At that moment, as I stretched out on the floor of Chris Barker Stevens's massive and vacant living room, I had the distinct sense that this mission was going to be far more difficult than I'd anticipated.

I fluffed up my duffel bag the best I could, pushed it against the wall to use as a pillow, and put my hands behind my head. Dull thuds pounded through the ceiling as Chris stomped around. Truly, a fucking babysitting job.

I had to admit—the man was a hell of a lot more attractive than I'd been expecting, even with his face all beat up. He was tall, built, and muscular, but not in a bulky way. What really caught my attention were his eyes. Behind all of that fire and severity, there was something that hooked me. My first assumption, based on my mission description, was that the guy was just another one of those famous people who made drama just to keep the spotlight on them. But I could see that there was something else going on. He was hurting.

Not your job, Sylus, I thought.

It was true. The guy was a client. I was here for a specific purpose, which was definitely not getting involved with this guy's personal issues, no matter how hard it was to ignore my instinct to solve problems and protect those who needed it most. Or how difficult it was to dismiss the goddamn hard-on I had.

Physically speaking, he was 100% my type. Which might've been bad news for me considering I was now living with the guy, only I wasn't interested in just having a tight, hard body next to mine for a night or so. I wanted something more.

Also, I was pretty sure the guy was straight. Pretty important distinction.

The house was huge and could've housed me, my brothers, and my entire squad with plenty of room for activities. It was one of those modern monstrosities—a mix of exposed concrete and hardwood floors, the kind of minimalist futuristic shit you’d imagine Tony Stark having. It was nice, just not really my type.

I was a simple man with simple tastes. A pickup truck, sleeping bag and the stars above was all I really needed. Maybe throw in a dog or two. It was why I liked going home to the ranch so often. I would've just lived at home with Bau, if we didn't tend to get on each other’s nerves after being around each other for too long. Virgil and I? We could spend months together in a desert hellhole and not argue once. Bau and I would probably kill each other after a while.

Chris's living room was huge and empty. There was a flat-screen TV, some expensive looking leather furniture, some shelves, and a big stereo system, but all of that stuff sat right in the middle of the room, like a tiny island in the middle of the ocean. Everything else was bare. The kitchen was equally sparse. The fridge was filled mostly with beer and bottles of Fiji water. I guessed he probably had someone clean the place and get food for him.

I ignored the banging that continued upstairs and walked around to get acquainted with the layout of the house, sketching out the floor plan and notes in a pocket-sized notebook. Access points, obvious security weaknesses, and anything else that could help me do my job.

I quickly realized that it wasn't just the kitchen and living room. Every room I looked at was either empty or seemed to be unused. It was like he'd just bought the place, and it made me wonder how someone could live like this.

I didn't have much shit in my own apartment because I was so used to moving around, but I at least had mementos. Photos of my brothers and my parents. A few old books that'd moved around with me throughout all of my journeys. A hand-made toy owl given to me by a little girl in Iraq. Maybe Chris just wasn't a sentimental person. Whatever it was, I wanted to know more.

His guitar lay on the couch where he'd left it. I carefully picked it up and felt its weight in my hands. He’d been playing when I’d walked in, and I had to admit I was impressed. I'd been standing in the doorway for a good five minutes before he'd noticed me, admiring his abilities. It didn't sound anything like his music I'd heard over and over again on the radio, the stuff that made me want jump out of a C-130 with no parachute.

I was no musician, so this was one of the few times I'd ever held a guitar in my hands. Even so, I could tell this one was special; not because it was some particular type of guitar, but because it had the kind of aura that well-used and well-loved objects had. There was wear on the plastic piece below the strings where his palm swept, and nicks and bumps and scratches all along the body. The top portion of the guitar where he gripped with his left hand was smoothed and polished from use, like a stone in a riverbed. The guitar reminded me of my WinMag 300, a rifle that, through all our experiences together, had become more than just an inanimate object to me.  

I turned the instrument over to look at the back, and noticed something scratched into the wood.

July 25 2004.

The day and month were familiar. Chris's birthday. I remembered from the information brief. What happened on his birthday in 2004?

A loud crash and a heavy thud yanked my attention away. It annoyed me that he was apparently throwing a temper tantrum, but after I listened for a moment, it sounded like something a little more serious. I set the guitar back onto the couch and went upstairs, following the noise. A strip of light shone from beneath a shut door, and I knocked heavily.

"The hell are you doing in there?" I asked, and after no response I tried the handle.

Unlike the rest of the house, Chris's bedroom was actually decorated. There was an electronic keyboard attached to a laptop computer next to another electric guitar. There were framed gold and platinum records on the walls, along with some photographs and signed vinyl album covers from various musicians. Bookshelves held a few award statues and a huge collection of CDs and vinyl. A bottle had been smashed against one of the walls, soaking it with liquor. Chris teetered in the middle of the room, shirtless. He turned around and glared at me.

"Oh, great. You're still here."

