5. Logan

CHAPTER 5

LOGAN

I lock the door behind me as I step out of my apartment the following morning. Day one of babysitting Alexander Solovey went well, considering all his theatrics. Hopefully, he’ll get tired of this nonsense soon. And if not, it’s a game two can play.

A memory of my conversation with Ivan resurfaces the day I was officially hired, where he explained in his limited, broken English that I had the authority to take any actions necessary to protect Alexander. And protect my own job.

Basically, Vlad didn’t want to look for another bodyguard.

Okay, message received.

All these thoughts are swirling through my mind as I take the elevator down. In the lobby, my mailbox protests with a screech as I wrench it open. I remind myself to ask the management to check the lock. Among the usual junk, there's one envelope that feels like a brick in my hands. My name stares back at me in clinical black ink.

Not now , I think, pocketing the letter. I push through the front door, the morning sun failing to warm the chill in my bones.

The car greets me with the faint smell of leather and stale coffee, remnants of yesterdays stacked upon each other. Before the engine's hum fills the space, silence hangs heavy, pregnant with the dread of what I'm about to see. My fingers hesitate, then tear into the envelope. Another bill from the hospital, its figures glaring at me like an accusation.

I draw a deep breath. The paper crumples under the pressure of my grip while I sit there with the anger simmering beneath my skin. This anger—it’s a familiar companion. It’s been there ever since I stopped being a cop.

And this bill is chaining me to a job that involves babysitting a grown man with the impulse control of a thirteen-year-old child.

The drive is a blur, the city passing by in shades of gray, as if the world has lost its ability to surprise me. I pull up to Vlad's fortress of a home, steeling myself for the onslaught of juvenile disobedience that awaits.

Let’s see what Alexander will try to pull off today.

Then I remind myself that this job isn't about him. It's about survival. It's about the hospital's halls, the IV drips, and the quiet sobs that echo in the night. About my mother’s life I’m trying to hold on to so badly.

I need this gig. I need the money. Even if it means enduring the little shit that is Vlad's brother, with his green eyes that challenge and his blond hair that seems to mock the very notion of order.

Inside, as I enter the main space I struggle to call the family room, Vlad greets me with a nod. He is back from a trip he apparently took yesterday. He’s in a suit, not a single hair out of order. Unlike his younger sibling. His voice is a distant murmur into the phone. "Hold on a second," he commands the unseen caller.

He turns to me, eyes sharp, words clipped. "Sasha wants to get out of the house. Mall or something like that."

"Understood." It's all I offer, my response automatic, honed by necessity.

"Be careful," Vlad adds. The concern that flickers across his face for a second is not for me but for the liability I'll be guarding.

I tip my chin, quickly absorbing the instruction, acknowledging the potential danger outside these walls.

"He's upstairs. Getting ready. Take the Navigator. Ivan has the keys." Vlad's attention is already snatched back to his call, and I am dismissed, left to traverse the maze of corridors that lead to Sasha's bedroom.

His door is the last one on the left. I’ve never been inside but I had to learn the layout of the place just in case. Thanks, Ivan, for the blueprints of the property.

I stop in front of the room. There’s music blasting inside.

Not just any genre but classic rock. That reminds me of his Black Sabbath and Sex Pistols display of insolence. I’m surprised Alexander Solovey—who is Gen Z through and through—favors the real musicians over the auto-tuned white noise they call music these days.

Immediately, this triggers my nostalgia.

I was weaned on The Stones and Zeppelin, their timeless riffs and lyrics entwined with fond memories of my father's car rides and family gatherings.

I shake myself from this grip of unnecessary reminiscence before it starts to choke me.

My knock is both question and intrusion, met with a brusque "Yeah."

I push the door open and take in the view unveiling in front of me.

The room is chaos, clothing strewn across furniture like casualties of a fashion show. And there he is, Alexander, half-dressed in a pair of ripped jeans. Lean muscles on his back shift under pale skin as he pulls a T-shirt over his head down his torso—an image of careless strength that hooks into my gaze, unbidden and unwelcome.

I blink away the distraction as he turns to me, irritation lining his features like cracks in porcelain. "I need new shit. This place is like Satan's arse. Too hot."

"Let's go, then," I say, my voice stripped of inflection, even as a spark of something else flickers deep within me, a flame trying to catch in a void where warmth has no right to exist.

We move through the ritual of departure, each step measured, each glance loaded. I find Ivan downstairs and he shows me where all the keys are to the vehicles everyone in the house drives.

