3

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.