Akara nods. “And Joana?”
“Other than being pissed she missed her fight, she’s fine.” Oscar shifts forward. “But she’s attached to me, so if you send me with the four clients, Jo has to be one of them. I love most of you motherfuckers and I trust you all, but I’m not leaving her.”
“Can she stay with Quinn?” Akara asks.
“No.” Oscar looks to his brother. “Sorry, little bro.”
“She’s my sister too,” Quinn retorts.
“I’m ten years older than you and twelve years older than her—so let’s not fucking start this. Okay?”
Quinn nods tensely.
We have two clients left to discuss. Jane is last. I wait in anticipation, my chest tightening, and Akara brings up his girl.
“Sulli is homesick.” Akara rubs his chilled hands. “She can’t call her dad or mom here, and it’s been getting to her.”
He’s my closest friend, and I hate that he hasn’t talked to me about this. I can see that Sulli’s pain is tearing at him.
“She’s urgent.” Akara ranks her.
“What about the Rooster?” Donnelly asks. “Won’t he wanna be with his girlfriend if she leaves?”
Akara restrains an eye roll at the mention of Will Rochester. “He can’t go. If he wants to complain, he can complain to the nearest wall.”
Farrow and Oscar are grinning.
Yeah, Akara sounds jealous. But he nods to Tony, keeping the show on the fucking road, and my senses sharpen as her name reaches the air.
“Jane is fine,” Tony says easily. “She’s just been keeping to herself.”
I swallow a rock. I want to say how last night she almost had a panic attack. How I held her in my arms and I practically rocked her to sleep while she cried in my chest.
But I can’t.
They can’t know that I spent the night in her bedroom. Or that we’ve run out of condoms days ago and have resorted to going down on each other, hand jobs, and fingering. We’re both too sexually frustrated, and that’s on top of the power flickering out randomly. Sporadically. At the worst possible times.
But that’s not what has built her emotions to a cliff.
Luckily, I can say what has out loud. “She’s been missing her cats.”
Tony zones in on me. “How can you tell?”
“She’s told me. Not being able to call home and know they’re safe is hard on her. She’s used to being sent videos and pictures when she’s traveling.”
“She’s urgent?” Akara asks me.
“I just said she’s fine,” Tony cuts in.
Oscar gives him a look. “It’s not a knock on you, bro. Banks spends time with Jane off-duty. He knows her personally.”
When Tony calms down, I confirm, “She’s urgent, but she won’t want to go.”
I can already picture my girlfriend prioritizing Sulli and Joana over herself.
With all the intel on the table, Akara has a hard choice. Oscar should be going if Charlie is going. He’s one of the only men capable of keeping Charlie safe.
But that means Joana is onboard over Sulli.
He makes a decision. “The clients going are Charlie, Luna, Beckett, and Sulli. As for the two bodyguards, I have to stay here.” He’s the lead and needs to be with the core group. “So I’m sending Farrow and Banks.”
Goddammit.
No one complains or backtalks or second-guesses, but I’m not happy to be split from Jane—if or when that time comes. Leaving her back here with that shitbag…
I shove down my feelings.
And I focus on my duty. If something happens to one of them, the world will mourn. So many people idolize these famous families. They represent something bigger than themselves. They are hope and inspiration and light in dark times, and inadvertently, by protecting them, we’re protecting that essence too.
Once the meeting ends, we disperse.
Most men head into the living room, and Jack Highland sees the trail of incoming bodyguards. He stands off the fireplace hearth, freeing his spot for us to get warm.
“Where are you going, Long Beach?” Oscar asks in passing. “You move one muscle from that fire, you’re going to turn into an icicle.” He flashes a grin. “I already see your weak California blood crystallizing as I speak.”
Jack smiles as he lowers back down. “Not all of us have warm sweatshirts like you.” He looks him over. “You willing to part with it?”
I’m not sure if he’s flirting. All I know is that Jack has said he’s straight.
