“OSCAR, CHARLIE, WE LOVE YOU! Oslie for life!!”
“DONNELLY, BECKETT—KISS, KISS, KISS!”
“LunaQuinn! LunaQuinn! LunaQuinn!”
“KITSULLI IS OTP!”
Each one is a completely fictional pairing, and thankfully Omega was able to ignore the chants and maintain their duties. Their steadfast nature is a saving grace. I just hope my siblings and cousins can withstand the rumors.
In the rear of the plane, I lower onto a cream, plush double-seat. Giving us enough privacy to speak alone.
Beckett is forced to sink down beside me. “Where’d you buy these?” He touches the handcuff. “A sex shop?”
“Yes,” I answer, unabashed. “The girl working there was very sweet too.” I might’ve also purchased a new vibrator, Thatcher in attendance with me, but I don’t need to mention this. Clearly, Jane.
Beckett leans back with a sigh. “They are softer than tactical ones.”
I smile. “Precisely.”
Charlie wanted to use metal handcuffs. He thought Beckett would enjoy the fuzzy ones too much, but I couldn’t bear to physically hurt him. We’re already puncturing his emotions enough as it is.
Beckett stares ahead in deeper thought, and my lips gradually fall to a line. He takes a tight breath before turning to me. “So you really believe I’ll run down the aisle past your six-foot-seven boyfriend and bum-rush the only exit that has more than three massive bodyguards climbing on board?”
“Yes.”
He gives me the umpteenth what the fuck face, brows scrunched tight. “Jane,” he whisper-hisses and yanks my wrist toward his chest. “I’m not a fucking addict.”
I want to believe him, so terribly. I want to.
“So maybe you wouldn’t bum-rush the exit.” My voice lowers. “Maybe I believe you in that instance. But the only reason you wouldn’t go for the door is because you’d be afraid one of those massive bodyguards could accidentally break your leg or your arm stopping you, and then you’d be out of ballet. Tell me I’m wrong about that.”
He doesn’t deny a thing. He just leans back, staring ahead again, away from me. And so softly, under his breath, he says, “I hate you, you know.”
My stomach sinks. He keeps unsheathing the same sword and plunging it straight in my gut. Knowing those words wreak an agonizing amount of damage on me.
Am I doing the right thing?
Maybe he doesn’t have a problem.
What if I’m keeping him from his career, his life’s goal for no reason at all? Ballet has been his sport, his art, his love and passion for over seventeen years.
He’s right—I don’t know what that’s like, not in the slightest.
I hate you, you know. His words ring hollow in my head. He hates me because I forced him here, handcuffed him to me, and he should, I suppose. I blink back emotion that tries to throttle its way to the surface.
I have to remember what Charlie said, “He’s going to be an asshole. A real dick. Don’t listen to him.”
Beckett and I rarely feud, and so I pictured a Charlie spat. Some flowery insults with added flair and then a cold-hearted bomb.
But I should have known better. Beckett has always been honest and pointed. But he’s still my little brother, even if he’s just two years younger. I have an obligation to protect him, and no matter how many blades I take, I’ll keep going.
I also have to remember—he’s a Cobalt. Beckett is cunning and smart, and he’ll use my emotions and love for him against me. Maybe he doesn’t really hate me. What’s more probable: he’s just trying to manipulate his way out of the handcuff.
Packing on my battle armor, I straighten up and channel a surge of confidence. I am a motherfucking lion. I am my mother’s daughter.
Even if I only have one-tenth of Rose Calloway Cobalt in me, that’s one-tenth of fire and brimstone that I can wield.
“You’ll thank me later,” I say.
“Keep telling yourself that.” He uses his cuffed hand to scratch his jaw, taking my hand with him. I don’t try to resist.
“I’ll uncuff us once the plane starts.” That was always the plan at least.
He looks straight ahead, not at me, while he speaks. “You mean, you’re not afraid I’ll find a parachute and jump out mid-air?”
“Well, now that you mention it,” I banter, trying to lighten the mood.
