Our Bodyguard|18+

One

Red

Seven-thirty? Not bad. I throw the duffel in the first taxi I come across and hop in. A little rest at last. I draw in a deep breath. Portland feels like home after surviving terrible hours in Belize. Two sleepless nights plus the crispy weather in the mountains? Never a clever combination.

And now, with all the luck in the world, I cravingly need the warmth of a certain woman, just as a heart needs a beat. I've dreamed awake of her flimsy body and how perfect she feels in my arms. The fragrance of her skin lingers on me even now, and I want to see her so badly tonight.

I'll hold her so tightly, kiss her lips like there's no tomorrow, and then—God, she'll be the end of me. I sigh again as I slam the car door. But with all the lies and secrets, she'll surely hate me when she knows who I am and the real reason behind my presence in her life.

Behind the steering, the old man quits whistling and pivots his bored gaze at me after I'm all set in the backseat. Although I feel extremely tired, my heart is still trotting like a miniature horse, excitement being one of the reasons.

"Kings Heights," I deadpan while doffing the black cap off my head.

Home, then shower. I can't see that beautiful and stubborn Spanish woman like this, can I? Good grief, I can still smell the scent of blood and mountain bugs. She deserves better than a sweaty guy who's been on guns and runs for two days consecutively.

No, she deserves the best and I'm far from being one.

As I think of her plain requisition to have me spill my identity and everything I'm hiding from her, my head becomes as messed up as a jigsaw puzzle. It's going to get pretty ugly. I know what a mule she can get so I'm into a long ride-or-die situation.

Surely dying isn't an option.

Slowly the taxi scampers through the urban civilization, away from the Airport. It's raining cats and dogs as we go, and I wonder what she's doing right now. Probably holding her mobile like a hysterical wife. My old man knew better so I remember vaguely about his complaints.

"Again with this fucking traffic!" yells the old man behind the wheel.

Ignoring him, I close my eyes. The ultrasound pic Mia sent me yesterday pops into my head and I smile. Heck, I don't know why it constantly makes me smile despite the terror surrounding my relationship with her.

"For God's sake! Who wants the damn rain now?" The old man is still talking, cursing out as if he's the only one with issues.

Horns blare outside but I'm too occupied with my trance to pay a tiny ounce of attention to the traffic and rain. Being a father is a lot to handle. A child surely can't be a Winchester Model 70, nor a Glock 17 that I can handle fluidly with eyes closed.

It ought to be the most difficult mission of my entire existence and it scares the shit out of me whenever I imagine Mia's flat tummy turning into a big belly. First, she's married, and second, I'm hiding a lot from her, and third, her shitty husband is not a nobody.

What have I gotten myself into, God?

"You're a Hunter, son. Don't ever forget that it's a must to cherish and protect those you claim you love, or else you'll be nothing but a sleazy excuse for a man. And I didn't raise a weakling!"

I didn't know the meaning of these words engraved in my heart for over fifteen years until I met her. Strong and fragile at the same time—what is she made of? She never failed to amaze me each time I looked her in the eyes, 'cause I knew she was trouble from the very first day I met her.