It wasn't even a full first day of having a bodyguard (I refused to say his name), and I wanted to fire him. I hated how he was always there, watching my every move. Hated how he walked behind me whenever we entered somewhere, and I especially how he played it off like it wasn't awkward.

The nerve of him, my god.

The car ride was more tortuous than I could have anticipated, which spiraled out of control. If neither of us could spend any waking day without pointing daggers at one another, how the hell would we survive the press?

... and the tour?

I went inside the apartment, set my bag down on the side table next to the door on the right, and opened the lights.

As I told him before, the place was already furnished to the nines. I think I did a pretty decent job at decorating. Of course, it wouldn't be fair to exclude the help I got from Dina–my now-ex, roommate. I was going to miss her a lot, she was there for me after the accident and helped me in ways that I didn't know I needed to be helped.

Guess her psychology degree paid off. I'll compensate her when she finally opens up her practice.

I fiddled with the lollipop stick that was sticking out of my mouth and looked over my shoulder at him. He was taller than me by a long shot–looked to be well over six foot–and had the build of someone who was definitely in the military. With broad shoulders, large, scuffed hands, and his messy dark black hair it resembled a terrible case of bed-head. His muscles were there, too. That was hard to forget. He wore a fitted black dress shirt.

Lastly came his weaponry belt. But I wasn't going to go into detail about that. I couldn't risk him questioning why I was staring at his hips for God's sake.

I pressed my mouth into a firm line, puckering my lips around my lollipop before I took it out of my mouth. "The kitchen is to your left, rooms are on the right" I said, nudging my head in a general direction. "We've got a television recently, so if you wanna watch, I dunno, I Love Lucy, go ahead," I said casually, tossing my white coat on the cream-colored leather sofa.

I wasn't in the mood to entertain, especially him. Hell, I couldn't even say his name yet.

Ha, yet.

I didn't think I'd get over this. A little part of me wanted to laugh at how ridiculous this was. Press, tour, and a film were going to be happening in the span of months and suddenly everyone in my life–especially my brother–started to care for me now?

Did they really think telling me I'd get a bodyguard somehow made me forgive them? Why did my family only care about me when it was convenient for them?

I'd been fired from my job since the accident last year, and I was living off of blood money alone. I didn't want this. I wanted my old life back; my old job; my old family before...

Before the money.

The telephone rang and I instinctively looked at my bodyguard again. He didn't say anything. I'd been so used to people walking all over me that that t caught me off guard. Him standing there, looking at me expectantly, waiting for me.

A warm, twisted feeling swirled in my chest.

I answered the phone, passing him one last glance. I watched him situate himself as I picked it up. "Hello?"

"Hey, kiddo!"

It was Randy.

With his unusually high-pitched voice, I knew he was smiling on the other line; big and wide, with not a care in the world. I envied him in that regard. He looked like he had his life together, and he did. I looked like I had my life together, but I didn't.

We weren't the same.

I disliked him for all the wrong reasons, but that evening I was not having it. How could he be so normal, so calm, when I was falling apart? It didn't make sense. It wasn't fair.

"Hi, Randy," I said, my voice dipping into a low, uninterested tone. I turned so my back was to the room and my face was to the side of the wall. "What's up?"

"Just wanted to check in to see how you're doing, is all. I read your draft on Friday, by the way."

"Emaad told me."

He laughed again. It was the kind of laugh that was airy and joyous. "He did, didn't he?" He blissfully sighed. "I have a friend at Cosmo," he said casually, "she's an editor. Listen, kid, I think this is your best work." He paused. No, keep going. "Anyways, I really love the topic. It's cool that you're weaving your interests with your brother's work."

My topic was about how a song Emaad had recorded earlier this year would be on the soundtrack for his rendition of Little Women, one of my favorite novels. To that, I smiled.

"Thank you," I said.

"I can slide it over to her office soon and have her take a look at it. Perhaps even edit it and then publish?"

No way. My heart dropped and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. Why now? Why today out of all days? Worst of all, I didn't know if I could do anything about it. A taste of freedom came at a cost no one prepares you for.

It's like a sick twisted game.