Beckett doesn’t acknowledge me or my poor attempt at a joke. I suppose a smile from him would be too much to ask.
My attention detours as a towering man strides down the narrow aisle. I skim him far too eagerly. Dog tags lie against his form-fitting white button-down, his brown hair tucked behind both ears, and a closer shave makes him appear a year or two younger.
He still has the commanding gait of a leader.
Still possesses grave sternness in his locked shoulders and tightened eyes.
Still resembles a brooding, handsome Thatcher Moretti. To me at least.
My smile rises, a rush of hope cascading over me. Helping subdue the pit in my stomach. Despite all my hang-ups and personal fears, I’m so very glad he’s here. I want him beside me.
More than anyone.
His stoic eyes stay on mine, which most likely display tangled affections and curiosities. Thatcher does a much better job of acting like I’m his brother’s girlfriend. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Banks,” I greet from my chair.
Beckett slips me a weird look. Most likely for pretending my boyfriend is his twin brother when Tony isn’t even around to fool at the moment.
But I’m practicing.
Practice is important, and Thatcher nearly smiles. I’d say we both enjoy being in cahoots again. It isn’t so bad this time because all the people we love are in on the secret.
“Jane,” Thatcher says strongly. He reaches the rear and holds out a water bottle to me, then another to Beckett.
“Merci.” I take the bottle gratefully and twist open the lid—Beckett shoots to a stance, forcing my hand with him.
Merde—the bottle tips backwards, spilling onto my breasts and soaking my zebra blouse. Thatcher has quick reflexes and rights the bottle before I’m completely doused, and I stand up and glance at Beckett.
A fraction of remorse flits in his eyes.
“That was quite unnecessary,” I tell him.
He frowns. “You’re the one who wants to be cuffed to me.”
“I don’t want to—”
“I have to take a piss.” Beckett interrupts me. His voice has changed, almost panicked. “Can you please…?” He extends his wrist.
Thatcher and I exchange a look, one full of apprehension. Something isn’t right. My brother hasn’t been this hostile since I spoke to him back in the apartment.
And then I notice the change: the door to the airplane. The flight crew has finally boarded, which means we only have about ten minutes before takeoff.
If Beckett were to make a move to leave, it’s now or never. Thatcher must see this too because he narrows a look on me and shakes his head. Silently telling me don’t do it.
I touch my brother’s arm. “We can go together.”
“No we can’t,” Beckett snaps. “I’m not peeing in front of my sister. Just uncuff me. I’ll be in and out in two minutes.” He looks to Thatcher. “Guard the door if that’ll make you both feel better.”
I want to trust him, but not at the cost of ruining all the progress we’ve made just to have him here. We’ve come this far, and I don’t want to lose my leverage in the end.
“Counter offer,” I say. “How about you wait to use the restroom until the plane takes off?”
Beckett stares me dead in the eyes, frustration creasing his forehead. “I have to go now, Jane.” He usually calls me sis. My name sounds like a thousand-pound brick on his tongue, weighted with anger.
“I won’t look. I’ll close my eyes,” I say quickly.
More bodies pile onto the plane than before, and since we’re both standing, people start to turn aro
und in their plush leather seats and stare. The attention feels too hot for comfort, and it’s not so smart to draw an audience while Thatcher is supposed to be Banks.
He sticks a toothpick between his lips and surveys the area.
Beckett lets out an annoyed breath. “Just put the handcuff on Charlie. Problem solved.”
“I can’t,” I sigh out.
When we were devising this strategy, Charlie refused to be handcuffed to him. He said he couldn’t do it. That it’d be five minutes before he uncuffed his twin brother. Instead, Charlie looked at me and said, “It has to be you.”
He trusted me with this task, and I worry if I hand this off to Moffy, it’ll just fester some sort of resentment within Charlie. For once, there is another person, another option, another someone who has nerves of steel and who stands so close to my side.
I eye Thatcher.
His strong gaze returns to me.
For some reason, my heart is beating wildly, uncontrollably, and I can’t slow the pace. “Would you mind…” Breathe. I inhale. “…being handcuffed to Beckett for the next ten minutes?”
