Guarding His Jewels

Chapter 1

There was no warning that it would be a momentous, life-changing day.

Waking up alone, Ryan Jayden glanced toward his window to decide the course of his morning.  The thick eucalyptus tree branches outside filtered the light, but with one glimpse he could usually tell if the sunshine was naked or sheathed in fog. 

Weather forecasts were unreliable when it came to his rented condominium apartment on the hilltop crest of Diamond Heights, a neighborhood in south San Francisco.  Ryan had learned to never battle the fog.  It could not be wished away.  Sometimes morning fog faded.  Sometimes it hovered all day.  In the afternoons he had watched it creeping down the streets and through the trees, flowing and unstoppable, like a scene from a horror movie.  But Ryan chose to perceive fog as a solemn coating, enveloping the area in a sense of tranquility.

Whatever came of his day, he would work again to lift his spirits and escape the dread of impending doom.  If the day was ripe for his usual Saturday routine, then he would spend most it at the beach.  If the fog forced another fate, then he would finally visit the contemporary art museum in Golden Gate Park and seek inspiration from others who had suffered and channeled their pain into creating something glorious.

On this morning, bright sunlight on the flickering narrow leaves invited Ryan to lift his lethargic young body out of bed.  The sun rays and ocean breezes would do him good. 

Ryan hastily ate breakfast and showered before sitting at his desk to pay his bills with online banking.  He inhaled a deep breath and stared at his account balance.  Only twelve hundred dollars separated Ryan from financial catastrophe.  Oblivion.  It was an amount that could not even cover an apartment deposit and first month's rent payment. 

The condominium he was renting was impossibly expensive, despite broken light switches and appliances, stained carpets, and leaky faucets.  The out-of-state owner promised to fix everything soon or later, which they both know was always a lie.  Tenants had many rights in this city, but the consequences of a landlord-tenant battle were out of the question for Ryan.  This rental home had come with the job that lured him out of Los Angeles. 

Now, unemployed and on his own, Ryan could not afford the dilapidated condominium or any other rental in this most expensive of cities.

Ryan shut down the computer.  He could face the number—the amount of his account balance—but he was not ready to decide on his future.  He hoped a long stroll would help clear the anxieties lurking in his mind.  He walked around the summit of Diamond Heights, which was spotted with apartment buildings and attached traditional and modern homes.  Ryan intended to completely avoid looking at his previous boss's home and an accidental glance in that direction shot a sharp pain from his heart to his neck.  He picked up his pace and heard his name whispered in the hilltop winds that pelted his face.  Proximity to his boss's home triggered scattered images of dimples, sultry eyes, a mustache, and muscular shoulders. 

Ryan tried to swipe the reminders of his boss away.  When that did not work, he visualized all of their memories as if they had been collected into a sphere, which then exploded into countless pieces.  Blasted away forever. 

But the memories remained. 

One decision was easy.  Ryan knew he must move out of Diamond Heights. 

But to where?  How?  He was on his own.  The man he had believed in and depended on had discarded him and fired him.

Ryan climbed the even larger adjacent hill, Twin Peaks, and reached the extensive overlook area where people from around the world visited, parked, and beheld one of the most breathtaking vistas that exists anywhere.  The sweeping view below encompassed the San Francisco Bay, portions of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay Bridge, the city neighborhoods and skyscrapers, and the Oakland hillsides.  Ryan was always mesmerized here.  Its beauty could not be captured on film or photographs because recorded imagery missed the sensation of the cool breeze and the vast scope of the experience.  He imagined the peninsula and bay as a modern Eden full of many lost souls, like himself. 

The same question for Ryan still persisted.  Did he belong here?  Ryan was not at all sure there was a place for him here.

