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KAI

I paced through my house, feeling like an idiot for asking for a bodyguard. Bella paced beside me, looking up expectantly. She probably thought we were going for a walk—her favorite activity, bar none—but not tonight.

It had all seemed so reasonable, so normal, when I’d been chatting with Amir yesterday.

“It’s probably just some weird, online shut-in who’s jealous that you managed to make something of your life,” Amir had said, rummaging through my kitchen cabinets. “They’ll faint the first time they see you with a big, burly guy at your shoulder. That, or go home and masturbate themself senseless.”

“How can they be a shut-in if they’re out enough to see me with a bodyguard?” I’d objected.

For that matter, how could my stalker be a shut-in when they’d already tried to knock me onto the tracks of the Metro at Farragut North, and into traffic the week after that? Whoever was after me—sending the creepy notes, leaving that pig —they clearly weren’t afraid to leave their house.

“You know what I mean,” Amir said. “Some mouth-breathing, chinless reject who always got picked last for dodgeball in elementary school.” He looked over his shoulder at me. “Don’t you have any food in this house?”

“I think there’s some leftover takeout in the fridge.” I slumped dejectedly against the kitchen island. Bella, the pit bull mix I’d adopted a few days ago, nuzzled my leg. I scratched her ears absently.

I knew Amir was trying to make me feel better, but it wasn’t working. For one thing, I’d gotten picked last for dodgeball myself as a kid. (And for soccer. And baseball. And literally anything that involved hand-eye coordination.) For another, I really didn’t think this was the work of someone who’d been bullied.

Not when the threats were all about getting me to halt construction on the Butterfly Center, a shelter and drop-in center for LGBTQ+ teens that provided counseling, school help, clothes and supplies, and after-school and weekend activities—in addition to beds.

I was the primary sponsor of the Butterfly Center. I’d made a lot of money in tech and wanted to give back. I’d started with a network of centers in twenty cities across the U.S. that helped trans kids get clothing and haircuts that matched their gender identity—Wardrobes for the Win. But I’d realized trans kids, and all queer kids, needed so much more.

I was proud of the Butterfly Center, the first of its kind in Washington, DC, and there was no way I was shutting it down because some asshole thought their homophobia mattered more than kids’ lives.

Amir peered into my fridge. “No offense, Kai, but this is pathetic.” He gestured to the shelves, empty except for some two-week-old takeout boxes and a half-drunk bottle of white wine that was even older.

I shrugged. “I eat at the office a lot.”

In truth, I practically lived there, working long hours from sunrise to nine p.m. most nights. I’d been spending more time at home since adopting Bella, but I still grazed on whatever food lay around at work.

“Still,” he said, pulling the bottle out and shutting the fridge, “what if you have guests?”

“Then I order takeout for them too.”

Amir popped the cork, took a swig, and made a face. “Ew. That’s definitely past its prime.”

Bella padded over and looked up at him hopefully, but he shook his head in mock sorrow. “I’m sorry, lovely lady, but this isn’t for you. It’s not even for me. It’s for the kitchen sink.”

He turned and poured the bottle down the drain, speaking over his shoulder. “My point is, people who leave weird notes and work from the shadows are cowards. As soon as they see you’re protected, they’ll back off. Didn’t the cops think the same thing?”

I groaned. “Who knows what the cops think? I’m not even sure they’re taking this seriously.”

I hadn’t gone to them right away when the harassment started. But after the second time I’d been pushed, I felt like I had to. Detective Myers had listened, asked questions, nodded along. Officer Branscombe had taken notes and promised they’d look into it. But as I stood to leave Myers’s office, he said, “Probably some crazy guy with a screw loose, trying to mess with you. If they really wanted to hurt you, they would have by now. They’ll get bored eventually.”

Branscombe had walked me to the front of the station. “I wish we had the manpower to spare a protection detail for you,” she said, “but we’re short-staffed. It might not hurt for you to look into private security.”

She was more polite than her boss, but I was pretty sure she thought my stalker was as much of a threat as he did—which was to say, not at all .

“I don’t know,” I told Amir. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am making too big a deal out of this.”

“Excuse me.” He held up a finger. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying you should absolutely get a guy to stand behind you menacingly. It’ll probably have a bigger effect than you realize.”

“Yeah, but how do I justify that? What am I supposed to do—call a protection company and say, ‘ Uh, there’s probably nothing going on, but I’m a giant baby who’s too scared to go to a musical alone ?’ What if they think I’m stupid?”

“Who cares? You’re paying them to watch your back, not fall in love with you. Just do it and give yourself peace of mind for the next month. It’s not like you can’t afford it.”

He glanced around my house, and I flushed. I knew my house was nice. I’d paid for it to be, since I wasn’t exactly a home-improvement kind of guy.

The place dated back to 1798 and looked like a traditional Georgian row house on the outside, but someone had gutted it years ago and turned it into a sleek, open floor plan with pale wood, big windows, and sliding doors that opened onto a tiny backyard. Sunlight poured in all day. It was lovely—on the days when I was home to notice it.

I wouldn’t have gotten a house at all if Carolyn—my PR rep and friend—hadn’t nudged me, saying I’d look more established and respectable if I put down roots. I’d been surprised how good it felt, buying a home I planned to stay in.

Until my stalker found me. Ten out of ten on walkability. Zero out of ten on ‘ keeps crazy people from finding you .’ Though maybe that was too much to ask out of any house that wasn’t also a Fortress of Solitude.

“How would I even find the right company to call?” I asked, petting Bella with my foot as she flopped down on the floor. “The best security companies probably don’t even have websites. How do I know I’m not gonna get scammed?”

“Ah, now that, I can help with.” Amir glanced up from inspecting the lower cabinets. “Use Heartbreakers.”

