Banks tilts his beer to his mouth. “Why would you even want to invite the Rooster?”
“The Rooster?” Sulli and I say in unison.
I swing my head to Thatcher. He rubs his temple and shoots his brother an annoyed look.
Security Force Omega. They must’ve jokingly coined a code name for Will Rochester. I shouldn’t be too surprised.
Sulli gawks. “What the fuck is that? The Rooster?”
Akara has trouble restraining a smile. “It’s for comms.”
“It’s for comms?” Sulli stands and slugs his shoulder. “He’s not a cock!”
Banks laughs.
Sulli lands a fist in his arm too, and he hardly sways and just grins into a sip of beer. Akara smiles more and places his hands on her broad shoulders. “You’re not the butt of a joke.”
“Yeah but Will is, and he’s not a fucking cock, Kits.”
Banks tips his head. “We’re just callin’ it like we see it, mermaid.”
She huffs. “Yeah? And his cock is probably ten fucking times bigger than both of yours.”
Akara and Banks try not to laugh, and then Banks says, “No way in hell.”
She goes still and glances down at their crotches. I can’t blame her. My curiosity has piqued too, but Sulli flushes a deep red, her breath shallow. She turns to me, an SOS signal in her green eyes.
I pipe up. “Don’t listen to them, Sulli. They’re just jealous that you’re bringing a hot date to Scotland.”
Maximoff crosses his arms, not a fan of Will Rochester. He’s told Sulli to be careful about a hundred times and counting.
“Is that it?” Sulli asks Akara and Banks. “You’re both just jealous.”
Banks raises his shoulder in a shrug.
Akara’s muscles are flexed. “No.” He puts his fingers to his earpiece, as if comms chatter is louder. “I’m your bodyguard and you’re dating someone for the first time. That’s it.”
Sulli frowns. “So you won’t care if I bring Will?”
It takes him a second to say, “If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I fucking want.”
The door whips open, and I hear commotion outside like the bar patrons are loitering. They yell at whoever comes through.
Instantly, I recognize the chestnut-haired, blue-eyed bodyguard. A plastic bag is hooked on his elbow.
“Suck my dick!” Donnelly shouts at the crowds, then shuts them out with the kick of the door.
Akara pushes back his black hair. “Donnelly.”
He spins, noticing me and Sulli. “Sorry, boss.” I can tell he’s off-duty, no radio, and plus, his client isn’t present.
After Donnelly was taken off Beckett’s detail, the Tri-Force transferred him to a Hale.
Xander Hale, to be exact. He’s been working alongside Thatcher this past week. Two bodyguards on one client.
“Smokes?” Donnelly procures a package of cigarettes from the bag, plus a carton of cheesecake.
Banks groans. “Don’t tease me, man.”
I text my sister back while Donnelly greets everyone and slings an arm over Farrow’s shoulders.
I thought some of you were headed to this bar tonight. My mistake. I send the message.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Farrow says coolly to Tony.
I missed something.
Tony smirks, too pompous. “We all know Donnelly shouldn’t be going to Hawaii if his client is staying back home.”
Thatcher retorts, “Donnelly is a groomsman, and Farrow wants him there.”
“Was I talking to you, Moretti?” Tony snaps. “Didn’t think so.”
A bad taste floods my mouth. “Are you four?”
“Twenty-eight, actually.” Tony rests an elbow on the bar and his creeping eyes track down my body.
God.
Thatcher steps forward, and Banks pulls him back.
Tony cocks his head. “And isn’t Xander going to be a groomsman, so does that mean you don’t want him there?” He points at Maximoff. “Or does Xander just not want to be around you?”
More shots fired. That direct hit hurts.
Moffy is stewing. Smoke is coming out of his ears. The truth: Xander requested to stay home so he could go to therapy. He said it’s been helping lately, and he doesn’t want to miss a session.
Farrow has a calming hand on the back of Moffy’s neck.
“Hey.” Akara comes forward and motions for Tony to step aside. He ushers him towards the corner and sneers, “You can’t talk to a client like that.”
