honda abruptly slams on its brakes, forcing me to do the same.

Damn it.

I find myself trapped, cornered with no way out, like a rat caught in a trap. The paparazzi are closing in, their arms and cameras extending out of rolled-down windows, invading my space. Desperate to shield my eyes from the blinding flashes, I reach for my sunglasses, but before I can grab them, Lennox, always prepared for these situations, hands me my black Ray Bans. He slips on a pair of black aviators himself, a silent reminder that he's trained to handle these chaotic moments.

The paparazzi force me to drive at their slow pace, their relentless pursuit making it impossible to escape. Flashes of light assault me from every angle, but my sunglasses only dim the brightness, not my mounting frustration.

Usually, I can coexist with the paparazzi. I'll humor their harmless questions, sign their photographs that will later be sold on eBay, and there's a mutual respect between us. But then they pull stunts like this, and I can't help but question the decency of these cameramen. How many of them would jeopardize the safety of my family for a quick payday?

"Do you want me to intervene?" Lennox asks, his voice laced with concern. "Or would you rather let them capture photos of you glaring?"

I gesture towards the windshield, defeated. "There's nothing left to do."

Lennox unbuckles his seatbelt and leans over the middle console, inching closer to me. My breath catches in my lungs as I watch his arm slide across the back of my seat. With determination, he slams the heel of his palm onto the horn, creating a blaring sound that pierces through the morning air.

He extends his body further, carefully ensuring he doesn't obstruct my view of the road. But my attention is elsewhere, fixated on the fact that his shoulder brushes against my chest and one of his knees rests between mine.

Lennox rolls down the driver's side window, turning his head slightly so that our faces are mere inches apart. His focus shifts to the paparazzi as he yells, "Tell the Honda to drive off, or I'll shutter Ashton's windows!" By "shutter," he means he'll cover the windows with sheets to block their lucrative shots.

The cameraman defiantly replies, "Just one more minute! Get out of the way!" He dismissively waves his hand, trying to shoo Lennox.

"Hey! It's now or never," Lennox threatens, his voice dripping with caustic venom. Not surprisingly, the cameraman retreats into his SUV, and moments later, the Honda makes a hasty left turn, disappearing from sight.

The road is finally clear.

We're finally free.

I accelerate as quickly as I can, the realization hitting me that Rodney never had this kind of influence over the paparazzi. The profound impact Lennox has on them leaves me momentarily speechless.

As Lennox settles back in his seat, I reach over and roll up the window. He gathers his papers, and I steal a quick glance at him, then at the road, and then back at him.

He raises an eyebrow. "Do you have something to say?"

"Where did you learn that?" I ask.

Lennox clicks his seatbelt into place. "When you're the bodyguard for the most famous woman in the world, you can't just stand by and watch."

That woman is my mom.

She's not just famous; she's the reason her sisters are famous. She's the reason I'm famous. She's the reason we're all famous.

Regina Rees, my mom, is the origin of the public scrutiny, the media harassment, the invasion of paparazzi in Philadelphia, of all places. But it's not her fault.

It's never her fault.

I wish I could say that our fame came from a pure act of love, kindness, or some magical phenomenon. I wish it was something other than what actually happened.

But it was a scandal. It happened years before I was even born.

Someone leaked information when she was only twenty years old.

Regina Rees, the heiress of the Rees' soda empire, was confirmed to be a sex addict. That headline rocked the entire globe. Just a single, scandalous headline was enough to catapult every Rees sister from wealthy obscurity to instant notoriety.

Our fame burns. It continues to burn. None of us need to fan the flames for it to keep blazing.

And for me, fame is both a friend and a foe. It's ingrained in me. It's something I can touch and feel, something that resides deep within me. This is the only life I've ever known.

It's the only life I know.

***

In the present time, I find myself living in an old Victorian townhouse with Willow. It's a historic place with an area of just under 900 square feet. The house features hardwood floors, interior brick walls, and a kitchen so small that a third person would have to navigate the counters like Indiana Jones.

If given the choice, I would prefer a more minimalistic lifestyle. I don't require much to be content. However, I have to admit that the three-bedroom, one-bath setup is quite modest considering my wealth. Living in Philadelphia's Rittenhouse-Fitler Historic District doesn't come cheap for most people.

Upon arriving home, I pull into a three-car garage, a luxury in this area. Willow's baby blue Volkswagen Beetle is parked next to my car. The clock in my car reads 8:12 a.m. before I turn off the engine. Lennox, my bodyguard, unbuckles his seatbelt and tucks some papers into his back pocket. He acts as if he's just visiting, but in reality, he's moving in with me.

That's right.

This isn't a sitcom about my life. It's more like a drama or perhaps even a horror story. It's too early to tell.

At least we won't be roommates. Above the garage, there are two identical townhouses that stand side by side, connected by a door on the first floor for easy access. Security will be stationed in the right townhouse, while Willow and I will occupy the left one.

Lennox barely takes a moment to absorb his surroundings. He knows he's moving in; there are two suitcases and a black duffel bag in my trunk as evidence.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and ask, "Do you need anything else? I can pick up something for you at the store." I almost cringe at my own words. Why am I even asking Lennox this? I'm operating on autopilot, and someone needs to switch me to manual mode, pronto.

He pauses, his hand on the door handle, and looks at me with a slight smile. "It's cute that you're pretending you can go to the store without me."