"When?" I asked purely out of instinct.

"I'm going to the office tomorrow."

I had to think long and hard about it. My dream was to become a published journalist in the magazines I grew up reading at a young age because I didn't have anything else. These papers fostered hope inside me; that I could be and do anything I wanted, money be damned. When I graduated from Rutgers last year, I was so close to finally fulfilling it. And then I didn't.

It was a miracle I even graduated at all. Because only four months into my job at Rolling Stone, the largest magazine company for music entertainment, they fired me.

I was scared–and convinced–that this would have the same fate.

But I was attending the weeks-long press tour for a film my brother was in, and I was going on tour with him, too. I should've been more grateful, but I wasn't.

But I knew I had no other option than to decline. I couldn't. If I did get published, I wouldn't have any control over it. I wouldn't be at the Cosmopolitan office building helping with the campaign; I wouldn't be able to talk to any of the editors and rally for my piece to make it the best it could be, reaching legions of fans.

"What'd'ya say?"

"I can't do it."

I turned around, the small of my back against the side table. I fiddled with the wire. He wasn't there. "I don't... have the time anymore," I explained slowly, tone tentative.

Randy hummed lowly. "Oh, nah, I get it. You're busy, that's fine."

I couldn't regret something I knew was for the best. I'll have other opportunities, I tried to remind myself. "Mmm-hmm." I nodded. My fingers began to claw at my palm. "I've–I've gotta go." Tears welled in my eyes.

"Okay, kiddo. Good luck out there. Say hi to your brother for me, will you?"

I licked my lips, swallowing hard. If I couldn't have the job or the publication, the least I could have was him saying my name. I was a person, too. I wasn't a kid anymore. "Randy?" I said, my tone was assertive but not mean.

"Yeah?"

"Call me by my name," I said. "Call me Aya."

He didn't say anything.

I continued, "Because, one day you'll see my name on those fucking magazines, too. You'll wanna know my name then, wouldn't you?"

"Goodbye, Aya Huseinni," he said.

"Goodbye, Randall Mortez."

He ended the call. I was left with the soft, constant beating of the static on the line.

I held the phone with my right hand, and I felt more free than I had in months.

That was all me. And Randy didn't care. He had an extensive list of clients and people to care for, but he chose to listen to me anyway.

I set the phone in the holder and made my way into the living room, turning on the TV. In the background, I heard the shower turn on. And the record player.

Whoa. Did he play music in the shower?

"Welcome to Late Night With Lucille Mconahay. Please welcome special guest, Dina Alfonzo, she's just returned from filming."

"What're listening to?" I asked, loud enough for him to hear. So I was practically screaming. My eyes were glued to the television screen.

"Your brother," he replied through a groan I could only hope to God it was the soothing kind you'd do when you're being relaxed.

I tensed up, but I pushed through. "Romantic," I said. "You listen to him a lot?"

No reply. It was probably for the best. It was closing near 7 pm, so I decided I'd get a head start on ending my day.

"... how did he feel to have to film with your ex-love affair?"

"I wouldn't call Emaad a love affair," she said, "There was nothing but love between us. It was awkward, I'll admit, but nothing we couldn't handle."

"What film was this for, again?"

"The Buccaneers."

Dina let out a breathless giggle. "Conchita Closson."

I grabbed my coat and sprang off of the couch. I opened the trash can in the kitchen and threw out my bare lollipop stick. I circle back to the hallway and hang my coat on the coat rack. I removed the ribbon in my hair that was now hanging on my head with very little strength, and let it slide on the hardwood floor.

As I turn the knob to open my bedroom door, the washroom door flung open and immediately steam entraps the air. I cough, turning around violently to stop the vaporized water from entering my lungs. I hated steam, scolding showers out of it.

I use my hand to fan viciously across my face as if that would do something to stop the heat from coating the air. I shut my eyes. "Oof," I grimaced.

"Your brother has a very romantic voice."

Ugh.

That made me go into more of a coughing fit. I felt his wet hand gently graze my skin, but I pulled away, a visceral flinch controlled my body. "Do not," I said through my cough, "say that again."