Oscar pulls off his Yale sweatshirt and lightly chucks the clothing to Jack.
“You sure?” Jack asks, about to pull his arms through the holes.
“For sure. It’s already in your hands, Long Beach,” Oscar says with a laugh, and I leave that interaction behind when I find Jane on a chair scribbling math equations in her notebook.
I can’t comfort her here. But I walk over anyway, cautious of Tony in sight. He plucks an almanac off the shelf and sprawls on a couch.
Her blue eyes lift off the notebook. “I’m better, really. Did the meeting go well?”
“Menzamenz.” Half and half.
She smiles at my use of Italian, and the rest of the morning, we play Clue with Maximoff and Farrow, the board game worn and dusty from being crammed in a cupboard.
I stretch out my legs under the coffee table, and while Maximoff fights exhaustion beside Farrow on the couch, Jane and I sit side by side on the floor. Pillows beneath us.
Don’t touch her.
I hammer the thought in my brain.
Don’t touch her.
The shitbag is looking.
“It was professor plum, with a revolver, in the library,” Jane guesses.
Slyly, I reveal the revolver card in my hand to Jane, and she scratches the weapon off her list. Maximoff should be taking his turn.
I look across the table.
Exhaustion has won out. His eyes are shut, head on Farrow’s shoulder. Body slumped against him too.
Farrow holds him pretty tenderly. They’ve been on the edge of the seat together, and without waking him, he carefully draws Maximoff and himself further back against the couch.
He doesn’t stir. Still sleeping.
Jane has a pained expression, just seeing his sleep deprivation. “I’m afraid if we wake him, he’ll be upset he fell asleep and try harder not to.”
Farrow whispers back, “Which is why he’s staying like this.”
Their closeness makes me wish I could bridge the small gap between me and Jane. Just for a moment. A second.
Don’t touch her.
We’re about to scrap Clue and play a round of poker. And then Charlie Cobalt walks past our table, favoring his right leg, a book in his grip. He looks disturbed, like a ghost trapped inside a haunted house.
Jane watches her younger brother carefully and whispers to me, “He’s bored and irritable.”
Charlie slows when he sees Maximoff sleeping against Farrow.
This isn’t good.
“Shh, Charlie.” Jane puts a finger to her lips. “We’re trying not to wake him.” She’s warning her brother.
Farrow is glaring at him to back off.
I’m about to stand up and guide him away.
“I can help with that.” Charlie pats the hardback on his palm, and then he hurls the book at Maximoff’s head.
Farrow catches the book midair, but the action jostles Maximoff. And his eyes snap open.
All hell breaks loose.
Farrow is on his feet, heat in his eyes, and I tower and have a hand on his chest so he won’t near Charlie. Because in my head, Charlie isn’t just a client. He’s Jane’s brother.
Protect him too, but he makes it hard.
“He’s been a saint to you,” Farrow sneers. “You couldn’t let him have one fucking second of peace—”
“He’s had a million seconds,” Charlie retorts. He leans on the antique TV hutch.
“Stop, Charlie,” Jane says hotly, standi
ng off the floor-pillows. I leave Farrow to come to her side, and she looks up at me with a jolt of fear.
Don’t touch her.
Fuck me.
Fuck Tony, who’s still watching. Hell, a lot of people are. This is the biggest show we’ve had since my knockout fistfight.
Charlie rolls his eyes, irritated. “For fuck’s sake, you’re acting like I put a gun to his head. I simply threw a book at him.”
Maximoff rubs his tired eyes and slowly stands up.
“Maybe I should’ve thrown it harder so he could read me better.”
“I’ll read you,” Farrow says. “I’ll read you to fucking hell and back, and you couldn’t take one minute of it.”
Charlie’s eyes burn. “I’m waiting.”
“No,” Maximoff cuts in and sweeps an arm around Farrow’s shoulders, affectionately. “Don’t, Farrow.” He glances at Charlie. “No one is lashing back at you.”
“Who made you king?”
