The Boy and the Bodyguard
It’s looking like it’s gonna be one of those nights…
Oliver “Snipe” McCord strode ahead of Corey Ander as they exited the hotel lobby. The paparazzi were already out in full force with lights flashing and fans screaming. Fucking hell, you’d think they’d book more security for tonight. His brow furrows, jaw clenching as he spots a particularly overzealous bloke at the front, waving a phone camera and yelling Corey’s name. It honestly made his fur stand on end, being surrounded by so many people. Not much could get to the lion, but flashing cameras definitely did.
“Stay close,” Snipe muttered under his breath to Corey, positioning himself between his employer, this odd little dalmatian, and the mob. His hand rested on Corey’s waist—only appropriate to keep a hand on my employer, yeah?—as they made their way together to the waiting limousine that Corey’s manager had booked for the night. As they approached the vehicle, the fan he had spotted earlier managed to slip closer.
“I love you!” the coyote shouts as he hurries forward.
Snipe intercepted him almost instantly, grabbing his wrist in a vice-like grip. He wrenched it back at a painful angle, lips curling into a vicious snarl. “Back the fuck off, ye shite,” Snipe grunted, eyes narrowed. “Try that again and I’ll snap ye like a twig, got it?”
“At ease, soldier,” Corey called, stopping just moments before he reached the limousine. Snipe looked up, recognizing the command. “He won’t try it again, right, friend?” Corey smiled at the overly zealous fan.
The coyote gasped and nodded frantically, eyes wide with fear. Corey jerked his head tellingly and Snipe released the fan with a rough shove, sending him stumbling back into the crowd. He escorted his charge back to the waiting limo, one arm held out protectively, ready to block any other idiots who would try.
“Fuckin’ parasites,” he spat once Corey was safely in the backseat. He slid in beside him. “Sorry ‘bout that. I’ll have a word with hotel security. Make sure they keep those vultures in line next time.” He rapped on the divider with his knuckle. “Get us out of here, yeah, mate?” he called to the driver on the other side. As the limo lurched forward, Snipe settled into the drive.
It had only been about twenty minutes after they had left the hotel that his phone buzzed. He pulled it out to check it and he winced when he saw the name: Johanna Nyhus, though everyone he had met called her “Jojo”. She was Corey’s manager who made her (terrible and misguided) opinion of Snipe very fucking clear.
Jojo:
iMessage — Now
_ Mr. McCord, _
_ Need I remind you that any time you appear in public with Corey, you should be aware of how your actions may be perceived by the public _
For a brief moment he was confused, then another text came through. It was a link to an online thread. Almost instantly, his face reddened as he read through the thread.
_ ✨Corey's bitch✨ @angelaaa14 · 2m _
_ omgggg I just saw @HartleyHearthrob irl and their bodyguard _
_ almost threw hands w/ some rando tryna grab them 😱 _
_ #bodyguard #Corey #iwantone _
Christ. The attached picture of him guiding Corey away looked quite… intimate. It almost looked like his own paw was just inches away from Corey’s ass, hovering just over his employer’s tail. The replies are somehow worse:
_ stream trfmwp 💕 @pinkponyclub · 1m _
_ Replying to @angelaaa14 _
_ ugh he could literally crush me with his biceps and i'd _
_ say thank you 🥵💦 _
_ Corey own me challenge 🥺 @Coreyslut · 1m _
_ Replying to @angelaaa14 _
_ ok but the way he's so protective?? the TENDER yet FIRM _
_ grip???? i just know this lion is PACKING 🍆💦😩 _
_ emotionally unavailable dilf @daddyissuesanonymous · 1m _
_ Replying to @angelaaa14 _
_ is literally no one going to acknowledge how fucking problematic this is... _
_ ummm yikes keep romanticising toxic masculinity ig!!!! _
Snipe’s cheeks were burned. Half of him was preening under the attention (after all, being attractive is a source of pride for most people) but the other half wanted to fling himself out of the limo as it sped down the motorway. He chanced a look at Corey, who was currently looking at his own phone. Shit, he’s looking at his phone. What if he sees this shit? Distraction. He just needs a distraction.
Snipe cleared his throat obnoxiously, just a bit too loudly and shoved his phone into his chest pocket. He hoped Corey didn’t notice how red his face was or, if he did, he would chalk it up to stress or anxiety or something like that.
“So, uh, excited to perform tonight? Ye look fucking fantastic?” Snipe’s jaw twitched as he realized what he said. Fuck, no. That’s the opposite of changing the subject! “Fans seem pretty keen to see ya. Ye doing alright…?”
