Can a man dread and want something in equal measures? As much as I was looking forward to the 24th, when Mick's vacation would begin, I hoped it would never come.

The almost-full gold-tinted ashtray mocked me, so did my uninterrupted view of his sun-touched naked ass deliciously on display over the lush olive duvet, half of which kissed the floorboards with passion.

Fuck. This was not how I imagined my first day on board The Voyage to turn out. One down, one more to go. Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I opened Contact. My screen instantly filled with the live feed of my room back home.

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of my lips; I allowed it to pull me in as I watched Freya slouched over her desk, drawing what I assume were sights her window provided of the magnificent gardens the Carltons kept.

"Roooooob."

Closing the app and returning my phone to my jeans pocket, I turned around. "Present." Picking up the duvet, I covered Mick's body as much as I could.

His icy blues threw daggers at me, but he accepted my offering. "The fuck happened?"

I sighed, proceeding to open the blinds, leaving my charge without an answer for as long as possible.

"Rob!" The naked manchild snapped, hiding his perfect modesty from my sight and running his hands through his thick blond waves. Impatience lined his every move. Every breath. "I haven't got all day."

"Interesting, you didn't seem to remember that while entertaining Miles," I replied, gathering his carmine shirt that lay puddled at the edge of the bed and throwing it at him.

His narrow forehead creased, and blue eyes widened, shame taking residence in them. "Shit."

Yep. The situation that my boss had with Miles was indeed crappy. Why would a man who could have anyone he wanted keep letting a loser hurt him? It was beyond me. Maybe it would have been better if I had pushed that asshole overboard. Better yet, he landed a shot in the middle of his brows. The thought of Miles's brain matter splattered over the mahogany floor filled me with satisfaction for a brief moment.

I let my boss mull over his muck-up. He felt horrible enough already; rubbing it in was unnecessary. "Here." I tossed him a bottle of aspirin which missed the mark and assaulted his arched brows.

"Ouch!" He yelped. "How dare you!?"

I shrugged in reply, and he muttered 'asshole' under his breath. I had long stopped caring about his threats. They were empty. Much like his brain when he saw, interacted with, or otherwise got fucked by Miles, who, it appeared, had crossed a line this time around.

"I think he roofied me." Mick rubbed his temples.

"I wouldn't put it past him." I lied. Miles was a jerk, but he wasn't stupid enough to drug a mafia billionaire's only legal heir.

"Why do I keep letting him fuck me over, Rob?"

I stayed silent. What I wanted to say was, 'Listen, Mick, you are in love with him, but he is just using you; he is taking you for a ride in your own Lamborghini and making it look like you owe him the world.' I couldn't say that, could I, especially when he was at his all-time low?

"Say something, dammit! What are you waiting for?"

If looks could kill, I would be a dead man. Heck, I would have died five years ago. Thankfully, they couldn't. They did, nonetheless, stir my cock. Fuck. "You thought with your dick, boss. If not for me, you would be lying in a puddle somewhere, bruised, broken...Or worse, dead."

"I did not ask you to gloat, Rob."

His condescending voice-and the way his perky ass graced my eyes as he started hunting for his boxers-did nothing to stop blood flowing to my lower extremities. Double fuck. "Well, that's all I have to offer. Take it or leave it."

Mick hopped off the bed. Pulling his underwear up and proceeding to put on now-wrinkled black cotton trousers, he whined, "You are a terrible bodyguard."

Crossing my arms over my chest, I fixed him with a cold stare. "That may be, but I am an excellent nanny." I was Mick's bodyguard; my job, though, mostly revolved around picking up after him, and picking him up when he was down in the dumps.

"Whatever, dude. Same difference. By the way, where were you?" He asked, running his eyes over the room.

"Excuse me?" I faked ignorance, knowing exactly where this was going.

Mick glanced up. "Fine, I will play along." Leaving an exasperated sigh, he continued, "I know you hate Miles, so how did you fail to keep him away from me?"

"You gave me the slip, I guess." Another lie. Another chance to get caught.

"It has been happening more and more these days. All well?" Concern swam in his eyes. I wanted to forget why I was here, next to him. I had to remind myself often that he was my mission, an assignment that had dragged on for five long years. Nothing more.

"Of course." I waved my hand dismissively. "I guess I am too old for this shit. Maybe you should find someone else. What say?" I wanted out, but there were only two ways I could leave him before the end of my assignment: if he fired me or if either of us died. I liked the first option better, even though that would mean abandoning the only two people I ever cared about and spending the rest of my life hiding from the Watchtower Syndicate.

Mick grinned, pearly whites on full display. It created tiny whirlpools on his cheeks. My heart ached to hold him in my arms till they fell off, my arms, I mean. Right now though, all I wanted was to get rid of this inconvenient feeling. "Nice try, dude, but you seem to have forgotten that you are not even thirty. So, no. I am not letting you go yet."

Somewhere between our to and fro Mick dressed himself. All I had to do was get him to tonight's meeting sober. I could do that, right? Right. "All right. All right," I said, slipping my arm around his waist and escorting him out of the cabin. "How about I take you to your room? Let aspirin do its job. Ya?"

"Mn." Mick nodded, leaning against my side; he groaned again. "I feel like shit, dude."

"I know. I know." I held him closer, steadying his faltering steps, drinking in the heat that warmed my side, the side that connected us at our hips. I took what I was offered, hoping for nothing more, or nothing less.

"Thanks, Rob. I owe you-"

One didn't make it past his lips, but the contents of his lunch and happy hour did, drenching my T-shirt and the upper half of my jeans, leaving me smelling like my employer's emotional state. I rolled my eyes. My choice of pants for the day was regrettable. "Keep your mouth closed. I don't think these jeans can survive another assault."

A small smile crept up the side of Mick's lips at my declaration as he bobbed his head in acknowledgment. I didn't have to look at him to know what would follow. Bracing myself for puke-shower part 2, I held on to Mick, who was both the object of my affection and the bane of my existence.

P.S.

To my favorite pair of jeans,

Rest in peace. You served me well and will be missed.

Love,
Robert Peirce.

*****
[Word count: 1284]