Alphas Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 3)

by Krista Ritchie

  “Sadly,” Charlie quips.

  “Charlie,” they all chastise.

  A pretentiously coy grin plays at his lips. “Only joking.”

  Jane hones in on my bruises. “No wonder Farrow was so quiet,” she mutters, setting down the sleepover loot. I figure they all plan to crash in the attic. When we were kids, we’d pop out sleeping bags and air mattresses and spend the night at each other’s houses.

  My brows knit. “Farrow was quiet?”

  “He spoke to me.” Beckett plugs in an air mattress.

  “Only because you were being a fucking ass,” Sulli tells her best friend, and then she pats my foot consolingly, a turquoise blanket slipping from the heap she holds.

  “What’d you say to Farrow?” I ask Beckett, my shoulders constrict and that hurts like a thousand pitchforks poking my bone. I wipe my perspiring forehead with the heel of my palm.

  “I thanked him for helping Ben, Winona, Charlie, and you in the crash, and then I said if he has anymore exes that you should know about, you deserve full transparency.”

  I groan. “Beck.” I’m not surprised everyone knows about Rowin Hart. He was introducing himself to our families at the hospital.

  “You do need transparency, Moffy. Farrow knows everything about you—”

  “I know every goddamn thing about Farrow that I need to know.” I understand that Beckett is protective because I’m the first to be in a relationship—the first to combat these strange dynamics since we’re strangely famous—but he can’t keep shitting on my boyfriend. Farrow has been through enough. “I don’t want the names of his other exes, Beckett. If I asked, he’d tell me. Give Farrow a fucking break.”

  Charlie leans against my dresser. “He said he thanked your boyfriend.”

  “Great,” I say, “and what did Farrow say in return?”

  Beckett bends down to plug in the air mattress. “He told me to get the fuck out of his relationship.”

  “His boyfriend almost fucking died,” Sulli tells Beckett, helping him spread the air mattress out. “You’re lucky he didn’t deck you in the face.”

  Beckett fiddles with my old outlet. “I’m willing to take a punch for Moffy. And for you and the rest of our family.”

  Sulli slugs his arm hard, but playful.

  He pushes her back, smiling.

  I watch Jane tie her hair in a low pony, and she brings a tin of chocolate turtles to me. “You must be starving. You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

  “I’m not.” I cringe, no appetite from anesthesia and now pain. Nausea roils deep, and I try to ignore the queasiness. Having my family here helps.

  She carefully crawls on the bed beside me, dressed in baby blue coffee-print grannie jammies. I lean into my best friend and whisper about Xander, not able to keep this in. Not from her. She doesn’t ask for more details, just nods and listens.

  “Uh, cumbuckets.” Sulli just banged her elbow on the dresser, trying to inflate the air mattresses. I need to text Farrow to let him know that Omega can join us up here. If they want. It’s been a long, exhausting day. And we’ve gone through some shit together.

  My phone is lost in my sheets.

  Fuck.

  “What are you looking for?” Jane asks, wanting to help, but a black cat hops on the dresser behind Charlie. If there’s anything that can steal Jane Cobalt’s attention from family—it’s her cats.

  Purring, Lady Macbeth collapses and rolls on her back. “She’s slow and old,” Charlie says to Jane. “I’d give her two more years maximum.”

  Jane looks murderous.

  “Charlie,” I snap.

  “Lady Macbeth, come here, my love,” Jane says quickly, trying to cajole the cat away from Charlie. The cat looks up at the ceiling.

  “And she’s deaf,” Charlie notes.

  “She’s most definitely not. Wait and see.” Jane leaves my bed to prove her point, and the stairs creak—I’m hoping to see that tatted guy breach the doorway.

  Instead, my gangly little sister stumbles in. She wobbles like she’s fueled on energy drinks and sleeplessness from writing fics.

  “You okay?” I ask Luna, her Metallica T-shirt stained with paint and glitter.

  “Yeahyeahyeah.” She almost trips over Beckett. “Sorrysorry.”

  “You’re fine,” he says, watching as she careens towards my bed.

  I sit up like I can stupidly help. Pain explodes in my chest, fucking Christ. I grind hard on my teeth.

