Guarding His Desires (Passionate Security Book 2)

by Jaylen Florian

  "Get out!" The man shouts, fiercely pounds on the driver side window and tries to open the locked door. "That's ours!"

  With his tires squealing, Gustavo glares at the man's face as he begins speeding away. In his rearview mirror, Gustavo sees the man race toward a white jeep. Gustavo careens around the winding road down the mountain, reaches Los Feliz Boulevard, and thinks he has escaped. But just as he is about to turn homeward, eastward onto Franklin Avenue, he captures a glimpse of the jeep. Panicked, Gustavo wheels his car westward, nearly colliding with a truck and a motorcyclist. He bangs on the wheel in frustration. His throat tightens as the jeep draws closer.

  Gustavo honks his horn as he runs red lights. He reaches Hollywood and drives south past Hollywood Boulevard and Sunset Boulevard. Gustavo finally stops at the police station, bounding into the parking lot and racing indoors with the package.

  9

  Sky Beacon

  Zachary and Aleksey finish dining at a quaint Thai restaurant a few blocks south of Golden Gate Park. Family run and operated, with muted lighting and only six tables, it is one of Zachary's favorite places for a hearty meal in San Francisco. The wife and husband who own the establishment greet him warmly with good cheer, remembering his sporadic past visits but having no idea of his identity or profession. If feeling fancy is at odds with feeling at ease, there is no battle whatsoever with Zachary. Being at ease, and being protected and sensible, always wins with him.

  They travel to Ghirardelli Square for freshly-made bars of dark chocolate. Zachary loves the ones with sea salt while Aleksey favors the bourbon caramel. They visit a couple of the shops, including a skin care store and a pet care boutique.

  "I may have to get this," Zachary says, showing Aleksey a large dog collar with three rows of pyramid spikes.

  "For you or your future dog?" Aleksey replies.

  "My collection," Zachary says, referring to the accumulation of supplies he has been purchasing occasionally during the past two years for when he is ready to adopt a rescued dog. "I don't need a collar for myself."

  "Do they sell knee pads?"

  Aleksey covers his mouth his hand and raises his eyebrows after the words slip out. Zachary's jaw drops, but he cannot hide his amusement with his bodyguard's quick retort.

  "You are towing the line," Zachary grins. "You know that, right?"

  "That just burst out of my mouth," Aleksey answers. "No offense intended."

  "I did not hear any crack of judgment in your voice, did I?"

  "No, not at all. I apologize for dropping my guard."

  "Then there is no need to apologize," Zachary says, punching Aleksey in the arm and taking the collar to the boutique cashier.

  Zachary completes the purchase and leads Aleksey by foot back to Russian Hill, mentioning he wants to get the feel of the neighborhood at night. Aleksey walks at his side, on his left, keeping Zachary a bit farther away from the street traffic.

  "Do you think we could make this place work?" Zachary asks.

  "Sure," Aleksey answers. "Any place can be made to work."

  "No, not anywhere. This is a critical decision. If everywhere was safe, I would just stay in Phoenix."

  "I can understand why Russian Hill appeals to you. But if you want your future dog—or dogs—to have a yard to play in, then this won't work."

  "True."

  The men return to the Grand Vestige Hotel on the corner plateau of Nob Hill. As arranged, the kilted man with the curly ginger hair is waiting in the lobby, reading a guidebook about redwood trees in a rococo ribbon-back chair under a voluminous crystal chandelier. He stands and nods with a half-smile as he spots Zachary.

  "I will meet you up at the Sky Beacon," Zachary says to Aleksey, handing him a couple of twenty dollar bills and referring to the hotel's famed rooftop lounge.

  Aleksey rides the elevator to the 19th floor and is immersed in the red-and-gold paisley carpeted lounge. Its walls of glass grant customers a 360-degree view of the city and peninsula. Most of the tables are occupied, but the hostess finds Aleksey a petite window-side table and he orders a Manhattan cocktail. His amazing westward night view includes Grace Cathedral on the other side of the hill and the Golden Gate Bridge to the distant north. He discreetly takes several pictures to share later with Rafael.

