Headstrong Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  Donnelly nods to me and my fiancé. “Your baby is a blood-relative of mine, and I’m Xander’s bodyguard. Which means that I’m like family. Murdering me is like murdering one of his own.”

  “Man, you’ve got Cobalts Never Die tattooed on your knee. Loren Hale isn’t going to think you’re one of us.”

  Luna props up on her elbow. “I won’t let my dad kill him.”

  Donnelly stares right at me. Rumors have been circulating in security about the guys that Luna made out with in New York. I can’t say which fucker overheard what or where, but bodyguards are talking.

  And they’re saying Lo got those guys black-listed from every nightclub in New York City and Philly.

  I’d call bullshit, but Oscar thinks they could’ve been banned from the clubs the famous ones frequent. Who knows what else Lo did, what he could’ve done or can still do.

  These families are powerful, and they have the ability to destroy people. Loren Hale is the Emperor of Petty, and he’s extremely protective of his daughter.

  Maximoff is in a serious daze. And he breaks out of the stupor. Eyeing Donnelly. “I’m hung up on the ‘your baby’ part—you know that we’re just temporary dads to Ripley? At some point, Scottie will be released from prison, and we plan to help him get clean for reunification.”

  “What?” Donnelly gapes at me.

  My chest tightens, and I glance at the baby monitor in my hand. “If Scottie’s willing to take the steps to be healthy for his son, then we have to respect that, Donnelly.”

  He rolls his chair back from Luna, upset.

  “Donnelly—”

  “Scottie isn’t looking to get clean, Farrow. He laughed in my face when I saw him.”

  Maximoff steps forward. “Wait, you talked to him?” We tried, but Scottie refused the visitation.

  “I went to the state penitentiary,” Donnelly confirms and turns more to me. “He’s just holdin’ onto his parental rights because he knows Maximoff Hale has the baby. So when he comes out, he’s one-degree away from this family.”

  He doesn’t care about his kid.

  My jaw tenses, acid spilling in the back of my throat.

  Maximoff looks murderous, but I’m sure there’s a part of his moral heart that believes, Scottie can change. But we both hold each other’s gaze in a vice.

  If we’re anything, it’s protective. And I can’t put a child in negligent, callous hands. Especially the child we’ve been caring for as dads.

  A garage door groans open. Cutting into the heavy tension. I check the window, peering behind the blinds. Shit.

  “Your dad’s home.”

  Luna takes a sharp breath, about to fling herself off the table.

  “Wait.” Donnelly rolls back to her. “I have to clean your tattoo first.” He wipes her thigh.

  “I’ll stall him,” Maximoff starts, but flinches at the sound of a door banging.

  “LO! FUCKING SLOW DOWN!” We all recognize the voice—it’s Ryke Meadows.

  And Maximoff bolts.

  I’m right behind him.

  18

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  My dad isn’t aimed for my sister’s room or seconds from burying Donnelly in a pit of damnation. As I run down the staircase, I see my uncle is chasing my dad into the kitchen.

  They have zero clue about the tattoo session upstairs.

  That’s all I know.

  That’s all I’m processing.

  I follow their tracks, Farrow hot on my heels, and they barrel out the back door.

  We sprint outside to the patio, the May air temperate. Clouds roll over the bright sun. Shadows dancing on the stone-edged pool and lounge chairs.

  My dad skids to a halt near the grill.

  I go cold, seeing the bottle of Maker’s Mark in my uncle’s hand.

  Ryke fists the red waxy seal. It’s sealed. Still full. “Why was this in your fucking car?!”

  “I’m not doing this with you!” my dad yells. “Go back to your cottage and eat your cardboard granola cereal—”

  “Just answer the fucking question—”

  “What do you want me to say?!” my dad sneers, walking up into Ryke’s chest. “That I’m the bastard who went to a liquor store and bought whiskey?”

  Ryke is trying hard not to shove him back.

  I run ahead and push my dad and uncle apart. They fall back immediately like I shocked them with a live wire. “What the hell?” I growl, staring from my dad to Ryke. Both are still zoned in on each other.

