Unfinished Symphony

Largo: Noun:

a passage, movement, or composition marked to be performed with a slow tempo and dignified style.

The rain fell in a steady whispering rhythm against the window of the cramped hotel room, each drop tracing lazy paths down the glass like it had all the time in the world. Scott sat hunched at the rickety table by the window, the steam from his coffee long since gone, leaving behind a bitter sludge that tasted more like regret than caffeine. The newspaper he’d grabbed from the lobby lay open in front of him, its pages slightly damp from being delivered early that morning. His computer was sitting idly on the table not seeing a use for it at the second, he pushed it further from him to make room for the paper.

Another contract wrapped up yesterday. The money was enough to cover another month's hotel stay and some groceries but that was it. No extensions, no promises, just the familiar hollow ache of starting over.

Scott rubbed the stubble on his jaw and flipped to the classifieds, scanning the columns with the weary efficiency of a man who’d done this too many times. Most of the ads blurred together, warehouse work, night security at strip malls, delivery gigs that paid pennies. Then his eyes caught on a small, unassuming block of text tucked near the bottom of the back page, almost as if it were trying to hide.

Bodyguard needed. Full time. Serious inquiries only. Call xxx-xxx-3249.

No company name. No salary. No details about hours or duties. Just that stark line and a phone number. Scott stared at it for a long moment, the rain growing louder in his ears, almost as loud as the fingers he started drumming on the table in thought. It reeked of trouble, too vague, too clean, the kind of ad that usually led to either a scam or something he’d regret. But the alternative was another month of scraping by on whatever temp work he could scrounge. At this point, what did he have to lose? Scott took one long, steadying breath, chest rising, nerves settling chest falling…then picked up the phone and dialed.

There were 3 rings.

One..

Two…

Three…

Then a calm, measured voice answered.

"Lovell speaking. Who is this?”

Scott’s brain short-circuited for half a second. Lovell. As in Richard Lovell? The oil tycoon whose name appeared in every business section, whose face had been plastered across the front of magazines for the last decade? He double-checked the number he’d scratched down, his heart giving an uneasy thump.

“Hello?” the man prompted, a faint edge of impatience now threading through the politeness.

Scott cleared his throat, the gesture helping to steel his nerves. “Good afternoon, Mr. Lovell. This is Scott Kessel. I’m calling about the bodyguard position—the in-home one listed in the paper.”

There was a brief pause, then the faint rustle of paper on the other end, followed by a low grunt that could have been acknowledgement or maybe dismissal. “Right. Kessel…Kessel…. Can you email your résumé over? I’ll have my secretary take a look.”

Scott grabbed the cheap hotel pen he’d swiped from the front desk and scribbled the address on the margin of the newspaper as Richard recited it. The man’s tone stayed clipped, almost bored, like he was already moving on to the next item on a very long list.

“As soon as I get it, we’ll review it and go from there. Thanks for reaching out.”

The line went dead with a crisp click. Just like that. Scott lowered the phone and leaned back in the creaky chair, exhaling through his nose. The guy hadn’t sounded the least bit interested, not even in a professional way, more like he absolutely had better things to do and maybe he did? He is a business man after all.

Still, Scott had sent résumés into black holes before and this was no different. His gaze shifted back to his laptop and gave a small sigh as he pulled it closer, booting up and opening his email. Attaching the file he kept polished and ready, Scott hit send before he could overthink it. Worst case, it was a no. He’d survived plenty of those.

What he hadn’t expected was the reply that pinged his inbox barely three hours later.

It was a short and professional response, impossible to misread: an acceptance, along with a formal invitation to meet Mr. Lovell at his private residence the following afternoon to discuss the role in greater detail. Scott read it twice, then a third time, half-convinced it was a prank. But the email address checked out.

The next day, under a sky that had finally cleared to a watery blue, Scott pulled his battered truck up to the address. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, taking it in. The place was a modest bungalow, a two story, white siding, neat gray shutters, a small porch with a couple of potted ferns. Nothing like the sprawling estates or penthouses he’d imagined for a man worth hundreds of millions. It looked….normal. Almost cozy. The kind of house a retired teacher might own, not an oil baron. Scott catalogued the sight lines out of habit: good visibility from the street, solid fencing along the sides, only one obvious back entrance. Defensible, if it came to that.

He stepped out, boots crunching on the gravel driveway, making his way to the front door with a deep breath he had barely raised his fist to knock when the door swung open. The man standing there was shorter than the newspaper photos suggested, maybe five-nine tops, with a lean build, raven black hair and vivid green eyes that lit up the instant they landed on Scott. His smile was genuine, warm, the kind that reached all the way to the faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. Nothing like the tense, uninterested voice from the phone.

“Ah! You must be Scott. Come in, come in, let's not cool the outside, yes?” Richard Lovell stepped aside with an easy sweep of his arm, already turning to lead the way inside. He moved swiftly, almost with a pep in his step.

Scott followed, the door clicking shut behind him with a solid, reassuring sound. As they walked he gazed around at the interior; it seemed to match the vibe outside: modest, almost sparse. Pale walls, simple wooden floors, a few framed photos on a side table that looked like they’d been unpacked yesterday. No marble, no chandeliers, no ridiculous art pieces worth more than most people’s homes. It felt lived in, but barely, like someone had moved in and decided the bare minimum was enough.

The pair made their way into the living room, where a single couch faced two armchairs with a glass coffee table in the space between them. Lovell sat down first on the couch with a low groan and Scott took the chair opposite his host, the fabric creaking and sinking slightly under his weight. It was a surprisingly comfortable piece of furniture, soft and smooth.

"Nice place you have here sir” he said, keeping his tone neutral while his eyes continued their quiet scan, eyes landing on the photos on the wall. A younger version of Richard stared back at him, a woman at his side was smiling while holding an infant with a toothless grin. A chuckle from his host snapped Scott's attention back swiftly. Who waved a hand at him casually “Richard is fine. None of that ‘sir’ nonsense, please.”

Scott nodded once in understanding. “All right. Richard.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped in front of him, the posture of a man ready for business. “Let’s skip the small talk. What exactly am I protecting you from? I don’t like walking into situations blind.”

For the briefest moment, Richard’s eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise. Then a deep, rolling belly laugh escaped him, warm and unrestrained. He shook his head, still grinning, green eyes sparkling with something that looked almost like delight.

“No, no—I’m sorry,” he said, holding up a hand. “The job isn’t for me.”

Scott went very still, brows knitting together as the words settled. “If I’m not here to guard you,” he said slowly, “then who the hell am I being hired to protect?”