  Aleksey sips his drink and waits for his boss. He has learned to take Zachary's promiscuity in stride. Initially, it was not easy. He believed Zachary's encounters with strangers exposed him to unconscionable risks. He still knows this is true. But Aleksey also realizes that Zachary's survival instincts are sharp. In whatever way he is selecting the men, he is succeeding, at least so far, with making sensible choices.

  Zachary had been honest with Aleksey from the start. He demanded total discretion, explained that he required frequent sexual encounters for reasons beyond instant gratification, and pledged to never sexually harass Aleksey. Zachary wanted a loyal, clever, and resourceful protector. He did not need a person to interfere with his lifestyle, training methods, or travel decisions.

  Aleksey orders a second drink, but this is one is non-alcoholic. His unspoken compact, both with himself and his boss, is limiting alcohol to no more than one drink per night. Zachary imposes the same limitation on himself. Aleksey watches the red light on Sutro Tower—blinking like a heartbeat for the city—emerging with three metallic prongs from a mountain near Twin Peaks southwest of him. The pace lulls Aleksey into assessing his career position, rising to become Zachary's foremost, and most trusted, bodyguard. There are other security personnel Zachary brings together in some cities, but Aleksey is the only full-time guard who lives and travels with Zachary. Apart from his professionalism and commitment to excellent performance, Aleksey has grown to admire Zachary deeply. He has discovered Zachary is a complicated person with faults that are outweighed by an inherent goodness and kindness. Zachary may conquer opponents in cages, but he is not a man who takes pleasure in humiliating, belittling, or otherwise harming others.

  Continuing to stare at the tripod tower in the night sky, Aleksey also considers that through years of service it is possible, maybe even likely, that he knows Zachary better than Zachary knows himself. Aleksey has not commented upon the scattered clues indicating that Zachary is thinking about his life after retirement. Professional mixed martial arts fighters have varying age ranges for their career peaks. Zachary may have several more years where he can compete on a world-class level.

  Zachary's mind will abandon the sport before his body does, Aleksey decides, flicking a melting ice cube from one side of his mouth to the other.

  A group of women leave their table and four seats in the center region of the lounge, which is elevated and separated by a low iron railing. Their absence reveals a well-dressed couple on the opposite side of the room. The man and woman are smiling and looking into each other's eyes, appearing to be courting, oblivious to those around them. Aleksey is good with recalling faces. The man is not someone he believes he has seen before. But the blond woman may be familiar. He stares at her, trying to place her and imagine her with a different hair style or application of makeup. The table for four is cleared, cleaned, and seated with new guests, blocking Aleksey's view of the couple.

  Aleksey closes his eyes and rubs his temples with gentle circular motions of his index fingers.

  "Where did I see you before?" he asks himself, muttering aloud so quietly the people next to him cannot hear his words. "Who are you?"

  10

  Encounter

  Zachary follows the kilted man into his hotel room. The room is clean and tidy, dominated by a king size bed and east-facing windows with elaborate draping and curtains pulled aside to reveal the skyline of San Francisco's Financial District. The windows are raised a few inches, ushering in cool breezes that gush into the room and swirl against the ceiling and walls. The top of the writing desk under the mirror holds a tourist map, phone charger, loose pile of coins, and identification badge.

  "Gargoyle or grotesque?" Zachary asks,
gesturing toward the decorative stone creature perched outside on the hotel's facade, above the window.

  "Are you speaking in code?" the kilted man laughs. "Having second thoughts?"

  "No, one is a water spout and the other is architectural ornamentation. I always confuse the two. Gargoyles and grotesques."

  "Hopefully, that one is for fending off bad spirits."

  "Don't count on it," Zachary says.

  "Should I fear you?" the kilted man asks, sitting on the edge of the bed and motioning an invitation for Zachary to sit in the desk chair across from him.

  "The answer is no. But when it comes to strangers, it is a question you have to ask yourself. Don't you agree?"

  "I guess I have been lucky. No one has tried to hurt me."