Ryan returned home to prepare for the beach.  He did not need a swim suit, but an enjoyable day required several accessories.  A comfortable and oversized beach towel, potent sunscreen, sunglasses, and his latest true crime book.  This was his third book on the Zodiac murders that had perplexed the San Francisco Bay Area since the late 1960s with ciphers, contradictory witnesses, and deranged suspects.  Ryan also stopped by the local mart to pack a lunch before making the twenty-five minute drive across the city to the seaside cliffs near the northwestern tip of the peninsula.  On the western edge of the Presidio of San Francisco, he parked along the serpentine Lincoln Boulevard and approached the entrance to the trail leading to the beach. 

Other beachgoers were arriving too.  Some people hoisted coolers out of their vehicles.  Shared ride vehicles dropped off passengers.  But what especially caught Ryan's attention was the Porsche 918 Spyder parked on the opposite side of the road.  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a man standing beside the car and watching him.  When Ryan turned toward him, the man climbed into the passenger seat and seemed to point at him while he walked in front of the sports car to reach beach trail entrance. 

Some gawking was to be expected at the nude beach, Ryan knew.  Usually though, for Ryan in particular, the gawking did not happen until he was undressed.  He had been told by some that he was an attractive man—neither pretty nor rugged—but Ryan felt decidedly ordinary when his clothes were on.  He descended the arcing slope, which was seven hundred feet of trail through sand and down weather-beaten, wooden steps.

When the climate allowed, Ryan came to this magnificent place each weekend.  Baker Beach faced the Pacific Ocean.  Enormous ships crawled in the distance.  Across the mouth of the bay harbor were the mountains of Marin County.  To his far right, the distinctive, red Art Deco towers of the Golden Gate Bridge soared 746 feet into the sky.  Ryan did not know the actual history of the beach, but he had been told that it had become a nude beach decades ago when the soldiers stationed at the Presidio would climb down the bluffs to shed their uniforms and warm their bodies.

Ryan removed his sandals and his feet sank into the sand as he headed to the northernmost zone of the beach and chose a resting spot.  Adults of all ages and from all walks of life were sunbathing about five feet apart from each other.  Ryan was struck again by the amiability of the people and the courtesies they extended to one another.  Instead of bringing boom boxes and interfering with the serenity of the locale, most people who were not wading into the ocean waves had books or were reading on their computer tablets.

Ryan peeled off his clothes, revealing an unexpectedly virile physique to those taking note of him.  He had dark blond hair, more than six feet of height, and a trim and strong body which was naturally and moderately hairy.  Ryan's bare, untanned derriere was manly and pleasing to most eyes.  But what dropped jaws was the size of his manhood, which even when flaccid hung low between his legs with enormous girth.  Nevertheless, on the scale of modesty versus flaunting, Ryan fell in the middle.  He realized he was much larger than the vast majority of other men, but he did not feel the need to showboat or shock. 

Ryan went to the beach for the freedom, the majesty of the location, and the ability to drop inhibitions and become more comfortable with himself.  While he certainly appreciated the beauty of some of the bodies there, cruising at the beach had not held any interest for him.  The person who had captured his fascination—Pablo, his former boss—was always miles away and unwilling to join him there.

Ryan laid on his stomach and planted his right cheek against his beach towel.  He was about to close his eyes and let himself fall asleep for a few minutes when he noticed a young man furtively watching him.

Chapter 2

Also laying on his stomach on his towel, the man had appeared to be sleeping.  But under his bicep that was stretched forward and beside his head, Ryan caught him blinking and peeking directly at him.  Once caught, the man clenched his eyes shut.

Ryan looked him over.  The man was physically similar to him in height, fitness, and age, likely twenty-four or twenty-five years old.  The bottoms of his large feet, which were the parts of his body closest to Ryan, hinted at athletic power.  The man's dark skin had a creamy, smooth tone.  He appeared to have a trim beard and thick, dark hair.  His most striking feature was a curvaceous rump that Ryan guessed must be a genetic gift, as endless daily squats were incapable of sculpting such pristine lines and shapes.