  Both Sulli and Jane react fast and catch my sister’s hands on either side, stopping her from collapsing on the bed and bouncing the mattress.

  Sulli lets go of Luna’s hand as Jane twirls her in a dance move. Luna wobbles and outstretches her arms. “Whoa,” my sister says.

  “Are you drunk?” Charlie asks outright.

  “I had a Four Loko.” Green marker scribble runs down her arms and stains her cheeks. Her light brown hair is a matted mess. “The world is spinning.”

  I’m not used to Luna drinking beer or liquor. At all. But I’ve never seen her exceed one drink. Sometimes I hate that I’m so fixated on alcohol, but it’s always in my face. Always brought to my attention by the media, by my family history, and I just can’t ignore it.

  What’s even in a Four Loko? Is that a beer?

  I try to crack a knuckle—realizing, I can’t even do that without the use of my right hand. “You’re not going out, are you?”

  “Nopity.” Luna drifts to the windowsill. “I’m home for the night. Per Farrow’s request.”

  So my boyfriend hasn’t been completely quiet. It’s clear he’s had some conversations with my family while I was asleep. It makes me feel like I was awake. Like someone grabbed my wheel and steered. Keeping everything upright when I couldn’t move.

  I feel myself start to smile.

  “Maximoff and Farrow!! Sitting in a tree!” someone yells from outside my window on the Philly street. “K-I-S-S—” Giggling erupts outside.

  “How many times does that happen?” Beckett asks, giving the window a what the fuck face.

  “Every single night,” I answer with indifference.

  I’m trying my best not to let this fact grate on me. The public enthusiasm surrounding my relationship is a product of fame, and I don’t want to be irritated that people shout at my window. But this involves Farrow, so it’s harder to let go.

  Beckett glances at Charlie. “Remind me to never fall in love.”

  He grins. “Already in my calendar for the rest of your life.”

  Luna sinks down on the windowsill. “So…maybe I’ll fall head-over-heels and out-of-orbit for my date next week.”

  The air strains. Everyone is staring at my sister like she’s actually flown into another fucking galaxy.

  My gaze sets sternly. “By date, do you mean the auction, and by auction, do you mean that sixty-year-old man who bid on you?”

  Luna burps into her fist. “Yep.”

  “No,” I snap, a different kind of pain clawing my muscles.

  “It’s not a date, Luna,” Jane says, the black cat cradled contently in her arms. “It’s simply an obligatory function where you don’t need to even speak. It can be a silent hour.”

  “We don’t know how long it’ll be,” Charlie corrects. “It could last till morning.”

  My sister has her eyes set on me. “So if you’re going three-fourths Loren Hale right now, I should expect a pretty harsh reaction from him?” Luna asks.

  I’m completely rigid, my jaw sharpened. “Yeah, don’t call it a date around Dad.” Jesus. What am I doing with this fucked-up auction? Why am I letting Ernest Mangold control my sister’s fate? It’s all wrong. It’s all cursed.

  The porn star—fuck that.

  Fuck this.

  “Moffy.” Luna stands, clutching the curtains to steady herself. “I retract my statement. Notta date. Just a meeting. Like a business thing.” She tilts her head. “Better?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. I lean back, my mind still reeling. None of
this is okay. It’s not, but I need time to think about the auction. Right now, my pain has taken the front seat, and I need to find my fucking phone.

  10

  FARROW KEENE

  “Shotgun him,” Donnelly suggests to me, his ratty Van Halen shirt almost a decade old. That blue-eyed shameless motherfucker leans on the stove of the cramped kitchen.

  We’re in the famous one’s townhouse. Oscar digs through the cupboard for snacks, listening to this conversation take a turn.

  “I’m not smoking out my boyfriend.” I spin a butter knife between my fingers. “A. weed makes him sick and B. he’s Maximoff.” I’m sitting on the counter next to melting ice packs, a thermometer, and a portable fan, waiting for a bagel to toast.

  Mostly, I’m giving Maximoff alone time with his family. I’ll be up there soon.