Silence between Alexander and me as we exit the house is heavy. As if there’s a curtain neither is willing nor able to draw aside. But beneath it all, something stirs—a current that whispers of more than just duty and disdain. A dance of fire and ice played out in stolen looks and words left unspoken.

Contrary to my expectations, Alexander slips into the front seat of the Navigator.

I throw him a questioning glance.

"What?" He shrugs. "You think I’ll let you touch the stereo?"

"Are you even old enough to know what stereo means, Zoomer?"

"Sod off, old man."

"I’m thirty-three."

"That’s what I said, old ma—"

The Navigator’s engine purrs, interrupting the last bit of Alexander’s quip. A low growl that matches the tension in my gut fills the space around us, devouring any other sounds.

We start driving, heading toward the nearest shopping center. I’m not risking taking the little shit to The Shops at Crystals. The Strip is the worst place in all of the Vegas to be at if you have a target on your back.

Alexander's silhouette is sharp against the window, jaw clenched in defiance.

"So, why'd you jump ship to this business?" His voice cuts through the hum of the car sometimes later.

"Because it pays well," I reply, eyes fixed on the road, wishing it were only asphalt I had to navigate.

"Better than being a police officer?" His tone is a mix of mockery and something darker, like a bruise hidden under a sleeve.

"Didn't pay as well." My words are terse, snipped like the end of a smoldering cigarette.

Alexander doesn’t pry further. Instead, he connects his phone to the vehicle’s stereo via Bluetooth and the car fills with the screech of angry guitars and pounding drums. He turns the music all the way up, letting the heavy soundwaves crash over us. It's a deliberate provocation, the volume knob turned as far as his—and mine—patience.

"Can't handle a little noise, old man?" he shouts over the cacophony two songs in.

"Music's fine. It's the company that's giving me a headache," I shoot back, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel.

"Tell me about it!"

The shopping center's artificial light feels too bright after the pulsating darkness of Sasha's music. He drifts through the aisles, a ghost trailing discontentment. Watches and chains glint under glass cases, catching Sasha's fleeting interest. Each piece examined, then dismissed with a flick of his wrist.

"Find anything you like?" I ask, more out of necessity than interest after we’ve been at it for a couple of hours.

"Hardly," he mutters, picking up a T-shirt with some obscure band's logo emblazoned across the front.

"Suit yourself."

I watch him, the blond hair and lean frame moving listlessly among the racks. His beauty is both conspicuous and unfitting in this temple of consumerism. I'm exhausted by the charade, the pretense of normalcy in a world where I'm employed to guard a man from his own blood. But I don’t have a choice. I follow him to each and every store, playing a role of a companion instead of an obvious babysitter.

"Going to try these on," Alexander finally announces, holding up a couple of shirts like white flags.

"Take your time," I say, though every second spent in this place feels like an eternity.

He disappears into the small hallway in the back with the fitting room sign above. I collapse onto a couch molded by a thousand waiting souls. Time stretches, thin and brittle. The clock ticks, a countdown to an explosion I can feel brewing in the conditioned air of the mall.

My patience is fraying at the edges like worn fabric. Minutes crawl by, each one a weight added to the sinking feeling in my stomach.

At some point, I admit that trying two shirts on shouldn’t take this long. The worry claws its way in, sharp and uninvited. What if something happened to the little shit?

I rise from the couch and stride over to the fitting rooms.

"Alexander?" I call out, my voice swallowed by the muted sounds of commerce. Silence answers back, a void where there should be the rustle of clothing or the creak of a fitting room door.

I approach one of the girls folding clothes in the corner, my gut twisting with a sense of urgency I can't shake. "Excuse me. I’m looking for a… young man who was here trying on some items. Tall, on the skinnier side, blond messy hair, green eyes. Black stud in his ear. British accent."

The girl is no older than twenty with a nametag that reads Jenny . She pauses what she’s doing and takes a moment to think.

"Ah, yes." She points toward the end of the row. "He went into that room over there."

"Thanks," I mutter and head in the direction she indicated. My knuckles rap against the door. Once. Twice. "Alexander? Are you there?" No answer. The lack of response grates on my nerves like a blunt knife. "Alexander!" I try again, louder this time. Nothing. "Sasha?" I call, gentler. Saying his name in this form feels invasive. As if I have no right. "Sasha, it’s not funny anymore. Come out," I order.

Again, my plea is met with silence.

With a swift move of my shoulder, born from years of having to act quickly, I shove the door open. The small space is empty, lifeless as a ghost town. The shirts he picked up to try on are tossed on the bench.

A chill runs down my spine, not because of fear, but frustration. Or maybe fear. I can't tell yet which one it is. The situation isn't clear.