“No one,” Maximoff growls. “Christ, Charlie, just take a breath.”
“I’m breathing,” he snaps, then veers to Jane.
No.
He’s picking tender, vulnerable flesh to attack, and I’ve been in fucked positions before—but I’m at a loss of what to do to protect Jane from her own brother.
“I’m dying on the side of the road,” Charlie says. “So is Thatcher. Choose who to save.”
She blinks back tears, a sharp breath escaping. “I’m not playing this game.”
I will.
“She’d choose you,” I tell him strongly. “My brother, Thatcher—he’d want her to choose you.”
Jane’s face twists.
Charlie doesn’t even pause. “I’m dying on the side of the road. So is Moffy. Choose—”
“Charlie!” Maximoff yells.
Jane is winded, and I place a hand on her back. My stomach knots a thousand different ways.
“Yes?” Charlie arches a brow.
Maximoff growls, “You’re being a sadistic asshole.”
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Jane mutters repeatedly, a hand to her face. This is a combination of emotional hell she’s felt.
They’re all breaking, and my instinct is to carry her out of here.
One more minute of this shit, and I will.
“Sadistic.” Charlie nods slowly. “You want to see sadistic?” He addresses the room. “Just so everyone is aware—this isn’t Banks Moretti.” He points at me.
I’m rigid.
“NO!” Jane screams bloody murder. “Charlie!”
I come up behind and hold her around the waist.
It’s over.
Charlie wipes away a quick, fallen tear off his cheek. He broke her fucking heart, and I think he broke his own too.
Her legs buckle and she falls in my arms. “Jane, Jane,” I whisper in her ear. “It’s okay.”
She shakes her head. Guilt—God, I understand her guilt.
But I won’t let it drag her down. “It was gonna happen,” I whisper. “Sooner or later.” We can’t blame him.
We can’t blame anyone but ourselves, and then, at the end of day—I’m good at carrying the blame.
She takes a strong breath and straightens up in my hold around her waist. Her hands sliding along my arms.
Charlie leaves for the kitchen, and his twin brother sprints after him. Beckett glances back at me before he disappears, an apology in his eyes. And I know he’s trying to give one for Charlie.
I’d do the same for Banks.
I recognize that Charlie didn’t announce that I’m Thatcher, but the damage is done. He said enough, and Tony knows.
He’s staring haunted at me. He deduces after some muttering with others that he was one of the few people to not know.
And then he lets out a breath of disbelief and rises off the rear couch. “You’ve got to be shitting me—all this time…” He shakes his head, emotion in his eyes that I didn’t expect to meet.
I thought he’d threaten my job. My brother’s job.
First.
Foremost.
He rubs his mouth and spits out, “The good sons. You know that’s what everyone calls you two in the family—the fucking good sons.” He laughs. “What a crock of fucking shit. If only they knew…maybe then I wouldn’t have to hear from my grandma ‘why can’t you be more like those twos, huh?’—or from my uncles, askin’ why I didn’t go to war like the Moretti brothers. Tellin’ me I should be a soldier, a leader like Thatcher. Tellin’ me to go play football like you. And then my sister Nicola, tellin’ me to be good like you.”
I fixate on his jealousy.
I thought he was just insecure and punched down on me to make himself feel better. I didn’t know…
Honestly, I didn’t think anyone could be jealous of me. I was poor. I was an identical twin who got mixed up with another fucking person constantly. I wasn’t popular in the traditional sense.
I felt like no one knew me.
No one saw me.
Except my brothers. My family.
My family.
Realization sinks deep. His family is my family. Ramellas, Morettis, Piscitellis.
He gestures to me. “How is it that you could lie to me for weeks about who you are?”
“You made it too easy,” I say honestly.
I must be the worst son on the planet, because I can’t apologize to him.
Tony sees my hate for him. More clearly than I think he ever has. He hangs his head, looks from side to side before looking at me. His eyes more reddened. “You really thought you could get away with it?”