Donnelly digs into his cheesecake. “Been waiting for someone to put away Tony the Toolbox.”
“If only permanently,” I sigh.
“Murder with the Cobalt fam,” Donnelly says through a mouthful of cheesecake. “Those who slay together, stay together.”
I eye him. “I meant metaphorical murder.” I pause, curious. “Did you?”
He puts a hand to his chest, grinning and not saying one way or the other, and that’s when the door rips open again.
This time, camera flashes cast shadows on the walls and wind whips through the entryway and more than one body struts inside the sports bar.
First come the bodyguards.
I count five.
And then five famous faces bring up the rear.
Charlie, Beckett, Eliot, Tom, and Ben.
Every single one of my brothers. They’re all here, and they’re far too fixated on Thatcher like he’s tonight’s five-course meal.
8
JANE COBALT
I spring off the stool and clasp Thatcher’s muscular waist. Panic shoots through me, and he curves his arm around my shoulders. Bringing me to his chest before I can swerve in a million frantic directions.
“Jane—”
“I haven’t properly prepared you for the avalanche you’re about to endure,” I whisper rapidly. “It’s my duty to strap you with as much ammo as humanly possible.”
Though, every counterattack of ours will be aimed at my brothers, which is possibly why his eyes darken.
It feels wrong.
So incredibly wrong.
But if they’re coming for my boyfriend, then I’ll have no choice.
“Do not cower,” I coach quickly. “Do not avoid their eyes. Do not show fear. They’re little fiends that will chew you up like you’re nothing more than a three o’clock snack.”
A shadow of a smile plays at his mouth.
“You smile now but they can smell blood in the water, and the second you cut open a weakness, they will poke and prod until you’re bleeding out.” My mind whirls inside a new sort of apprehensive alarm. I’ve never been in this position with my siblings. I’ve never felt like we’re on a battleground and I stand opposite all of them. “They could make you jump naked over a fence for all I know.”
He cups my hot cheeks, his large hands cocooning my face, and it helps me breathe somehow. I curl my fingers over his strong wrists.
“Five teenage boys can’t hurt me, point-blank,” Thatcher proclaims. “I doubt a hundred could.”
I ease some. “Your cockiness is helpful.” Because the sky and Earth know that most of my brothers are tremendously arrogant. “But you do realize that Charlie and Beckett are twenty-one?”
He nods once. “I’m all good. I have this.” He drops his voice lower. “They can’t make me do anything that I don’t want to do.”
I quirk my brows, lips parting. “You would jump naked over a fence for me?”
His complete unwavering, sexy self-assurance says hell yeah.
I rest my chin on his chest, looking up. Could I do the same? I’m not 100% sure, but I want to believe I can make this equal. I have it in me—I know I do.
Somewhere.
And so I say, “As I would for you.”
He gives me a stern look, his hand tracking down my back. “You’d be in tabloids. Naked.”
“A sacrifice,” I whisper, my heart flops on a treadmill set at the highest speed. “One
I’m certain I can make.”
He shakes his head, his thumb stroking my cheek. “One you’d be uncomfortable to make. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong.” I lie, for some reason. I shouldn’t lie. It feels morbid and nauseating, and I’m not positive he can tell I’m being untruthful.
He just stares at me. “We’re not competing for jack shit, you and me.”
“We’re not,” I agree. “This is just something we do together.”
“Getting naked and jumping fences?”
“Oui.”
He blinks and breathes hot breath through his nose. He’s straight-forward and direct. I talk like I’m taking every roundabout, side-street, and detour on a map, and lately we haven’t always crossed paths. He’s trying not to be lost inside metaphors and subtext.
“Dude, it’s like a morgue in here.”
Tom.
We turn, just as Tom trots closer with buckles clinking on a black rocker jacket. Golden-brown hair artfully styled, mouth in a corkscrew smile, charm and mischief melded together.
He’s eighteen and I’ve seen him grip a microphone like a second heart. Singing with every ounce of power and feeling inside of him. Captivating a screaming, frenzied audience with such tremendous ease.