  Farrow hangs back, but as our eyes touch for a moment, I’m met with his deep understanding.

  My chest rises.

  Ryke hoists the bottle. “This is—”

  “I bought that three weeks ago,” my dad cuts him off. “Jesus Christ, I forgot it was even in my car.”

  “You forgot?” Ryke asks harshly, doubtful.

  “Yeah, big brother.” His voice tries to soften on brother. “If I’d remembered, I would’ve thrown it in the goddamn garbage to save myself the lecture.”

  Ryke rolls his eyes.

  I turn to my dad. “You’re okay? I thought Grandmother Calloway stopped harassing you and Mom? We invited her—”

  “I asked you not to, Moffy,” he cuts me off. “She shouldn’t even have a crooked old toe on the same soil as your wedding. You both didn’t want her there.”

  Farrow comes closer. “We’re fine with it, Lo. She’s harmless to us.”

  “Totally invisible,” I add. “And I’m pretty sure security is going to be all over her.”

  Security Force Omega is Farrow’s family, and they won’t let the media or untrustworthy guests fuck-up our wedding day.

  But I have to ask again, “She’s stopped harassing you? It helped?”

  Ryke nods in confirmation.

  “Yeah, she did stop,” my dad says. “It’s helped.” Clear as day, appreciation pools in eyes. “You both shouldn’t have had to do that, but I’m selfishly happy you did. Thank you.”

  We nod, and my dad hugs Farrow.

  When he embraces me, my dad pats my back for an extended beat, and we hold on longer while he whispers, “I love you, bud, and I’m grateful for you every goddamn day. And I can’t wait to see you marry the man of your dreams.”

  It’s a phrase that stays with me.

  Man of your dreams.

  Because for the longest time, I never dreamed about a future where I’d have anything more than one-night stands and bachelorhood.

  But God, Farrow is the biggest present daydream and future dream, and if I look back, I know he was a past dream too. I’m trying not to swoon, even as my uncle and dad leave for the shed. To pour out the whiskey in the grass.

  Ryke lowers the bottle to his side and wraps an arm around my dad. “That was fucking mature of you, little brother.”

  “Maybe my new therapist is rubbing off on me.”

  Farrow tenses.

  I hold his hand and lower my voice. “Should we tell him before the wedding—about Kaden? Because if we don’t, Kaden will be flying to Capri with my mom’s therapist.”

  Farrow rolls his eyes. “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  He combs his other hand through his hair. And we watch Ryke dump the alcohol. I’m conflicted, but I think Farrow is a billion times more so. He always puts me first.

  “I’m wrestling with this,” he admits to me, his voice a deep whisper.

  I turn into his chest, practically eye-level. “What does your gut say?”

  “Wait. Don’t jump the gun out of jealousy and territorial shit.”

  My mouth does this weird thing.

  His eyes brush over my lips. “You’re smiling.”

  “Am I?” I smile more. “It’s just…I didn’t realize you were jealous. I just thought you were being protective.”

  His mouth stretches upward, his knowing smile confusing me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve been jealous of other dipshits with you or who’ve hit on you,
but it’s cute that you think it is.”

  I’d usually have a good response, and I have noticed his jealousy other times before—but he makes me think there’ve been a million more instances that I’ve missed. “When? Where?” I sound too damn eager.

  “You tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.”

  “Mine will take a solid century.”

  He grabs my wrist and checks the time. “We have seventy-years until we die, give or take.”

  Yeah.

  I can work with that.

  19

  FARROW KEENE

  I don’t love keeping things from Maximoff, but today’s “covert op” called for a little white lie. And I’m not alone in this.

  Thatcher Moretti delivered the same line to Jane this morning—that we have an important security meeting to attend—so we’ve made this bed together. However uncomfortable it is.

  He turns the SUV (a security vehicle) on a back-alley street, so narrow that the car barely fucking fits. I could roll down my window and touch the wall easily.

  I scoop a spoonful of microwaved oatmeal. “I think this might be a pedestrian alleyway.”

  He side-eyes me. “You really care I’m driving through it?”