Corey gave a noncommittal shrug. It’s pretty clear that his mind was elsewhere, anywhere else, but the charity gala that Jojo had booked for him. “I don’t really care. I don’t even know why they want me there. My album tanked.” He returned his attention back down to his phone. Snipe frowned. He could very clearly see that Corey was still not thrilled about having a bodyguard—he had only been working for Corey for two weeks. “So, should I assume you’re gonna be shadowing me the entire night?”
“Naturally,” Snipe said softly, his Scottish brogue less pronounced as he speaks more calmly. “Look, I get it: you’re sick of this whole security circus. But that’s exactly why ye need me here.” His phone buzzed in his pocket again and he could just imagine how many more people were commenting on the thread. He ignored it. He keeps his attention on Corey, expression serious despite his casual tone. “I’ve got your back, mate. That’s what I do.”
“Right,” Corey said dismissively.
“And for the record,” Snipe continued, “your album didn’t tank. It just… didn’t connect with the right audience yet. Give it time. After all, ye were nominated for an award back in the States, right? Getting nominated is a big deal.”
Snipe settled back into his seat, trying to look more relaxed than he felt. The threat of real danger always put him on edge. It made him think back to his training, to actual combat and makes him hyper-aware of every vehicle, every person that they pass. He unconsciously kept checking his sidearm, his hand running across the pistol’s metal as a reminder that he was armed. He could still remember the sickening letters Corey had received, the very reason why a former military officer—a former royal guardsman–had been assigned to protect such a high-profile individual. Yet the dalmatian seemed hardly more than just out of school.
“You hungry?” he asked Corey, needing to talk. “We could grab something to eat before the show. My treat.” Not that I need to pay. Food is part of my arrangement.
“I’m not hungry. I’ll eat after my performance gets panned.”
Snipe’s brow furrows, catching on the sarcasm in Corey’s tone. He knew him well enough to know when he was hiding something — stress, anxiety, that kind of thing. And right now, Corey had that pinched look around the eyes that Snipe was getting used to recognizing. It made him look older than his twenty-two years.
“You gotta eat something,” Snipe said, trying to keep his tone light despite the concern gnawing at him. “Corey, mate, you haven’t eaten much today. And if you keel over, I'll get sacked.”
“I’m fine,” Corey said with a tone of finality.
“You’ve been wound up tighter than a motherfucker today,” Snipe noted. “Is some charity nonsense what’s got you so rattled, mate?”
Corey swallowed, running his hand through his semi-long hair, perfectly styled and recently cut back to a more “acceptable” length, according to Jojo. He looked up at Snipe with those blue eyes that so many fans got lost in. Corey was fidgeting with something on his wrist and Snipe could see a rubber band. “I’m just… What did I do wrong compared to the first one?”
Snipe glanced down at Corey’s phone screen and frowned. Corey was again checking his numbers—streams, sales, anything that could tell him how well his album had been doing.
“Look, you don’t got to give a shit about what some idiots in an office write in some gossipy red top,” Snipe insisted. “You’re talented and you know it. Your fans know it. Jojo fucking knows it or she wouldn’t be backing you!”
“I guess. Let’s just get this over with,” Corey huffed. He started to tap away at his screen and sighed. Snipe looked over and the redness returned to his face beneath his fur and mane. Corey had pulled up the very same thread that Jojo had texted to him. “Great. Now everyone thinks I have a toxic bodyguard because you’re manhandling my fans. That’s just great.”
“What if he had been armed?!” Snipe snarled defensively. “I did my—”
“I’m not mad at you,” Corey remarked calmly. “And Mom can chill out over it.”
Snipe snorted with a small laugh. Corey had taken to calling Jojo “Mom” as a way to get under her skin.
“Besides, maybe having my own private terminator might keep some of the weirder ones from acting up again.” Corey turned, reaching up and brushing through Snipe’s mane. “And besides, at least you’re cute.”
Snipe blinked as Corey settled back into his seat, eyes closed as he started to doze for what little amount of downtime he had.
_ Fuck, pup, you’re something else._
Corey watched the landscape go by nervously and Snipe frowned when he noticed movement in Corey’s lap. A sharp snap made him flinch and he noticed the rubber band around Corey’s wrist. The dalmatian’s mouth was moving in the approximation of words and Snipe could just about make out the movement saying “Keep it together”.