Ryan pulled his eyes away from the man's backside and realized that he, too, had now been caught snooping.  For a minute, the men locked eyes and an intensity materialized.  Neither looked away.  Finally, the man broke into a large grin, patted the ground in a gesture of surrender, and rolled over into a sitting position.

You got me, he said to Ryan.

What? Ryan asked, cupping his ear, indicating he could not fully hear the man's words.

The man possessed a good-natured look on his face.  He mouthed the word sorry to Ryan and shrugged.

Ryan wanted to ask him to repeat himself, but instead, awkwardly gave him the thumbs up sign, smiled, and closed his eyes.  Before falling asleep he snuck a few more glances in the man's direction.

Ryan's dream was rowdy and jarring.  He saw himself in uniform.  He was protecting his boss, Pablo, who suddenly struck him viciously in the back with a spear.  While Ryan begged for an explanation, his boss just smiled and floated away, disappearing into the fog.  Ryan was desperate to remove the invading weapon from his back.  It burned him and caused him to panic.  Ryan could not reach the spear's shaft and the spear tip was ripping through his muscles. 

No! Ryan screamed in his dream, pleading for mercy, until the palm of a hand comforted his shoulder and stirred him.

Ryan was startled awake to find everyone nearby watching him with expressions of concern on their faces.  Kneeling beside him was the young bearded man.

Are you okay, my friend? the bearded man asked him, keeping his hand on Ryan's shoulder.

What happened? Ryan asked.

You were jerking and mumbling in distress, the man answered.  Someone thought you were having a seizure.

No, I don't think I had a seizure, Ryan responded, but thank you for waking me.

The bearded man remained crouched at Ryan's side.  He said to everyone staring that Ryan was fine and waking from a nightmare.  Several people continued observing Ryan to ensure he was able to regain his composure. 

So I put on a show? Ryan asked the man.

That nightmare must have been a doozy, the bearded man answered.  You were witnessing an apocalypse?

I cannot remember the details.

Do you need something to eat or drink? the man asked, motioning toward his backpack by his towel.

I brought lunch and a protein shake, Ryan answered, but thank you for your concern and thank you for helping me just now.

Why don't you sit up and catch your breath?

Ryan agreed to his suggestion, scooted over to leave ample space for the man to sit beside him on his towel, and introduced himself. 

My name is Damian.

Please have a seat, Damian.

Damian sat beside Ryan, who buried his toes in the sand and stared at the waves rolling onto the beach.

I am feeling embarrassed, Ryan said.

Would you like to talk about your nightmare? Damian asked.  Would that help?

Just help me bury my head in the sand, Ryan laughed.

You're fine.  There is no need to hide.  Everyone here just wanted to make sure you were all right.

I haven't noticed you here before, Damian.

I am new to the city, Damian replied.  From Santiago.

Chile?

Yes, I came here to work for my cousin.  He is a fighter—a mixed martial arts champion—and we are staying in Pacific Heights for a month.  What do you, Ryan?

Nothing at the moment, Ryan answered.  Besides worry and have nightmares.  I lost my job a few days ago.

What kind of work did you do?

Security.  I was a security guard and analyst.

You can get another position, Damian said.

Nah, I cannot afford this city, Ryan countered, grinding his heels into the sand and frowning.  I thought Los Angeles was crazy expensive, but this place is much worse.  I worked hard to get out of Hollywood and now it looks like I am headed back there.

That's too bad.  I need a friend here.

I do, too.  The only friend I had here lured me to move and work here, set me up in a condo on Diamond Heights, and then threw me away and fired me.

What happened? Damian asked.

It is a mystery to me, Ryan answered.  It all came down so fast my head is still spinning.  The bottom line is I am out on my ass, humiliated, and realizing I have been an horrendous fool.

Damn, you are harsh on yourself.

I deserve it.  I deserve the pain.

Nobody deserves misery.  Surely, there is a fix for you.

I don't want to talk about it anymore, Ryan said.  "My pulse is racing