Fielding pretended to sleep, but he was hungry and cold. The last thing he'd remembered eating was a salad that wouldn't keep a toddler full. The guy hadn't even turned on the heat. He hadn't seen much of his new keeper. The guy was all shadowed figure and bad attitude.

Livingston, that's what the guy's boss called him, spoke in guttural tones that reminded him of gravel against stone. No softness existed within it and with the size of Livingston that wasn't much of a surprise. He'd have to tilt his head all the way back just to look at him.

There was something odd about him. Stranger was the fact the interior lights hadn't come on when the doors opened. He didn't think it was a blown bulb, and he sensed it was intentional.

When he was nervous, he talked—a lot, but Livingston didn't invite chatter. So, he bit his lip and pretended to be asleep and thought about the trouble he was in. When the first letter and gift came, he hadn't worried about it. His agent said it was normal to get fan mail. He held onto that belief until the letters from the anonymous fan turned sexual in nature. Outlining all the things anonymous wanted to do to him. It wasn’t that they were disgusting in their descriptions. Some of them seemed to be almost romantic. Letters what he assumed a boyfriend would write or assumed what one of those would say. He’d never had one—probably never would.

The break-ins at his apartment spurned the need for a bodyguard. He hadn't anticipated they'd send him to some small town in Georgia.

He was perversely happy about four months away from his agent and parents. It would be like a vacation. His mother put him in his first commercial at two, and from that day forward, his life was always about his big break. Now only four months separated him from his mother's goal. This wasn’t the life he’d dreamed for himself, but he kept those secrets to himself. It didn’t do him any good to wish for the impossible.

All he wanted was to go to college like other people his age. He wanted a boyfriend instead of the girlfriends his mother always pushed at him. It wasn’t like she didn't know he was gay. He'd come out at thirteen. And he was small and femme, as an actor he tempered it to appease his parents and his agent. They didn't care about him beyond his money-making ability.

He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew the bounce of the SUV knocked his head against the window. He straightened and rubbed at his eyes, but he didn't see anything other than trees in the headlights. There wasn't anything else.

“Where are we?”

Nervousness twisted his stomach as Livingston simply grunted. He wrung his hands on his lap and started to fidget on the seat. Suddenly the trees broke into a clearing, and a small cabin stood in the center. As Livingston pulled up, security lights illuminated the yard. Spotlights shined from trees around the perimeter. The vehicle came to a stop.

The man said nothing to him as Livingston opened the door and got out. He followed the man's lead and exited. By the time his feet touched the ground, Livingston already had his bag and was headed toward the house.

He practically jogged to catch up. Lights came on inside.

“Go inside. I have to grab the groceries.”

Before he could get a look at the huge man, he was gone again. He left his bag where Livingston had dropped it beside the door. The interior was one big room. A king-sized bed sat angled in the far corner with simple nightstands on either side. A living room area was on the opposite side. The place was masculine, not many personal touches. There wasn't any clutter to be seen. He wondered if the man was just obsessively neat.

He jumped when the door slammed behind him. Livingston passed him and headed toward the small kitchen area. Black cotton stretched across broad shoulders and back. He backed up until the door stopped him, he'd seen big men before. Studios had security guys, but he'd never seen a man this...massive. One of Livingston's thighs was probably as big around as him. This wasn't a good idea. He wanted to go home.

That's when the worst mistake of his life happened, Livingston turned toward him, and he gasped. The exposed skin on Livingston's right side was mottled with discolored scar tissue, and the damage was less severe on his face. Faded somewhat but still noticeable, the worst of them covered his neck and the skin exposed by the short sleeve of the man’s t-shirt. The man's eyes filled with rage and Livingston's strong jaw, even covered with a thick beard, he could see it clench in an agitated rhythm. He was caught between horror and pity, the man was...

“Better get used to it now, boy, you're looking at it for the next four months.”

“I'm…”

Livingston turned away and ended whatever apology he was going to make. He watched as the man angrily unpacked and put away several bags of groceries. He couldn't move or speak. He hadn't expected, hell, he didn't know what he expected.

“Bathrooms through that door. We're off the grid out here. Everything is run by solar power. I have a mobile hot-spot. Signal ain't the greatest, but it works. I need your phone. It'll be turned off for your stay.”

He'd never gone a day without his phone before. There was email. Social media check-in.

“They'll be no arguments. It'll be in the safe.”

“Where will I sleep?”

“Don't worry you won't have to share the bed. I have a bedroll. I'll be just fine on the floor. Unless you need something else, I've gotta crash.”

One minute Livingston was there, and the next he was gone. He sighed and quickly got ready for bed, he turned his phone off and laid it on the kitchen table. The hardwood floors were chilly under his bare feet. He hurried to the bed and curled up, as tired as he was, all he could do was stare at the ceiling.

He'd screwed up, it wasn't as if he hadn't done it before but for some reason, he still felt the need to apologize. Although, he felt Livingston wouldn't accept it.

Despite the scars, the unmarred side was gorgeous. The dips and peaks of the marred skin fascinated him, and he wondered what the texture would be like under his fingertips. He was a tactile person. He’d always had a bad habit of touching things just to see what they felt like. His parents had told him how annoying the habit was when he was little. His mother claimed he’d rubbed a sore spot from the circles he drew on her arm when she’d put him to sleep as a baby. It soothed him. Although, everyone else thought his touching was an irksome quirk.

The lights flashed off, and he tracked Livingston, dim nightlights illuminated the edges of the room. He could only make out shadows as Livingston snapped open a sleeping bag and arranged it, and a pillow on the floor nearest the door.

He held his breath as the man efficiently stripped down to a pair of boxer briefs. He hoped Livingston wouldn’t catch him staring. It was the first time he’d seen a man getting ready for bed.

His parents never let him out of their sight and the only time they left him alone was when his mother was trying to get him a girlfriend to show off.

He used to imagine what it would be like to have a boyfriend. There were plenty of men he’d had crushes on over the years. He’d even worked with another actor when he was a teenager who was about his age who had seemed to flirt with him. Then he’d realized the boy had made it into a game.

He turned over before he got caught. Livingston wasn’t exactly happy to have him there. He understood. Who wanted to babysit someone for four months? Even though the space seemed impersonal, he sensed this was Livingston’s home, probably his sanctuary and now some stranger was taking up space. Hell, he’d taken the man’s bed. He buried his face in the pillow and inhaled, there wasn’t any cologne, no scent at all. Livingston must’ve changed the sheets earlier. He felt stupid for being disappointed. He flopped over onto his back.

When he couldn’t sleep, he’d watched TV, but he didn’t think Livingston would appreciate him turning it on at almost four a.m. This was going to be the longest four months of his life. He turned his head to find Livingston on his back, with his arms crossed under his head. His eyes widened as the moonlight coming through the windows, leaving Livingston’s face in shadows, but shined on the man’s powerful chest. One side was covered with thick dark hair, the other side the hair was thinner—patchy in spots.

He slammed his eyes closed and pulled the pillow over his head. He wasn’t going to survive his stay there.