"I wasn't pretending," I reply, putting my keys in my pocket and opening my door. "I just conveniently left that part out." It's for my own sanity. I'm acutely aware that Lennox is now obliged to accompany me everywhere. Very aware. I can't exactly pretend that this twenty-seven-year-old tattooed guy is some random person who latched onto my life. Right now, he's my damn co-captain.

And I'm not exactly thrilled about it.

With synchronized movements, we exit the Audi, firmly closing our doors. I open the trunk, reaching for his largest suitcase as I deliver an important message. "I take back my offer," I inform him.

Lennox responds in a serious tone, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. "That's unfortunate. I forgot to pack shampoo and conditioner."

"You can borrow mine-oh, for God's sake," I mutter to myself, allowing a brief moment of annoyance towards him.

Lennox chuckles triumphantly. "I just remembered that I have shampoo and conditioner."

I glare at him while grabbing his second suitcase, still holding onto the first one. "You're such an asshole."

He teases me with a smirk. "And you're a pure-hearted soul. What else remains unchanged?"

I refuse to let him take the larger suitcase from me. "I can carry it for you."

He gives me a look. "You don't need to earn a valor merit badge. I can handle my own stuff." Adjusting the strap of his duffel bag, he adds, "But as a gesture of kindness, I'll let you handle the smaller one."

"Wow, thanks," I say sarcastically, shoving the smaller suitcase into his chest while holding onto the larger one.

During these petty disputes, it becomes painfully evident that we are both dominant individuals, vying for the opportunity to carry the heavier suitcase.

I'm accustomed to assisting others, particularly due to my large extended family and being the oldest male. As for Lennox, his entire upbringing and profession revolve around duty and helping others. We are like lightning and thunder, distinct in nature but similar enough to coexist under the same sky.

Lennox doesn't argue further about the larger suitcase.

I close the trunk and inquire, "You remember which entrance leads where?" I gesture towards the two options. He has visited this place before as my mother's bodyguard.

Maintaining eye contact, Lennox responds, "The left door leads to Azkaban. The right one takes us to Mordor."

I stare at him, dumbfounded. I'm usually the one who cracks pop culture references, while Lennox isn't even fond of fantasy.

He tolerates it reluctantly, like someone who despises mayonnaise but still eats it on a turkey sandwich.

"Have you been spending too much time with my mom?" I question. My parents are lovers of comic books and pop culture, undoubtedly the coolest. The Haynes girls and Walsh children may argue that their parents are equally cool, but there's no competition.

Without a doubt, mine are the absolute best.

Lennox's lips curl into a smile, and I feel my muscles tense. I try to focus on his eyes, ignoring his mouth. No, not his mouth.

"It's an inside joke with the whole security team," he says.

I'm surprised he's sharing this with me. "Seriously?"

He nods, and we walk towards the door on the right, the one he referred to as Mordor. "I was told it started with your little brother. His bodyguard shared the joke with another bodyguard, and it spread."

I can easily imagine Blake making a comment about Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings.

We climb a few stairs, and I wait on a step below him, placing the suitcase on its wheels.

Lennox searches for his key in his pocket. "Rodney didn't talk to you much, did he?"

I freeze, feeling a sense of unease fill the garage. In hindsight, I wonder if I should have made more effort to get to know my bodyguard personally. Was I being rude? What if all this time he wanted me to pry into his life, and I thought I was respecting his boundaries?

Rodney knew everything about me. The world knows most things about me. But I only knew the names of his kids and wife.

Hardly anything else.

Lennox glances back at me, assessing my expression. "It's okay if he didn't."

I remember the context of his question. "He didn't reveal any security team secrets, if that's what you're asking."

Lennox finds his key, but he turns fully to face me. "Let's handle this, Tony-"

"Ashton," I correct, my voice firm. Everyone in my family calls me Tony, but when he uses that nickname, it takes me back to childhood. It emphasizes our five-year age difference, and when I imagine my younger self in bed with him (which has only existed in my fantasies), it's cringe-worthy.

So he's not allowed to call me Tony.

That's final.

"Ashton," he says, as if I'm being overly sensitive.

"What exactly are we dealing with?" I steer the conversation back on track before he senses my true motives.

"What I share with you, they're not secrets. At least half of us don't consider them secrets. The other half are so uptight, they could pass for the Queen's Guard outside Buckingham Palace."

"So you're like a rebel in the security team." I give him a deliberate once-over, taking in his tattoos, black wardrobe, and piercings. "All this time, I had no idea."

Lennox couldn't help but let out a short laugh, tinged with agitation and amusement, as he nodded a few times. There was a hint of a smartass remark lingering on his tongue, evident in his sly smile. In that moment, his gaze briefly dropped to my lips.

My mind struggled to process the meaning behind his actions, but before I could make sense of it, Lennox abruptly acted as if nothing had happened. He nonchalantly began to unlock the door, as if the exchange had been a figment of my imagination.

I'm prone to indulging in fantasies, so it's entirely possible that I conjured up that fleeting moment out of the depths of my sexually frustrated mind. Perhaps it was all in my head.

However, my immediate thought, almost instinctual, was to go out and find a one-night stand tonight. It was a desperate desire born out of my need for release. But then, reality hit me like a slap in the face: Lennox had to accompany me.

There was no escaping him. It felt like he would be a permanent fixture in my life, for what seemed like an eternity.