  "Douglas is your first name or last name?" Zachary asks, glancing at the identification badge on the desk.

  "You are a stunning man," Douglas answers, ignoring the question. "Most guys who look similar to you ignore me. They don't give me a chance at all."

  "So the kilt is for attention?"

  "I guess so. Plus, the freedom of it. Wearing whatever I want and making my own rules."

  "Few grown men can pull wearing one off without it looking like a costume," Zachary says, as his eyes wander over the man's ginger curls and milky, pink-white skin. "I have to admit it looks natural on you. Scottish heritage?"

  "Yes, some," Douglas answers. "Have you worn a kilt before?"

  "Not yet."

  "Are you and your friend tourists?"

  "We are here for business."

  "I am too," Douglas offers. "Our convention begins tomorrow night. In the Peacock Room downstairs, by the garden. I came early for sightseeing."

  Douglas takes off his boots and Zachary removes his shoes.

  "What is the top thing to see on your list?" Zachary asks.

  "Muir Woods," Douglas answers. "The national monument for redwood trees on Mount Tamalpais."

  "Great choice."

  "I am going early tomorrow morning. Would you like to join me?"

  Zachary genially shakes his head and peels off his socks. Douglas follows suit, exposing his wide and flat-arched feet.

  "Your badge has an acronym I have not seen before," Zachary says. What does it stand for?"

  "It's an association for television and cable production professionals."

  "They let you wear a kilt to work?"

  "I tried once," Douglas chortles. "But it did not go over well. People complained."

  "On what grounds?" Zachary asks.

  Douglas spreads his knees. His manhood is displayed under the tartan material. Zachary's eyes explore while Douglas watches his face.

  "Nice," Zachary responds. "That is the problem with going natural—commando—in a kilt though, isn't it? Eventually, everyone gets a peek."

  "Do you like it?" Douglas asks.

  "You are growing."

  Douglas stands and flips off the lamp. Observing Zachary removing his shirt, Douglas begins unfastening his kilt. Zachary stops him by firmly grabbing his arm, signaling that he wants Douglas to keep the kilt on. Douglas returns to the corner of the bed and leans back, while Zachary kneels down between his legs. Zachary squeezes Douglas's calf and thigh muscles while the tip of his tongue teases his erection upward. Douglas's foreskin rolls back and he quivers, waiting for Zachary's mouth.

  Slowly, as Douglas kneads Zachary's nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, Zachary parts his lips. Fully stiff, Douglas moans as Zachary engulfs him. Glazing motions of the tongue on his crown bring him close to orgasm, far too soon. Douglas wraps his legs around Zachary's back, pressuring him to slow down. Instead, Zachary buries Douglas entirely inside his mouth and intensifies the compressions.

  "Oh no," Douglas complains. "I cannot hold it back."

  Douglas lets go of his chest and clasps Zachary's pronounced ears while he climaxes, bucking wildly into Zachary's face and pumping semen down his throat. Douglas flings his arms behind his head and wrings a pillow as he finishes pulsing.

  "Wow, you have no gag reflex, Zach," Douglas notes, sighing and catching his breath.

  Zachary springs to his feet. He glares at Douglas and moves to the side of the bed.

  "What's wrong?" Douglas asks. "Are you going to rob me?"

  "You gave yourself away," Zachary answers. "You just called me by a name I never shared with you."

  The handgun concealed under the pillow, a semi-automatic pistol, is now pointed right at Zachary's chest.

  "Back up," Douglas orders, climbing out of the bed and gesturing for Zachary to be seated again.

  Zachary obeys, sitting on the edge of the seat. Douglas, still nude, steadily holds the barrel toward Zachary and maneuvers to where he is standing four feet away, outside of the likely range of a kick or punch.

  "They were right," Douglas says, smiling with a sneer. "You suck a seriously mean dick."

  Zachary offers no reaction.

  "No dude has ever been down there before like that," Douglas adds. "I am a married man. But damn, I could not stop you."

  "Is there a point to all of your banter?" Zachary asks.