“Oi, the fuck is that?” Snipe demanded, his voice suddenly sharp and his accent thicker. He reached across the backseat, trying to grab his employer’s wrist. But Corey turned, pressing his back to the door as he attempted to keep his wrist behind his back. “Corey, c’mon now. You know Jojo’s banned them things.”
“It’s nothing, soldier,” Corey remarked, his voice tinged with that false confidence that he had perfected—a sort of persona he and his team had crafted. “I’m all good. Just looking forward to performing, you know?”
Snipe’s eyes narrowed. He had learned very quickly to see through the act, especially how easily Corey could turn it on and off like slipping in and out of a mask. “Right,” he said flatly. “Sure it is.”
Corey watched Snipe lean back against the seat, arms crossing over the lion’s broad chest. His eyes were still fixated on Corey, watching him like a hawk and Corey turned to face forward. The driver, Corey thought, was doing quite the job of pretending not to listen but Corey also noticed that he hadn’t put up the partition.
“Look,” Snipe started again. “I don’t care if you say you’re ‘all good’. If something’s bothering you, I need to know. Can’t do my job if I don’t know what I’m dealing with, yeah?”
“Aw, come on, soldier. It’s just a… fidget thing,” Corey answered. “You gonna report me to Mom?” His tone dripped with snark and sarcasm.
Snipe’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists in his lap. Irritation was starting to build in his chest like a coiled spring. “Oi, listen here,” he growled. “I’m not your bloody babysitter and I sure as hell ain’t gonna run back to Jojo, even though you’re sneaking shite past security.”
Before Corey could say anything, Snipe’s paw reached out, seizing his wrist. He unceremoniously pulled the rubber band off and pushes Corey back into his seat, forcing him to sit still.
“Hey, that’s mine.”
“No, it’s contraband now.” Snipe rolled down the window and tossed the rubber band out onto the motorway. “And now it’s roadside rubbish.”
“Did you really have to throw it out the window?” Corey wondered shyly.
Snipe’s expression softened and he sighed. “Yeah, I did. You were using it in a dangerous way. But I gotta protect you, yeah? And that includes from yourself.”
The driver cleared his throat noisily up front. “Gentleman. We’re here.”
Corey looked outside. The paparazzi were already eager snapping photos of the limo, even though they couldn’t be seen within. Corey took a deep breath, his mask slipping back into place almost effortlessly as he opened the door. Playfully, Corey adjusted his tie, strutting down the luxurious carpet as he waved to the photographers and reporters, eager for a statement. Snipe followed closely behind, one paw on the pistol on his belt—not threatening, just present.
Corey paused briefly to sign an autograph for a fan before he continued onward into the grand hotel, the bellhops eagerly opening the doors and pointing him to the ballroom.
“Thank you, sir,” Corey said pleasantly to the bellhop, flashing a grin before he stepped into the lobby. Corey exhaled sharply as he turned towards the ballroom. Sounds and lights spilled out from the ballroom, but Corey hesitated just moments before entering, turning to Snipe with a forced grin. “See, big buy? I’m fine.”
The gala was already in full swing, packed to the brim with servers, celebrities, moguls—everyone Jojo had wanted Corey to rub elbows with. On the other end of the ballroom, an elevated stage had been erected with a black baby grand piano on top of it. The bar was busy, with three bartenders eager serving their patrons. Silently, Corey wondered how much the bartenders were being paid and if they were expecting to be tipped in the thousands.
“Right, so here’s the plan,” Snipe said. “You network, you charm everyone, you do your thing. I’ll be out of the way, watching your back. If you need me, just make eye contact and I’ll come running.”
I hate hobnobbing, Corey thought darkly, even as he chatted with Allison Erika, an Australian singer. The calico was quite excited to speak to him and she definitely looked gorgeous, but something about her vapid, ditzy behavior left Corey feeling mentally drained within a minute of conversation.
_ There’s no way she writes her own music. She’s barely intelligent enough to string two words together._
Corey’s eyes kept darting to the stage, wondering when the host would start the main part of the event—the performances. After all, he’d been invited to perform and these hollow conversations were irritating.
After excusing himself from Allison, Corey walked forward, eager to speak to anyone else. Feedback soon crackled through the ballroom and the conversation died almost instantly. On the stage stood a thin, middle-aged bear whom Corey recognized as Blaine Tryon, an actor with decades of B-tier movies under his belt. Dimly, Corey listened as Blaine thanked everyone for attending and launched into a dull, rehearsed speech about environmental conversation. Then, Blaine calls Allison Erika to the stage to perform. The calico practically bounced her way onto the stage, straightening her slightly too-short dress. Behind her, a pianist starts to play softly and she begins to sing.