Thatcher is already nodding. “I’m good to go.”
I look to Beckett. “There. Banks can go to the restroom with you. As far as I know, he’s not your sister.”
Beckett stakes me with one final glare before hanging his head and saying, “Let’s just get this over with.”
16
THATCHER MORETTI
Sometimes I forget just how fucking rich Jane’s family is until I meet the wealth head-on.
Like right now.
I’ve never seen a gold tissue holder until this moment. Let alone one in the bathroom of a plane. Salt scrub is in an opal dish with a spoon that looks more expensive than my salary, and ornate light fixtures cast a dim glow on the porcelain toilet.
Fit for royalty.
I have enough room to do push-ups, sit-ups, and throw some jumping jacks into the mix, and usually, I’d ignore the luxuries and focus on my duty.
But Jane is my girlfriend. This is the Cobalt family jet, affectionately nicknamed Heathcliff by Audrey, which outsizes all the other private planes and can comfortably carry all three famous families. It’s also outfitted with four bedrooms, five lounges, a twenty-person dining room, cinema and fitness area.
Where Jane comes from feels leagues different than where I’m born and bred. I’m staring at the Tiffany blue walls, the two sinks, and the fucking shower with thundering caution.
They’ll never accept someone like me.
I exhale out of my nose. That out-of-place feeling wants to beat me down, but I have to push forward.
Her brother is what matters here.
I face him while we’re cuffed together. “I can turn around and give you privacy while you piss, or I can uncuff you and stay forward.” I don’t trust Beckett, and I haven’t exactly patted him down for drugs.
He shifts his weight and stares everywhere but at me. “I just need to use the sink.” He seems antsy.
“I thought you needed to go the bathroom?” I’m tentative because Jane always talks about Cobalt 4D chess games, and I’m not about to be duped by one of her brothers.
Beckett scratches underneath the cuff. “No. I just need the sink.” He still can’t meet my eyes. “Please.” His voice is a sincere whisper. “I didn’t want to worry her, but I have to wash my hands. It’s really bothering me…” He expels a taut, anxious breath.
I realize his distress isn’t some deceptive thing. He’s uncomfortable being this vulnerable in front of me.
I make a choice, and I fish a tiny key out of my pocket. “Don’t do anything your sister wouldn’t want you to do.” I unlock his handcuff.
Beckett nods, and while I stand guard near the door, he rubs his wrist and approaches the sink. I watch him pump the soap dispenser three times. He methodically lathers his palms, in between his fingers, his forearms—all the way to his elbows.
He scrubs his hands, turns the faucet on and off five consecutive times, and glances back at me. “Can you…please just look at the wall?”
I shift my narrowed gaze onto the toilet, his nerves suffocating the bathroom, and I feel badly that his OCD is riding him this hard. I have no experience helping Beckett with this, but I understand brothers who want to keep their troubles hidden and private.
Jane will want to know.
I’ll tell her, and she’ll blame herself for pushing Beckett there—but I’ll lift her as high as I can and carry the guilt. It’s what I’m good at.
He repeats the routine three more times, and when he finishes washing soap suds, he curses under his breath and starts all over again. His skin is starting to grow red and inflamed.
“Is there something I can do?” I ask.
He shakes his head, then after another five minutes, he dries his hands on a monogramed towel. “When you mention this to Jane, can you add that this isn’t serious?” He comes over and extends his wrist.
Carefully, I snap on the cuff. “Why don’t you just tell her yourself?”
“Honestly…it’s hard for me to talk to her right now.” He’s still upset that she dragged him here.
“I’ll mention it,” I promise.
“Thanks.” He stares nervously at the door, like the latch is haunted. I notice how he twiddles his fingers, and I step past him, our wrists connected, and I open the door for Beckett.
He exhales in relief but avoids my eyes.
We exit, and I peer into the main lounge. Almost everyone has already boarded. Total headcount for the trip: a staggering 17 people.