  "I am just savoring the victory and my handsome reward. Zachary Fellini—finally caught."

  11

  Flee

  After waiting twenty minutes for service and overhearing a dozen horror stories by other victims of crimes, Gustavo sits on a plastic chair in a cubicle across from an attendant at the police station. Bullet-proof glass separates them. The attendant, a plump woman with her hair in a bun, frowns at Gustavo and folds her arms across her chest.

  "Is that all?" she asks.

  "Excuse me?" Gustavo replies.

  "A forty-year-old man with a square jaw, blond hair parted on the side, and a scarred left eyebrow chases you around a field and parking lot?"

  "You need to have an officer check for the man I told you about in the business suit by the trail. His corpse could be waiting for you right now."

  "No theft. You confessed you dropped your phone. No battery. You kicked the scarred man, you admitted. And no witnessing of any crimes. So, please tell me again why you are here."

  "It is normal and acceptable for a man in a ski mask to assault innocent people in a park?" Gustavo snaps.

  "Technically, you can file a report," the attendant says, shrugging. "Realistically, no officer is going to be assigned to this. Perhaps, though, if you ever spot this man again and he actually commits a crime, then you may or may not be able to utilize your report as prior supporting evidence."

  "Honestly, this is extremely disappointing. I thought you would help me. I expected you to be concerned about the man in agony on the trail."

  The attendant flips her eyebrows upward for a moment, blinks heavily, and slides a clipboard with papers and an attached pen through a flat hollow at the base of the bullet-proof barrier.

  "Is there even anything of value in the box that was supposedly handed to you voluntarily by the crying man on the trail?" she asks.

  Gustavo looks at the package laying across his lap. He considers demanding a supervisor. He listens to a young tourist beside him who is explaining to another attendant how a woman he picked up at a bar stole fourteen thousand dollars in traveler's checks from his hotel room. The tourist is meeting the same resistance from his attendant.

  "No," Gustavo answers, standing up to depart. "Unfortunately, we have wasted each other's valuable time. Good evening."

  The attendant regards Gustavo without a change of expression and flips the signal for the next person in line to approach her cubicle.

  Gustavo scans the parking area and nearby streets as he swiftly enters his car. There is no sign of the jeep or anything else suspicious. Erring on the safe side, he meanders down Sunset Boulevard instead of heading directly home. Constantly checking his rear view mirrors, Gustavo travels many miles west, through the legendary strip full of nightclubs and restaurants in West Hollywood, and the exclusive neighborhoods of Beverly Hills and Holmb
y Hills. Still rattled, though believing he is moving about undetected, Gustavo drives north on Interstate 405 and east on Mulholland Drive, slithering atop the mountain divide between the Los Angeles basin and valley. He stops several times and changes directions before finally reaching southbound Highway 101 and exiting at Franklin Avenue en route to his apartment. He skips the Spanish building's car lot and opts to park along Normandie Avenue by a palm tree that partially obstructs the streetlight beside it.

  Inside his apartment, Gustavo lays the box at the foot of his bed, prepares chamomile tea, and changes into sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He rumbles through a box in his closet, finds an old mobile phone, and plugs it into his desktop computer to charge it and sync it with his updated contacts.

  Once calmed by two mugs of hot tea, Gustavo swells with sorrow, realizing his recollections from observing people at the observatory may be lost forever. Passcode protected, he perks up with a glint of hope that the masked man might have discarded it in the dirt upon learning he could not access the phone contents. This is unlikely, Gustavo tells himself, but possible. He writes himself a reminder note to contact the observatory personnel in the morning. He also perks up as he assures himself that the vast majority of what he astonishingly witnessed—the energy fields with the strangers—is firmly lodged in his brain.

  Gustavo sits on his bed, leans the weighty package against his thigh, and tears the tape sealing the top of the box with a pair of scissors. The contents, at least three feet in length, are encased in layers of plastic bubble wrap. He snips the pieces of tape without destroying the wrap, which he finally unfolds, careful not to touch and put his fingerprints on what he initially fears is likely the barrel of some type of firearm.