"No shit," I said.

Chris turned around and started for the bathroom, apparently forgetting he was barefoot and that there were shards of a broken bottle right in his way. I charged forward and grabbed his arm, yanking him back.  He stumbled on intoxicated legs and fell, and I grabbed him and pulled him against me.

"Relax," I said. "There's glass all over the floor."

He struggled, but I held tight. He was strong, but I was stronger. His hazel eyes glowed with anger. He looked really drunk.

"Get the fuck off." He jerked his body and then tried to send a knee in between my legs. I blocked it and slammed him to the floor.

"I asked nicely for you to relax," I said, holding his arms behind his back. "Jesus, do you like getting your ass beat?" I whipped off my belt and tied it around his wrists while he squirmed. I pressed my knees against the back of his calves, locking them down. "Do you want me to do your legs, too? Because I can do your legs too. I can rope you the fuck up and leave you to dry out, if that's what you like."

"What kind of bodyguard are you?" he demanded. "Goddamnit, this is ridiculous."

"You're drunk."

"Yeah? How'd you figure that one out? I'm drunk. Yeah I'm drunk."

I hauled his ass up and tossed him onto the bed. "Stay," I said, jabbing a finger at him. I walked around the broken whiskey bottle and grabbed a towel from the bathroom to clean up the mess. Chris tossed around on the bed, trying to sit up, but he was having some real trouble.

"Oh, shit," he said. "I'm gonna puke."

"Seriously?"

I snatched up a trash can and slid it over to the bed just in time for him to lean his head over it and purge. He lay there with his head draped over the side of the bed, looking like his soul was about to escape from his body. I quickly finished gathering all the broken glass and folded it into the towel. Then, I kneeled next to Chris to take a look at him. He mumbled something at me, but was basically just out of it. He needed to be sobered up.

I hurried downstairs and opened my duffel. Inside, I had all the essentials I needed for a security job. I quickly found what I needed—a packet of plastic zip ties. When you didn't have handcuffs, they were a quick and easy way to subdue someone. Chris seemed to be at a level where he wouldn't put up much of a fight, but just in case, it was easier for both of our safety.

I restrained his wrists with one of the ties and took back my belt. He came back to consciousness and flopped on the bed, trying to free himself. He looked like a fish out of water.

"You're an asshole," he murmured.

"Well, you're gonna really love me after this." I hauled him up to his feet, dragged him to the bathroom, and tossed him into the bathtub. Then I detached the shower hose and turned on the water, 100% cold, and sprayed him like a dirty dog.

Chris's eyes shot open. "Holy shit! What the fuck! What the fuck!"

I had to admit, I might've felt some enjoyment doing this to him, maybe just a little bit.

"Stop it!" he shouted, and I sprayed him right in the face. He spluttered, and I turned the nozzle down to his chest, soaking him entirely. "You're a psycho! You're done after this! I'm going to fire you."

I said nothing and turned the water back to his face. Maybe I was being an asshole, but maybe he deserved it.

"No more drinking after today," I said. "Doctor's orders."

"That's not your call."

"Sure is. I was hired to keep you out of trouble, and obviously that's what's doing it. Got it?"

"This is ridiculous."

"Confirm it," I said. "No more alcohol."

"Alright! Shit. Fucking stop with the water! You've made your point."

"Promise to behave?" I asked.

"You really are a fucking asshole," he said before catching another face-full of water.

Yeah, I was.

When he agreed to be calm, I shut off the water and wrapped him up in a towel before cutting the zip tie from his wrists. He gave me a death glare and pulled the towel tight, shivering. It was kind of cute.

I grabbed the towel with the broken glass in it and brought it downstairs to dispose of. In the kitchen, I searched through the cabinets until I found the glasses, and filled one up with water. I opened up my first-aid kit and poured a packet of electrolyte powder into the water, and then brought the glass to Chris’s  room.

He’d left his pants and underwear in the middle of the floor, sopping wet. He was curled up beneath the blankets on his bed, already passed out. I picked up the clothing,  tossed it into the bathtub, and placed the glass of water on the nightstand.

Seeing the outline of his body under the sheets and knowing that he was naked sent a guilty little surge of excited curiosity through me. Guilty, because I shouldn't have been feeling that way about a client. By all rights, I should not have been as attracted to him as I was. The man was a train wreck. He was a fucking handful, and I'd only just got here.

As I was leaving his room, I noticed a photo sitting on one of his shelves. It was of Chris with his arm around a gorgeous girl, both of them holding award trophies. He was in a tux—the man really cleaned up nicely. The girl was kissing him on the cheek.

He was straight.

Just another reason not to let myself get distracted by him. It wasn't normal for me to be so easily taken by a man, anyway. I didn't know what it was about him.

Chris started to snore. I changed the trash bag out of the can and went back downstairs. I must've been crazy, driven mad by the Synn Curse. There was no way I was into this guy.

Absolutely no way.