“Yeah.”
For one week.
Tony just keeps shaking his head. He exits into the parlor, not giving me the satisfaction of knowing what the hell he plans to do. But I can’t see an outcome where he doesn’t rat me out to the Alpha lead.
It’s over.
Banks and I—we’re fucked.
38
BANKS MORETTI
27 Extended Days Pretending to Be Thatcher
Security’s townhouse is empty at oh-two-hundred—a rare thing and this beauty belongs solely to me. Really though, I fucking hate being alone.
So being the only SFO bodyguard in Philly sucks major ass. I miss my brother, and I’m waiting for those unlucky souls to make it back home.
Until then, I lounge on the leather couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table. Cold beer in one hand, my cell balances on my knee. Set to speakerphone.
“Am I…in clear?” Akara’s voice fractures over the line.
“Negative. You’re breaking up.” I swallow more beer.
He hasn’t been able to call in weeks because of the wind chill. It’s finally died down this morning. Enough for Akara to stand in the blistering cold with a sat-phone. Static cracks against the line.
I’ve already been informed of the two shit pies.
Tony knows about the twin switch. Yippee-ki-ya, motherfucker—I’m not excited, but I take the bad and just keep going. We’ll see what happens.
I also just heard about the plan—a ten-hour hike to the village’s inn—and how Thatcher is set to go. If the weather stays like it is, the group of six might be able to move out tomorrow. Apparently a storm has delayed the journey for seven days.
I wish I could be there to stay back with Jane. My brother must be losing his fucking mind to have to leave her behind with Tony.
“How about now?” Akara asks.
“You’re clear.”
He starts venting about the Rooster, and I think I mishear Akara.
My feet drop to floor, blown forward. Glaring at my phone. “He what?”
“He jerked away after touching the hair on her leg.”
I hold the phone to my mouth. “Fuuuuck this knuckle-fuckbag.” My blood is boiling.
Akara laughs. “Shit. I needed that.” He means the laugh.
“What’s he looking for, a two-holed plastic doll?” I shake my head. “He made her feel like shit, didn’t he?” I take a harsher
swig of beer.
I can’t stand men like that.
“Sulli said Jane made her feel better about it.” He lets out a rougher breath. “He’s getting on my last nerve.”
Akara has insane self-restraint, which makes him a great lead. He knows the Rooster is untouchable. As the boyfriend to a client, we’re not allowed to glare at him.
Can’t air our opinions about him.
Can’t punch him—which I’d love to do—sorry, Mom.
Unless he’s abusive or a threat to her safety in some other way, we’re supposed to be impartial. I’d like to impartially declare that I’m not a fan.
“Are you gonna tell Sulli what he said to you?” Right before they boarded the plane, this Richie Rich had words with my best friend.
“I can’t. He came to me in confidence. As her bodyguard, I have to respect a request from her boyfriend.” Tension ekes on the line. “She really likes him—and I’m not sabotaging this. He’s her first kiss.”
From what Akara told me, their first kiss was a good moment. Good experiences are hard to come by. My first kiss was shit on wheels. We wouldn’t want to morph the good thing into something bad.
I tuck hair behind my ear. “You think she’ll be that mad at him if she hears his request?”
“She’ll break up with him.” He’s that assured.
I don’t tell him to go and do it.
Selfishly, we’d both love for them to break up, but our opinions on the guy don’t hold weight to hers, and that’s how it should be. We’re not the ones making out with him.
Akara sighs out his frustration. “I can’t fucking believe he told me to stop being her friend.”
That wasn’t exactly the request.
I smile into a swig of beer. “He told you to stop flirting.” I can feel Akara’s glare all the way from Scotland.
“Sul and I have never flirted.”
They’ve flirted.
Hell, I’ve flirted with the girl. She’s funny, competitive, a fucking smokeshow, and also very, very virginal but I wouldn’t call her naïve. I’m just not sure she understands when men are hitting on her versus when they’re just being friendly.
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