Bodyguard University: I Hate Loving You

Type

Kinn's POV:

Darkness. The minute I opened my eyes, all I saw was the mystery of darkness that filled the curious void instead of the answers desired. My arms were tied behind my back with zip ties. As I struggled to break free, a sharp razor poked into my skin. These were the kinds of zip ties that had razors attached and cut deeper the more you tried to escape. The quicksand of kidnapping. My legs were glued to wooden legs by tight, scratchy rope.

Great, I was stuck in the chair of an unrecognizable room. Terrified, my heartbeat pounded in my ears and dried my throat as I thought of the many possible horror scenarios of this room. There could've been tables full of torture devices like the ones I'd seen in movies.

It was my first time being strapped like this, completely defenseless. Over the years, I'd learn to take pretty good care of myself. I'd even practiced martial arts to prevent this sort of thing from happening. In my line of work, I was bound to piss someone off.

I'd had nightmares of being kidnapped before. This was nothing like a dream. Everything was much more realistic. I could feel the soreness of my body as I weakly sat in the chair like a ragdoll. Somehow, I was much more aware of the blackness that I was supposed to be used to, and it wrapped around me in an uncomfortable blanket of threat. Unlike a nightmare, I couldn't wake up and tell myself that it was all a dream. Instead, I had to bathe in my terror.

This reminded me of my father. He'd been kidnapped by rival gangs a few times in his day, and he had the scars to prove it. One would think that he was proud of his scars, but whenever I asked about them, he'd simply redirect the conversation. They weren't something he liked to bring to light.

Even though I hadn't heard the stories of his skin's history, they didn't leave much room for the imagination. There were a few bullets on his back and chest and one on his shoulder. That was why his father seldom wore tank tops. He had slashes on his arms and abdomen, likely from a knife. Those were easy to hide, but the one nasty scar on his cheek was impossible to conceal. That one was the one that scared me the most. My face was too pretty to be soiled by a blade.

"Get me the fuck out of here!" I yelled so loudly that my throat instantly burned.

Shit—What about Porsche?

I'd just started getting to really know him, and here I was being fucking taken away. The last thing I wanted was for him to hear I was dead. Or even worse, I didn't want him to try and save me. Who knew what would happen to him if he took matters into his own hands? He could get seriously hurt. I had to get out of here before Porsche got here.

We might've been in this weird, "What are we?" phase, but I sensed that Porsche wanted it to be something. Though he never liked to say it, that look in his eyes always gave it away. I'd never seen anyone look at me the way Porsche did. It was like I was the only thing worth looking at.

Weirdly, I'd grown to care for him too. At first, I never expected to feel so fondly of him, but his fiery temper and honesty were a breath of fresh air from all the constant smoke and mirrors of my life. He never lied or tried to play me despite him having every reason to. Porsche was a good man.

Good men were hard to come by. In the past, people told stories of honor and loyalty. They praised those with integrity and courage. Nowadays, it was all about mustering up the courage to message someone on Instagram asking for sex. No one gave a fuck about principles. They were all out for themselves.

Which was why Porsche fascinated me. He was never petty. There were so many times when he could've taken revenge out on me, but he never did. He showed me mercy, even offering to take me in when I was down. Never once did he take advantage of my weakness. Hell, when I was attacked by those men with knives, he had tried to protect me. He never went to Techno and tried to air out my dirty laundry. Porsche was respectful and good. Too good for me.