Underground Legends: The Hunt (BWWM)

Chapter 4 - Saint

Saint Botero - (Male P.O.V)

September 29, 2074 

Being a bodyguard meant becoming blind and deaf to my client's behaviors. My job wasn't to judge but to keep him alive.

But everyone has limits, and I was expeditiously reaching mine.

Behind me, my client and a buxom blonde woman sat in a booth ravaging each other's mouths. The table full of empty glasses barely concealed his hand plunging underneath her silvery dress.

Exaggerated moans poured from her red-smeared lips, and the bass thumping from the speakers did little to drown it out. If anything, it seemed to encourage her.

The other booth occupants didn't even spare them a passing glance. They were too enraptured by their cell phones, drinking themselves into oblivion and run-of-the-mill chatter.

I suppressed the urge to cringe when a drawn-out needy cry reached my ears.

I could only think of three reasons the woman had lowered her inhibitions. Either it was her natural behavior, the alcohol, or she felt special because my client had shelled out for the V.I.P section. If it was the latter, she was sorely mistaken.

Every weekend without fail, he lavished the new flavor of the night with the same treatment. I witnessed this numerous times after working for Timothy Parish Jr. over the past three months. The endless flow of cheap liquor and sexual partners made him a regular at Club Luster.

And therein lies the problem. After receiving letters threatening his life, he hired me. And not because he was scared but to appease his dad. He was an only child and therefore doted on by his parents. But more importantly, he was the sole heir to a chain of prosperous hotels.

It wasn't abnormal for the hotel heir to receive such letters, but these were way more detailed and frequent. His dad's wealth had made him a target since birth. Therefore, desensitizing him of a real threat.

My first suggestion upon accepting the job was to alter his schedule. It was sound advice, and any sane person would have obliged. Yet he refused, which made my job even more difficult.

I feared the culprit could easily misconstrue his blase attitude as taunting. Receiving letters would be the least of Timothy's worries if he did.

A prolonged groan pulled me from my thoughts. Behind me, the pair finally broke apart, unable to deny their starving lungs any longer. I sidestepped to my left once, attempting to give the woman a monocle of privacy as she righted her dress.

Being six foot three and a hundred ninety pounds of solid muscle allowed me the advantage of acting as a human shield. It was the least I could do to preserve a little bit of modesty for her. Even though it seemed she didn't give a damn.

The so-called V.I.P section wasn't much help. Whoever decided to name it that was being overly generous. All it was a few booths blocked off by a nice fancy rope. There was no privacy at all. It was like being in a fishbowl.

Plus, they dared to charge a couple of grand a bottle for swine piss... I mean the finest of alcohol. It was couch change to my client since he had access to daddy's black card.

Softly sighing, I inched closer to the black velvet rope dividing the affluent from the masses crammed on the dance floor. My eyes swept over the sea of gyrating bodies, assessing each one's potential threat level to my client.

Sussing out suspects wasn't an easy feat, given the abundance of envious stares aimed their way. No one sex could be exempt either. At the ripe age of thirty, Timothy had already left a string of broken hearts in his wake. Amongst women and men.