  “No, I do not.” I lean an arm on the door and eat my lunch. Security chatter soft in my earpiece. I’m listening in for anything from the temp that’s guarding Maximoff today.

  The car bumps over warped asphalt. “How’s our tail?” Thatcher asks.

  I check the rear windshield over my shoulder. “Paparazzi are definitely gone.”

  “We’re good to go then.” He drives back on the actual road.

  Cries escalate in the backseat, and he glances at Ripley through the rearview mirror. Five-months-old now, he does his normal screaming routine, this time buckled securely in a car seat.

  Thatcher strengthens his grip on the wheel. “You had to bring your baby.”

  I roll my eyes and grab Ripley’s yellow parrot from his diaper bag. “Maximoff is working, and I’m not dropping Ripley off with someone else. So yeah, this had to happen, Mom.” I give him a look. “Where’s your cat anyway? She deep-throat Ben’s cockatiel yet.”

  Thatcher cringes. “Don’t say that around Jane.”

  “I’m not; I’m saying it around you.” I unsnap my seatbelt and pass Ripley his stuffed animal. He quiets, the trick working for now. “Let’s make a deal,” I tell Ripley. “When you can talk, just promise me you don’t name that parrot anything wolf scout suggests. Give me that, at the very least.”

  Ripley lets out a giggle.

  I’ll take it.

  Returning to my seat and food, Thatcher glances at me, then the road. “Do you really want to know where the cat is?”

  I swallow oatmeal. “I wouldn’t have asked, if I didn’t give a shit.”

  He switches off the air vents. “LJ is at the Meadows cottage. It’s not ideal having the cats separated, and it’s just another reason we need to unfuck this living situation.”

  I nod and rest my boot on the seat. Elbow to my knee while I eat. Thatcher and I have been wearing the same battle colors these days. For most everything.

  It’s strange as hell that we’re agreeing so often, but we’re engaged to two famous ones who are as close as twins. So whenever their safety is at risk, I’m finding myself falling in line beside Thatcher.

  As for the move to New York, Maximoff would be cleaning up messes and pulling overtime dragging the Cobalt brothers out of deep shit. More than he already does.

  I’m fine with Jane and Maximoff wanting to take care of their siblings and cousins. That’s who they are. That’s who Thatcher and I fell in love with, respectively, but that’s not why they want to go.

  They’d be moving there for Charlie. Under the notion that he’ll actually stick around.

  I’m Team Philly.

  And I’m not being emotional about this shit. Because I’d love for Charlie to be missing in action if we moved to New York—I’m not his biggest fan right now. But my fiancé would be upset. Jane would be upset. And their belief in Charlie would crumble into dust.

  Currently, we’re far behind the polling numbers for Philly vs. NYC. With Charlie leading Team New York, we have to be more proactive.

  Which brings us to what Thatcher called a “covert op”—and I balance my bowl on a knee and scroll on my phone with my other hand.

  Popping up apartment listings. Five meetings with real estate agents this afternoon. If we show Maximoff and Jane actual, viable living options, they might reconsider Philly.

  Never in my life did I think Thatcher would be with me on this. But we’re the only ones who understand those two deeply enough to go to bat for them.

  Thatcher brakes at a red light.

  “How’s living at the Cobalt Estate?” I wonder.

  We don’t talk much about his day-to-day over there. He’s quiet, and I don’t like to pry. It’s made for some miscommunication in the past, but we’re getting better at it.

  Thatcher smiles, just a little. Barely noticeable, but it’s there. “Never boring.” He pauses, and I think that’s all he’s going to say. After a beat, he finally adds, “Only downside is still being around Tony.”

  Tony Ramella.

  Jane’s old bodyguard and motherfucking parasite. The dipshit was transferred to Connor Cobalt’s detail, so I imagine Thatcher’s been around him more than he cares to be.

  “On the plus side,” Thatcher continues, “Connor has sniffed out Tony’s horseshit. The shitbag gets reamed about every fucking day. From what I hear, Connor told him he’s on thin ice for staring at his assistant’s ass.”