But in this moment, he’s not a lead singer of an emo-punk band.
He’s just my little brother.
One who put toothpaste and shaving cream on our dad’s pillow, thinking he wouldn’t notice. (He did.) One who was so afraid of Jurassic Park as a child, he crawled into my bed for the whole month of July.
Tom swings his head to Eliot with a laugh. “You think it’s us?” He means the dead quiet.
Eliot grins. “If it’s not, I’d be offended.” He unbuttons his expensive pea coat. If the God of War and hedonistic Dionysus birthed a child, they’d spit out my nineteen-year-old brother.
It’s best not to confront Eliot and Tom. They’ll joke around the truth like they’re batting an inflatable ball over my head, and I need answers.
So I do the sensible thing and approach Ben. “Pippy.” I use his nickname.
My sixteen-year-old brother lingers near a dirtied high-top table. He offers me a warm smile while he takes off his Dalton Academy beanie and unzips his letterman jacket, one for ice hockey. He’s grown into his height, and at six-five, he stands like a confident athlete.
I touch his arm. “Que se passe-t-il?” What’s going on?
He winces a little. “Demande à Charlie.” Ask Charlie.
I frown. “What’d he put you up to?”
“Nothing. I want to be here,” Ben says strongly. “It’s important.” I wonder why our sister isn’t with them, but it’s a question for later.
My voice is soft as I ask, “Then why do you look pained?”
“Parce que. Je ne pense que cela te plaira beaucoup.” Because. I don’t think you’ll enjoy this very much.
My stomach drops out of my butt.
I glance over at Beckett. He leans calmly on the bar and eats a carton of Wendy’s fries. Tonight is a rare night where he doesn’t have a ballet performance, and I bet that’s why they chose today.
So he could be here.
His lips are noticeably downturned and face sullen. He locks eyes with Donnelly, his former bodyguard.
I mutter under my breath, “It’s like a break-up.”
More than just me notices their silent, uncomfortable exchange. With an equally morose expression, Donnelly stuffs his cheesecake in a plastic bag and waves goodbye to Farrow and Oscar before he leaves the bar altogether.
Beckett is a heartbreaker, I’ve come to realize.
“Which mailman lost my invite this time?” Charlie asks dryly.
I locate him, just as he stands up on the bar with unkempt sandy-brown hair and mysteries behind yellow-green eyes. He has no coat, just an askew white button-down that sticks halfway out of black slacks.
The media talks about how we, Cobalts, are intelligent and witty. Poised and confident. But very few mention how deeply we feel.
How Eliot can summon tears out of cold-hearted eyes. How Beckett can make your awed gasp feel like the last breath you’ll take. How Ben can harness your empathy so you do the right thing. How Tom can wake the dead things buried inside you. How Audrey can bottle love and romance like it’s life’s greatest necessity.
And Charlie—everyone thinks he has no soul but his is just the darkest, deepest of them all.
I sidle to the bar. “It was housemates only, but if I’d known you were in town, I would’ve invited you all.”
“Where’s Luna?” Eliot asks.
Tom looks mildly worried at the lack of Luna.
I frown. “I thought she’d be with you,” I say honestly, and I look to Maximoff. He puts his phone to his ear and heads further back into the bar. Farrow follows. I trust that Luna’s older brother will find her.
I look up at Charlie. “Are you here to drink and watch a wrestling match?”
A coy smile inches up his lips. “You know I’m not.” He leans slightly on his cane. He hasn’t needed one in a while, but the cold weather has stiffened his healing leg, which he had surgery on back in May after the car crash.
I zone in on the ornate head of the cane: a gold lion eating a snake. I whisper up at him, “Why does this have to be a war?”
“It’s only a war if you make it one.”
“Then what is this, Charlie?”
He sighs out an annoyed breath. “You know what this is, Jane.”
A test of loyalty. Interlopers beware. The Cobalt brothers will not let you through. Farrow endured a lukewarm version. Beckett took it upon himself to grill Farrow at every turn.