I couldn't tell you what made it so... so strange of a phrase: his strong British accent, or the fact that he said that. The stereotypes would never leave me. I hate my life.

The steam cooled down and I was able to breathe again. I took a step back, unbeknownst to me that my back was against my still-closed bedroom door.

I open my eyes.

"--but I wouldn't listen to it again." He was looking right at me, with his smoldering green-blue eyes and down turned lips. His fingers were clutching a towel, wringing out his now-wet hair.

Open the Goddamn door, turn away.

I froze, staring at him, resisting the urge to look anywhere but his face. But even that was hard to do. Damn, you, narrow fucking hallways!

"... How did it feel having to recreate the more romantic scenes with Emaad? I mean, he played your husband in the film!"

She laughed again. "A lady never kisses and tells."

"You stare an awful lot. Do you do that often?" He looked at me with a puzzled expression on his face. "Also, you should buy alcohol."

"I don't drink." My voice was even. Or, at least I thought I sounded as even as you could be when you're not trying to stare at someone indecently. I was taught about manners, for crying out loud. And I wasn't going to break them now.

He shook his head. "Not to drink," he said nonchalantly. He didn't look impressed one bit.

I looked at him dumbly. I never drank and never planned on it. I've heard too many stories to be weary about it. He was a doctor, wouldn't he be the first one to tell me not to? I was practically a Hollywood insider and the sister of a star, those kinds of things were normal in Hollywood society and culture.

But my brother and I weren't a part of it, despite making up half of the industry.

"For medicinal purposes?" He said, but it came out more like a question than anything.

With shaky hands, I somehow managed to open the door just a little, my bodyweight pushed the rest open.

I completely forgot alcohol was a medicinal property. They'd probably used all kinds of them in the medical unit during the War. "Oh, right," I said flatly, but I was utterly lost. Why did he ask that? "Wait, why were you looking through my medicine cabinet?" I magically regained my brain cells and straightened myself up. God, I needed to get out of these clothes.

He was completely not fazed. "I was looking for hair gel."

I flung a hand over my mouth to stop, myself from laughing. Him? Broody, grumpy, doctor-military-man? What'd he need hair gel for? It was 7 pm... unless.

"You got a date?" I taunted him.

He glared at me and I loved it.

"No," he said bitterly.

"Then why'd you ask?"

"For tomorrow. I like my hair gelled."

He's so boring. "Do you always know what to say?"

"Do you always ask inappropriate questions?"

I fold my arms. "I'm a legal adult."

"Then act like it."

I wanted to bash my head against a wall. I would rather be anywhere but here with him. How dare he act like that and expect me to be... to be normal? He didn't have a heart, I was sure of it.

I rolled my eyes. "Relax, it's not that serious. I need to get some hair gel anyways. Can we go tomorrow?"

His perfectly chiseled jawline and piercing eyes didn't seem to make much of an impact on me anymore. What an ass.

He nodded. "I've got a name, you know, love."

I walked out of the stupidly narrow hallway and circled to the open kitchen. "And I didn't ask," I respond.

"It's Darren," he said, his voice growing distant and disappeared.

I poured myself a glass of water. I down it in an instant.

"If I don't say your name," I started, setting the glass down on the island counter top, "then it's easier for me to pretend you're not here."

I watched him come into the kitchen with sleepwear. A white tank top and boxer briefs. His hair was still a mess, though.

He leaned in close, but not close enough like how we were in the hallway where our rooms were. His beefed arms were positioned at an angle, elbows shoulder-width apart. His chin rested on his interlocked fingers. Except I am," he said, but he wasn't saying it menacingly. "This'll be easy if you and I make it so." His stare was hypnotic.

I tapped on the glass with my fingers. No matter how I tried to taunt him, to shake him, pretend he wasn't there, he was right.

For tonight, and the rest of the days, weeks, months, and however long this arrangement lasted, I had to do the unthinkable.

Accept help, even if the help in question was Darren.

"I've got a name too, you know." I gave him a look, turning on my heel to put my glass in the sink.

"I know you do. I just like calling you 'love' even if you're not that lovely."

I couldn't argue with the facts.