[The following story, characters, and events are a work of fiction. All characters portrayed in this work - both directly and indirectly in both sexual and non-sexual contexts - are of the ages eighteen and above.]
- S.A. -
" ¡ Alexander, nunca hagas nada a medias!"
Never half-ass anything.
Those were the words my father had instilled in me as a child; a strong work ethic, taking pride in what you've built and accomplished, and doing it right the first time. I took those words to heart--whether it was mowing and weed whacking the front yard as a teenager, to my time as a cav scout in the United States Army, and finally as a deputy for the Los Angeles Police Department.
After a ten-year career at the LAPD, one of my old buddies from the police academy reached out and introduced me to where the real money was: Private Security, a "Close Protective Operative". A bodyguard, in layman's terms.
Over the span of several months, I dedicated myself to the multiple facets of executive protection operations. Permits were needed in both open and concealed weaponry, first aid and CPR certifications, unarmed training and CQC honing, and getting in peak physical condition had me spend more time at the gym and shooting range than my own place. On the bright side, I could confidently say that I was the best shape of my life in my mid-thirties than I had ever been in before.
Despite the drastic change in careers, I continuously heard my father's words in my ear. I would interview clients as much as they interviewed me--processing probable threats, identifying suspicious hazards or behaviors, and what exact premises I was securing were all factors I took into heavy consideration before accepting a job. Through the years, I worked and continued to build my portfolio of clients: CEOs and executives, divorcees going through messy proceedings, and wealthy patrons all wanted my protection and would freely recommend me to other probable customers. When you enter the point when people begin contacting you, you can afford to start getting picky.
All that was thrown out the window the day I got a call from Thane Davenport.
I almost didn't believe it at first, the real estate baron owned properties on six continents. A billionaire several times over, his realty consisted of hotels, country clubs, casinos, magnificent mansions, and luxurious penthouses. Thane was a man who got what he wanted and, as much as my suspicions were aflame, the money he was offering was simply too good to pass up.
In lieu of my usual in-depth questioning and report-taking, Mr. Davenport was the one doing the majority of the talking. The assignment he was offering was rather simple--tag along with the client for a four-week course. In exchange: an obscene amount of money, housing and living expenses included, an open pipeline to opportunities of future work, and a complementary two-week stay at any of the resorts under his real estate umbrella as an added bonus to sweeten the pot.
The caveat was that my services were to be needed immediately, the flight to New Hampshire was already booked first thing in the morning. For whatever reason, he was especially insistent that three days from today--Thursday--was an upcoming important event.
"Mr. Davenport," I finally managed butt in, "What exact threats do you think you'll be facing?"
He was silent for a moment, "Oh no, you misunderstand. This assignment isn't for me, it's for my son. Mitchell Davenport."
Mitchell Bellamy Davenport--heir to the Davenport real estate empire.
"But Mr. Guerrero," Mr. Davenport cautiously approached, "This will not be a typical job, this assignment will require a certain amount of discretion."
Scrawling on my notepad, my interest was piqued, "In what way?"
Clearing his throat, "Mitchell is my only child. I have vested interest in seeing him graduate and claim my company as his own one day. But if these rumors I'm hearing are anything near reality--on the verge of flunking out, wild partying, sexual promiscuity--I fear that my company may not be in the best hands."
I nodded sympathetically, "He's young, Mr. Davenport. He still has time to grow up and fill those shoes."
"That may be so. After all, I was the same way at his age," he conceded, "But I feel it'd be for the best to have someone close to him at all times to monitor and report his progress."
The words hung in the air as I scanned my brain for an appropriate response, "Mr. Guerrero?" He asked after a bout of silence.
"That would be me?" I clarified, "You want me to
spy
on your son?"
Nervous laughter, "Not necessarily 'spy', Alexander." He clarified, though that's exactly what it sounded like to me, "I think Mitchell needs a guiding hand, and I would be most appreciative if I knew exactly where to direct my efforts."
I guess it was a more stomachable way of explaining it. Yet there was a nagging feeling in the bottom of my gut that persisted me, the words of actually accepting the offer were lodged in the back of my throat unable to vocalize, "And of course," Mr. Davenport continued, "You will be handsomely compensated for your efforts."
"But I'm afraid I'll need an answer now," He issued an ultimatum.
My brain was awash with conflicting feelings and an overload of information. My attempt to read the notes I had taken throughout the conversation left me even more scatterbrained as I couldn't even comprehend my writings. I didn't feel right about reporting on the activities of a client whom I was supposed to protect with my life. Yet the thought of the big bucks and the good word of a real estate tycoon tempted me...