_ Ugh… Too nasally for me._
Then, Corey heard someone behind him and stiffened before the familiar scent of Snipe’s shampoo hit his nostrils. The lion leaned down and whispered in Corey’s ears. “How’re you feeling? Need a drink or anything?”
“I’ll be fine, soldier,” Corey noted, reaching up absently to run his paw through Snipe’s mane.
Snipe sucked in a breath before standing straight, purposefully pulling back slightly. “Right. Good. Glad to hear it, mate.”
Allison’s performance soon came to an end and she—in her bubbly, ditzy way—gave a small message of encouragement to everyone to donate. The environment, after all, needed our help.
“I wonder if she knows that conservation means she can’t be buying all those cars she wanted to show me,” Corey murmured to Snipe, who chuckled.
Blaine Tryon took the stage once more, clapping eagerly. “Quite right. It takes all of us to do our part to protect our world. Please remember why we are here.” He cleared his throat obnoxiously. “Our next performer is a young dalmatian from the state of Michigan in America. Please welcome to the stage Mr. Corey Ander!”
Corey swallowed and began to walk to the stage, hearing the applause behind him. Snipe followed loyally, standing just off to the side of the stage as Corey politely dismissed the pianist who had played for Allison Erika. Carefully, he sat down at the piano, testing it with a few notes as the microphone was brought over to him.
“Thank you everyone for coming out tonight,” Corey said, beginning to play. “This is something that means a lot to me personally and I pray that it means a lot to you as well.”
Snipe listened intently as Corey began to play and sing. His eyes narrowed in intrigue—these songs weren’t at all what he expected. He had become used to hearing Corey’s songs that were more energetic, less personal. While his lyrics had always been introspective, these songs were somehow heavier. Snipe carefully stepped to the side to get a look at Corey’s face.
_ Christ… _
There was something heavier about these lyrics, something darker and by the expression on Corey’s face, these songs meant far more to him. Even as Snipe watched, the realization struck him almost like a bolt from the blue. He wasn’t seeing Corey Ander, the pop star. This was Corey James Rylock, the actual person behind the image.
Then Snipe flinched, hearing a strangely sour note that broke the odd spell that Corey had put on the crowd, ending his performance in a rather awkward way. Corey stood up and faced the crowd and Snipe sucked in a breath—at some point (probably when that sour note rang out), Corey had bit his lip, causing it to bleed. The crowd was cheering and applauding him as he bowed, either not noticing or not caring that Corey was bleeding.
Calmly, Corey handed the microphone back to Blaine Tryon and stepped off the stage, smiling sickly at Snipe. “Good show, right?”
Snipe’s jaw tightened at the flippant, confident tone in Corey’s voice as he guided Corey through a pair of doors behind the stage and into a hallway that led to bathrooms. “Good show,” he confirmed, his voice flat. “Very good show. Alright, mate, let me see your lip.”
Snipe reached out, tilting Corey’s chin gently.
“It’s fine. Not the first time it’s happened when I was singing.”
“Right and that’s gonna look lovely in the photos,” Snipe remarked sarcastically. “Bad boy pop star and all that.” He pulled back. “Might be good for your image as a bad boy, but not exactly healthy to be chomping your lips like that.”
“It’s fine, soldier,” Corey insisted. Almost reflexively, he licked his lips and frowned. “Wait… I’m actually bleeding this time?” His voice shook slightly. “I’ve never had it bleed before… Why is it bleeding?”
“Oi, don’t lick it, you muppet,” Snipe grumbled. “That’s just gonna make it worse.” He reached into the chest pocket of his suit, pulling out his pocket square. Carefully, he pressed it to Corey’s mouth. “It doesn’t look too bad. Should heal on its own but you may wanna keep the pressure on that.”
Corey nodded numbly, starting to scratch at his arm.
“Hey, the fuck you doing?” Snipe snarled. “Easy, boy. Don’t start bleeding there too.”
“I’ll be fine,” Corey remarked. “But I still need to go in there. Work the room. Jojo wants me to make some connections after all.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. I’ll be fine.” Corey reached up to run his fingers through Snipe’s mane. “After all, my big bad bodyguard won’t let anyone hurt me.”
Snipe pulled back, trying to hide the small surge of pleasure that worked through him. He smiled playfully. “Watch yourself, dog. I’m your bodyguard, not your pet.”