“You want me to call an escort service for a bodyguard?” I arched an eyebrow.

“Watch who you’re calling an escort, buddy.” He grinned. “We’ve gone high-end now. I’m an individualized success coach for romantic moments. Or whatever buzzwords we’re using.”

He laughed, and I couldn’t help but join in. I’d met Amir years ago on a dating app. We’d realized fast that we worked better as friends. I’d watched him go from busboy to bouncer to ma?tre d’ to escort to…whatever he was now.

I had no problem with any of Amir’s jobs—as long as he was happy, I was happy—but I still didn’t see how Heartbreakers Anonymous was going to solve this particular problem.

“Okay, fine, Dr. Dating Advice. But you guys go to weddings. You don’t carry concealed weapons and knock heads together.”

“Most of us don’t,” Amir said. “But there’s a new guy who might be perfect for what you need. I don’t know if he owns a gun, but he’s definitely big. And to be honest, he could use more work.”

“So my bodyguard is a charity case?”

“You love charity.”

“I don’t love charity. I love when our government provides for the safety and well-being of its most vulnerable citizens through a well-funded public safety net. But it never does, so philanthropy has to step in.”

It was a small nit to pick, but being detail-oriented had gotten me where I was. I didn’t mind spending my money on good causes. I just wished I didn’t have to.

“My point is, this guy isn’t even a professional bodyguard. He’s just…some dude? Another escort looking for work?”

“Not even,” Amir said. “He’s the founder’s brother. But he does backup whenever one of the women meets a new client. He lurks in the background, looks strong and serious. He’d be perfect for what you need.”

“And you think he’s going to be free for the next month?”

That was how long I had until the Butterfly Center opened.

“I don’t know.” Amir shrugged. “But you’re the one who’s not even sold on the idea. Just call them. Find out if this guy’s free for your theater thing tomorrow night, and take it from there.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Because it is. Now, if that’s settled, can we please order pizza or something? I’m starving, and I don’t want to have to eat Bella.”

That was last night. It had all sounded so simple, so sane, at the time. Simple enough that I’d actually followed through and called Heartbreakers Anonymous, explaining what I needed in a voicemail.

I’d been careful and used my middle name, Oscar. Kai Jacinto was a big enough name in some circles to raise eyebrows, and I didn’t want this getting out.

The woman who called back said it was no problem. She’d send someone over tonight, in time to travel with me to the Trevi Theater and back.

Now the guy was due in fifteen minutes, and I felt like I was going to vomit.

I kept pacing the downstairs—living room, kitchen, dining room, and back—while Bella walked beside me. Was she judging me, or was I imagining it? I’d adopted her on a whim, thinking a seventy-pound dog might scare off whoever was harassing me, but so far, her favorite activities were couch naps and slobbering—in friendly fashion—all over the people we met on our walks.

“Sorry, girl.” I reached down to scratch behind her ears. “Your new dad is a little crazy. I should’ve warned you at the shelter so you could have picked someone else.”

She licked my fingers, and I laughed softly.

“God, I’m a mess. Talking to my dog like she understands me. What the hell is wrong with me?”

Bella opened her mouth—probably to lick me again—but I held up a finger.

“Don’t answer that.”

Too many things were wrong with me. I was still single. I barely had friends. I didn’t know how to cook or clean or take care of my house. I had no hobbies. I worked, went on long runs, and slept. That was it.

When was the last time I’d even been on a date? Long enough ago that I couldn’t remember. Kind of ridiculous for a guy championing queer joy to not have done anything queer in two years.

It wasn’t just the long hours. It was a lack of confidence. I wasn’t hideous, I knew that—but I still paused in front of the entryway mirror, eyeing my jawline. Amir’s words echoed in my head. What if I was chinless?

Despite being thirty, I still felt like the scrawny, awkward dweeb I’d been in high school, but with worse posture and better shoes. Putting myself out there was hard. And now that I had a name in tech, the stakes felt even higher. Plus, a lot of guys seemed interested in dating me solely because I had money. So I didn’t—date, that is. And I got more awkward by the month.

“This is ridiculous,” I told Bella for the seventy-third time. “I should cancel. I can go to the musical alone—or not at all. The Michaelsons won’t be that offended. I’ll tell them I’m sick. I’m going up front to get my phone and—”

A knock at the door cut me off. I glanced at the clock above the kitchen sink. Five minutes to six. Was it my bodyguard, or my stalker? My heart raced, and another knock followed.

Bella didn’t bark. She just walked to the door and sat, panting, looking at me like, ‘ Well ?’

“Some guard dog you are,” I told her.

I walked to the front door to join her and deliberately did not grab a knife from the kitchen on my way, though I wanted to. It would have been the most action any of my knives had seen since I bought them.

I peered through the peephole.

A tall guy stood on my front step. Tall. White. Long-ish, blond-ish hair under a baseball cap. Black T-shirt and black jeans. Like someone in a motorcycle club.

I laughed nervously. What did I know about motorcycle clubs? Maybe they all wore pastels now. Maybe they held quarterly bake sales. Maybe I was about to get murdered by the world's most wholesome biker gang.

The guy was looking down at his phone, which meant I couldn’t see his face. And I still had to decide whether to open the door.

He didn’t look like a crazy stalker. But then again, what did crazy stalkers look like? I knew as much about them as I did about motorcycle clubs.

And I could stand here all night and miss the show—or I could put on my big boy pants and open the damn door.

I looked down at Bella. “If I say ‘ kill ,’ you jump on him and rend his flesh, okay? Rend. Not lick. Rend.”

I held my hand up like a claw. She just grinned her big doggy grin. Rolling my eyes, I pulled open the door and stopped dead.

The man standing in front of me was Mason Clark.