Many celebrities and athletes rented those sprawling estates and downtown flats that Mr. Davenport was famous for. Using them for weekend getaways, high-profile weddings, and parties of all kinds. The thought of his powerful word giving me access to a large repertoire of high-paying gigs and future opportunities pushed me strongly in favor of, "Yes, I'll accept the job."
"Thank you, Alexander!" He enthusiastically replied, "I'll have my agent send you your ticket and relevant information! And as a sign of good faith, I'll forward a portion of your payment now."
Exchanging last-minute thank yous and pleasantries, the call ended as quickly as it had begun. Leaving me in standing in silence in my bedroom, prompting me to begin the first steps of packing my belongings and necessary equipment I would have to bring with me. In less than twenty-four hours, I would be on the other side of the country protecting a client I had never met before. An absolute first for me.
Beginning the process of folding clothes and underwear into my travel case, my phone vibrated in my back pocket as I fished it out and read the notifications. The reflection of the phone screen showed my reaction as clear as day--my dark eyes widening and thick eyebrows raising high above as my mouth parted.
Wow! I had never seen that many zeroes for a job I technically hadn't even started yet. If this was merely the sign-on bonus, then I could only imagine how big the check would be at the end of these next four weeks. The second notification was the two emails from Mr. Davenport's agent--the first being my ticket for the one-way trip from Los Angeles to New Hampshire at six in the morning. The second being the report on Mitchell Davenport.
The report on Mitchell Bellamy Davenport was thorough and intense. A twenty-year old male standing at 5'7 and weighing one-fifty with brown hair and hazel eyes. I raised an eyebrow at the curiously detailed notes about the boy, reading these many details about a client I had yet to meet made me feel uneasy. Yet, I reasoned that I owed it to the Davenports--both father and son--to be as well-read and knowledgeable about a client as possible before I assumed protection duty.
A juvenile rap sheet largely consisting of underaged drinking, possession of drug paraphernalia, public urination and intoxication, and indecent exposure all caught the eye. Every incident being swiftly met with posting bail and all charges eventually being dropped; all on account of Daddy Davenport's involvement, I was certain.
Following that was a lengthy expenses page consisting of credit card charges and money transfers. The common pattern being after Mitchell finished maxing out all his credit cards to their monthly allowances, Daddy Davenport would send him a large wallop of money to continue his frivolous spending habits. Louis Vuitton, Versace, and Tom Ford were some of the recognizable brands I could pick out of a long lineup of foreign and unrecognizable names.
I suppose a long day of shopping could leave one famished, which explains why his food budget totaled in the thousands of dollars. Just one single night at a fancy restaurant incurred a bill of several hundreds. Though that didn't stop Mitchell from making regular visits to McDonalds, Starbucks, and Chipotle. I guess even the spawns of billionaires love their fast food.
One aspect that definitely caught my attention was the so-called "entertainment budget". Sure, there were the regular streaming services that nearly everyone had a subscription to, but there were hundreds of dollars a month being spent on copious amounts of porn. I blushed scrolling through the too-familiar names of Sean Cody, CockyBoys, Raging Stallion, and the multitude of OnlyFans accounts he billed on his cards.
Mi padre
was old-fashioned, sure, but he had some right ideas--maybe a belt would've done this boy some good.
It was already late, past midnight and slowly creaking into the early hours of the morning. I had no time to waste. Quickly scrolling through pages of miscellaneous information, I reminded myself that I would have plenty of time to review and process all of this on the seven-hour flight. I placed the phone on the charger and returned to packing.
The rest of the night was uneventful besides the constant tossing and turning in my bed. I was able to fall asleep in twenty-minute increments before waking up again, constantly finding myself interrupted with the thoughts of the upcoming assignment and what to expect.
A lot was on the line here. And I felt like I was walking in totally blind.
Nothing but the spoiled brat of a billionaire
, I kept reminding myself. I had faced down enemy fire during my time in the Army, I patrolled streets of gangs and drugs in Los Angeles, and I protected important clients who feared for their lives in dangerous situations. Yet, an unending feeling of anxiety continually washed over me throughout the night as I begged with myself to try and get some sleep.
I could only come up with one last idea as I grabbed my charging phone off the nightstand. A quick jerk-off session was usually a surefire way to cure a bout of sleeplessness. Slowly peeling off my underwear beneath the sheets, I quickly selected one of the first videos that caught my interest. Watching the massive-dicked Malik Delgaty pound and pulverize tiny twinks was damn-near an artform, and I quickly found myself fully erect and enjoying every second of the scene.