Leave it to Maximoff Hale to transform the work of scouting a wedding location into a vacation for other people. He invited his family, security, and any plus-ones who wanted to journey to the Scottish Highlands for a week.
We’ll be back by December 20th, just in time for the holidays. My grandma has been begging me to bring Jane home for Christmas Eve. Every phone call is the same, but the most recent one was on speakerphone in Jane’s bedroom.
I was packing my duffel and her suitcase for Scotland.
“Youse twos are still coming for dinner on Christmas Eve?” my grandma asked.
On the bed, Jane smiled at the phone in my hand while she brushed Licorice. The gray cat had just come out of hiding.
“We’re still planning on it,” I confirmed.
“The whole family will be there,” my grandma said excitedly. Proud of the family, and Jane beamed up at me, understanding that feeling of pride in a lineage. “And I want to give Jane her baby blanket I’m crocheting. I should be finished by then.”
I didn’t flinch.
Jane went wide-eyed. “Oh, I’m…I’m not pregnant.”
“It’s not for now,” my grandma said. “I already made Thatcher one, but now youse can have two for the day you marry and have babies. I might not be around.”
“Grandma,” I said. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Hush now, I’m old. When I go, I’ll go, and you’ll have these things to remember me by.” She’s been preparing the family for her death since she was in her early sixties. Saying, I’m old. I’m gonna die soon.
She’s still healthy.
After we said our goodbyes and I hung up, Jane looked more curiously at me. “Has she crocheted your past girlfriends baby blankets?”
“Hell no.”
“Oh.”
I didn’t expect that reaction.
My pulse ratcheted up. “She likes you.” She can tell I love you.
“I like her a great deal too,” Jane whispered, but her brows bunched in concern. “What if…” Flush stained her freckled cheeks. “What if you dislike me in six or seven months and we break-up? Or possibly we might just mutually feel we’re not a perfect fit? These are rational probabilities.” She spoke in a single breath.
I realized then that Jane believes there’s a greater chance of us being a short-term couple than a permanent one.
“How is it rational that I’ll dislike you in s
ix months when I love you now?” I asked point-blank.
She smiled, then frowned, then winced. “Anything could happen…I suppose.”
I nodded stiffly.
I can’t see the future any better than she can. Mathematically maybe that shit adds up in that direction, but we’re dealing with emotion.
Unwieldy, un-fucking-quantifiable, frightening emotion—and I just want to be her safety net. I want her to feel like she can fall into these feelings, and I’ll catch her.
“Look, there’s no pressure,” I said strongly. “The blanket is just a gift, not a binding agreement.”
“It’s not to say that I wouldn’t…I mean, I…” She buried her face in her palms, and I sat on the bed beside her and drew her to my chest. I hugged Jane, and she mumbled against my body, “This is all so…”
“Soon,” I finished.
She looked up at me. “I was going to say new.”
“Right.” My muscles tensed. Unsure of where her fears exactly stemmed.
She felt me flex, and she swallowed hard. And then Carpenter stole our attention as he knocked perfume off her vanity. We dropped the topic after that.
I hadn’t thought much about Jane being pregnant. I hadn’t thought a lot about marriage or our children—and I shouldn’t be remembering any of this now.
We need to crawl through the first round of barbed wire before we can contemplate what lies ahead of us.
The cards, this twin switch, and Tony. If we can haul through this together, then maybe that door will open.
On the plane, Beckett stalls near the bathroom door. Not ready to return to his seat yet, and while I wait for him to move, my radio crackles with static.
Donnelly whispers on comms. “The Rooster has chosen his flock. I repeat, the Rooster has chosen his flock.”
I regret staying on the SFO line.
For the trip, we all agreed to be on the same channel as Tony and O’Malley, and I planned to switch over once we land. Listening to Tony’s voice is about as high on my priority list as chewing a bag of nails.
“He can’t be serious,” Oscar responds.
I scan my surroundings, and I zero in on a blue-blazer-wearing, gold-brick-shitting rich white guy: the Rooster (aka Will Rochester). He’s prep-school manufactured, birthed and raised in WASP society. Even his teeth look expensive.
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