I hiss, “He’s proven enough. He sacrificed his job for me.” I’m trying desperately to open up the window for my boyfriend.
Charlie is slamming it shut. “Hundreds of men would follow suit if it meant they could date you. He’s not special.”
“He is when his career is his entire purpose and reason for being,” I combat. “Let’s just all go out to dinner and talk.” For once, I would like my family to shelve the dramatics.
Charlie squats and rests his forearms on his knees, our eyes parallel. I’m just as smart, just as capable, just as strong as my dear brother.
I don’t back down. “We don’t need to do this, Charlie.”
“Yes we do.” He leans forward. “Just remember we love you.”
Heat builds in my body, and I whisper back, “I hate you right now.”
He smiles. “It’ll diminish in time.” He rises.
Eliot is the one to clamp a hand on Thatcher’s back. “Follow us, boyfriend-in-law.”
Thatcher seems unruffled and ready for any hell. He swivels a knob on his radio and glances over at his brother.
Banks upnods to him. “Get some.”
I recognize the military lingo, but not all my brothers do. They send each other wary looks, and it creates a new tension. A new divide between them and Thatcher.
As though we belong to two vastly different worlds, and it’ll take blood and sweat to pull him into ours.
We can do this. I try to bolster courage as I come up beside my boyfriend.
Thatcher clasps my hand and threads our fingers.
We can jump over fences naked together.
Don’t be afraid, Jane.
9
THATCHER MORETTI
Cobalts are a tornadic force you don’t want to fuck with. Out of the three famous families, they have the most power and can wield it with the snap of a finger.
Should I be afraid?
I think if I were someone else, I might shrink at the eye-popping, slack-jawed sight: all five Cobalt brothers strewn across a U-shaped booth like they’re Apollo, Zeus—godly figures—posing for an oil painting to be immortalized.
Among tabloids and fans, Xander Hale is considered the “prettiest” boy. Maximoff Hale is in a league of his own. And the Cobalt brothers—they’re cited as the “sexiest,” oozing
some kind of ancient, sensual allure.
But as I lower on a chair next to Jane and face her brothers, I can’t flinch. Or shy. It’s not in me. I’ve seen and lived through the worst hell, and whatever conditions they set, I can survive.
I just can’t make an enemy out of them, and lately I’ve been way too good at making those.
My objective: don’t piss off my girlfriend’s brothers.
And behind that objective lies another: take care of them.
Her brothers are in their teens and early twenties, and I’m still a bodyguard—I’m not here to cause harm. I want to defend and protect them, and the sooner I’m on their side, the easier this’ll be.
But Christ, I have no idea what they want me to do. So I’m in recon-mode. Attentive. Frosty. I assess each guy in every passing beat. Trying to determine which one will be the flat-out hardest to please.
Charlie Cobalt? He’s a wild card. Could be helpful, could be antagonistic. Could be something that I’ve never confronted before.
He lounges like he’s about to be fed grapes: his foot on the cracked leather cushion, elbow on his knee. His yellow-green eyes puncture me. “You were fucking our sister during the fake-dating ploy.”
I don’t blink.
“Charlie.” Jane’s face is beet-red.
I’ve listened to men talk crasser about so much fucking worse. Hearing this should be like popping a jellybean in my mouth. Too easy. But a sharp taste sears my throat, and I rake a hand over my hardened jaw.
“I was respecting your sister.” I will always respect Jane.
Eliot hoists himself on top of the booth frame. He uncorks a bottle of wine between his legs. It pops. “Did you hear that, brothers? Thatcher, here, was respectfully fucking our sister.”
Starting off just great.
I stare blankly.
“Dear God,” Jane mutters under her breath, wide-eyed like a freight train just smacked into her face.
Concern flexes my muscles. I watch Jane out of the corner of my eye but keep fixed on her brothers. “I didn’t say that.”
“It’s what I heard, dude.” Tom slouches back, lip upturned.
“All Thatcher said was that he was respecting our sister,” Ben argues.
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