  “Not surprised.” I scrape the bottom of my bowl, last scoop of oatmeal.

  Thatcher pulls up to a fairly small apartment complex. “Only a matter of time until he’s gone for good.” He switches on his blinker for a right turn. “Praise the fucking Lord.”

  Ripley coos in the back.

  I smile. Cute noise.

  Thatcher concentrates on finding the parking garage, and he tells me, “Jane is worried Maximoff is getting too attached to Ripley.”

  I fill in the blanks: Jane is worried because she’s afraid Ripley will leave us. “He’s already too attached.” I swig my water. “Because the inverse is Maximoff being apathetic toward his kid, and that’s impossible and honestly, I don’t want to see that happen. Ever.”

  Thatcher glances from me to the road. “Are you scared of getting attached?”

  “No. I’m going to take the bad shit when the bad shit comes. Whatever happens now, I’m all-in.”

  Thatcher switches off the ignition in the parking garage.

  I strap Ripley into a chest-carrier, which resembles a black tactical vest. Akara bought it after I said I couldn’t promise not to carry Ripley while I’m on-duty.

  The thing isn’t exactly bulletproof, but it conceals Ripley a lot better than an average carrier. He faces my chest and eyes my neck tattoos.

  I wedge his parrot between my body and his, and he grabs hold.

  And we’re off.

  Riding up an elevator to the top floor. Thatcher adjusts his earpiece and watches the numbers climb.

  The old apartment complex needs updated. Last built in the 80s. But it’s not as run-down as the townhouses.

  I can do my motherfucking job anywhere, but I’d love to pick out some five-bedroom ritzy flat in the city. It’d have better security systems and a safety perimeter.

  Small downside: Maximoff and Jane wouldn’t go for it.

  They want simple. Nothing extravagant. And the options we pitch them have to align with their tastes. I’m okay with that.

  We exit the elevator and walk down a long, carpeted hallway. Thatcher narrows his eyes on each apartment door and visible window. He’s mentally filing how much effort it’ll take to secure the area, I’m sure.

  We meet the real estate agent at Apartment 507. Ethel is a little old lady with wispy gray hair tied into a braid. “Welcome, welcome.” She u
shers us inside with a hand wave.

  3 bedrooms. 3 baths. 1500 square feet. Eh, still small for all six of us and a baby, but it’s considerably bigger square footage than the townhouse.

  “How’s the security?” Thatcher asks, getting right to the point. He moves in the direction of the windows.

  Ethel adjusts a bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter, the apartment staged for showings. “Very secure. We’ve never had any problems with any of the units in the building.”

  “Before we keep talking,” I say. “Can you sign this NDA?” I pull out my phone with the digital document and explain everything it entails.

  Confusion wrinkles her actual wrinkles. “Should I know who you are?” She gasps at herself. “I’m so sorry—that was rude of me. I just don’t keep up with the internet.” She leans forward to scribble a signature on my screen.

  If she did keep up with it, she’d know the baby strapped to my chest is the headline on just about every tabloid in the grocery store. I would know because I was recently there and saw the headlines at the check-out rack.

  MAXIMOFF AND FARROW HAVE A BABY!

  DID THE NEW FATHERS ELOPE?

  HOT DAD ALERT!

  We knew Ripley would be salacious news. But I didn’t expect Maximoff to shut-down the grocery store for an hour. With no hesitation. He rarely ever does that.

  But we had Ripley with us, and Maximoff’s first reaction was to do what his parents did for him in the face of hellish media. Take extra precautions.

  Ethel passes me the signed NDA and then shows us around the apartment.

  It’s okay.

  Nothing special about it.

  She guides us back to the kitchen. “I must confess, I think this unit is a bit big for just the two of you and your little one, but I do think you make such a lovely couple.”

  I choke on air, my brows high-jumping. “No, we’re not—” I start saying just as Thatcher tells her, “Thank you, ma’am.”

  I stare hard and wide-eyed at Moretti.

  He’s unruffled, and a shocked breath scratches my throat. This is not how I saw today going.