Back at the front, Jenny's eyes are wide with confusion when I approach her again. "He’s not there. Did you see where he went by any chance?"

"I... I don't know," she stammers, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her store-issued vest.

"Someone must've seen something," I snap, unable to conceal the edge in my voice.

A colleague of hers, overhearing the exchange, rushes over to chime in. "I saw him leave through the other exit. The one by the women's department. There are two of them in the dressing room."

"Tall, blond hair?"

"Yeah." She gestures in the direction opposite of where I came from.

"Shit. Was he alone or with someone else?"

"Alone."

I storm through the fitting rooms and out into the women’s department. My steps are heavy, a thunderous rhythm against the polished mall floor.

I’m pissed off now. My limits are tested.

I need to remind myself about the massive hospital bill I’m yet to pay as I’m rushing past the rows of cocktail dresses and racks of expensive shoes.

Alexander is nowhere to be seen.

Little shit played me.

I exit the store and yank my phone from my pocket to dial his number. Each ring is a hammer strike against my patience. No answer. Just the mocking echo of a digital void.

Switching gears, I pull up the tracking app Ivan had me install—a secret leash for the wayward pup I'm supposed to keep in line. A blip pulses on the screen, steady and mocking, just outside the shopping center in the sprawling chaos of the parking lot.

The pressing crowd around me dissolves into a blur as I push forward, driven by a mix of anger and duty.

Outside, I weave between the cars, like a predator on the hunt. My grip tightens around the phone. The blip pulses closer now.

"Gotcha," I mutter under my breath as I spot the familiar blond hair and the defiant stance of my charge that reeks of privilege and rebellion. His back is turned to me, a mistake he won't have time to regret.

"Hey!" I bark out, my voice loud. And this time I don’t intend to hide my wrath. He doesn't turn, not at first, but I'm already on him, my hand clamping down on his arm with the force of iron jaws. I spin him around to face me.

"Let go, you animal!" he spits, trying to shake me off, but I'm immovable as stone.

"Running away? Really?" I spit out the words. "So that's your grand finale when you've got hitmen mapping every freckle on your back?"

"Get stuffed," he snaps, yanking at his arm. I let him go now that we’re face to face. "I don't need your protection," he whispers, fumbling with his T-shirt.

"I don’t care. My job is to make sure you stay alive by any means necessary." My fury is simmering into a low boil. This kid is going to be the death of me. "And all you know is how to piss off the very people trying to keep you safe. You wouldn’t last a day without Daddy's money cushioning your fall."

"Fuck you," he snarls. "You don't know anything—"

"I know that you're an entitled spoiled brat who has no idea how to be an adult."

His green eyes blaze with something raw as he glares at me. "And you have no idea what it’s like to have your father shot. To live with that knowledge that someone executed him."

The punch of his words lands deep in my gut, stirring the coals of memories I've tried so hard to bury. My father's face flashes before my eyes the day he left for work and never came back.

I want to shake this whiny little shithead, make him feel an ounce of the pain he's dredging up inside me, but I stand rigid, a statue carved from rage and restraint.

"Everyone has their own hell," I say. "But that doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole."

"Doesn't stop you, does it?" His accusation is a blade, twisting in the wound.

"Enough," I snap. "We’re done for the day. We're going home."

"I haven’t bought anything! I still need summer clothes," he tries to defy my orders.

I nudge him in the direction of the car instead, my hand briefly landing on his upper back. "You can buy it online."

We walk to the Navigator in silence. The Vegas sun beats down on us without mercy, making the asphalt beneath our feet shimmer like a desert mirage.

I can feel Alexander’s displeasure radiating off him, an aura of raw, untamed fury that matches the heat of the day.

"You pull another disappearing act, and you'll answer to your brother," I supply, unlocking the car.

"Maybe I wanted some fresh air," he says with a sneer, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Or maybe I'm sick of being babysat by a washed-up police officer."

I swallow the verbal abuse because I need money. Instead, I slide into the driver's seat and start the car.

He follows suit, slamming the passenger door with more force than necessary.

The drive back is tense and quiet, a battleground where words are weapons too dangerous to wield. We're both armed to the teeth, but neither of us dares to fire the first shot. As I weave through traffic, my grip on the steering wheel tightens until my knuckles turn white.

I glance over at Alexander when we approach a red light. His profile is set in stone, but his leg bounces with nervous energy. He's a coiled spring, ready to snap at any moment. But so am I, and we both know it.

If he wants war, fine by me. I’ll give him war.