  Donnelly adjusts his septum piercing. “A. edibles made him sick. We aren’t sure about smoking. I gotta jawn in my pocket.” His lilt is thick on jawn, a word which means just about anything in Philly, but Donnelly uses it mostly for blunt. “B. he’s Maximoff in Pain with a capital P.”

  I chew Winterfresh, actually and truly considering Donnelly’s pitch to resolve Maximoff’s distress.

  Oscar notices. “Boyfriend is in that much pain that you’re taking advice from Donnelly?” he asks with wide eyes, tearing open a bag of pretzels.

  I pop a bubble in my mouth. “Let’s put it this way: I wouldn’t be surprised if he pukes in thirty minutes.”

  It’s killing me to see Maximoff in this kind of agonizing pain, and I don’t know how to relieve it. Other than making him more comfortable and distracting him.

  Neither of which can come close to easing fractured ribs, a surgical operation on his collarbone, and internal bruising. I didn’t sustain any injuries, and my body is extremely fucking sore and my muscles are shot.

  I feel like I’ve been in a boxing ring fighting and grappling for thirty days in a row. Nonstop.

  Oscar digs into the pretzels. “He does have a high pain tolerance though. Ever seen that episode of We Are Calloway where he breaks his ankle? Maximoff walked on it for what…five miles? Didn’t even break a sweat.”

  I’ve seen that episode. “He’s breaking a sweat now,” I say easily, but that fact wedges like a pit in my ribs. My bagel pops, and I grab it from the toaster.

  “We hotbox the attic,” Donnelly offers, tugging open the fridge.

  I slowly chew my gum. “Man, that entails getting all the famous ones high.”

  “Bonus,” Donnelly says and chucks the cream cheese container to me.

  I catch. “Downside: Maximoff will go into big brother mode for the rest of the night if his little sister is high.”

  “He’s probably already there,” Donnelly tells me. “I saw her drinking Four Lokos while you were upstairs.”

  I roll my eyes. “I love that girl, but fuck.” I’m pissed because Maximoff shouldn’t have to worry about Luna tonight, and he will. Shit, I am right now. She buried her head in her shirt at the hospital, silently crying, and she’s kept to herself since the crash. Now this.

  Oscar scratches his unshaven jaw. “Donnelly, you’re supposed to be making Redford feel better not worse.”

  “I gave him cream cheese.”

  I open the lid. “I’m having a night,” I tell them, being honest. “I’ll be fine later.” I’m just not in the mood for more bad shit. If something else goes wrong in the next twenty-four hours, I’m going to lose it.

  Friends make long days feel good, but it’s the simple, little things that make the bad shit feel nonexistent. I just want to crawl into bed next to my boyfriend. Simple.

  Easy.

  “My guy doesn’t know you like I know you,” Donnelly says, bringing up Beckett, his client, who laid into me earlier. “Or else he wouldn’t have said the things he said.”

  I spread cream cheese on my bagel. “I know.” I’ve already told Donnelly not to meddle and share details about me with Beckett. I’d rather earn that trust on my own.

  At this rate, it may take years.

  I spit my gum on a napkin and ask Oscar, “Charlie ever tell you why he wanted Beckett to do the auction?” I don’t ask Donnelly since he wouldn’t share Beckett’s secrets if he knew them.

  Oscar hangs into the cabinet. “That requires having a relationship where Charlie actually tells me things.”

  “So that’s a no,” I say, biting into my bagel. I turn my head as Akara fills the archway. A backwards baseball cap pushes back his black hair, and like Oscar, he’s in workout clothes: a muscle shirt and sweats.

  “How you holding up?” Akara asks me.

  I toss my head from side-to-side. “Better than my boyfriend.” I take another bite. “How about you?” The Omega lead has been attached to his phone for hours. Handling the crash and the aftermath which involves lawyers and police reports. We both haven’t slept since the accident.

  “It’s been a day.” Akara watches Oscar take out a six-pack from the fridge. He doles out Coronas to everyone, but I pass.

  Akara’s phone buzzes.

  “Sulli?” Donnelly asks.

  Akara checks Caller ID, then pockets his phone. “No, some guys have been calling me about franchising the gym.” He uncaps the beer bottle on the counter’s edge, acting like that offer means nothing.

  Ever since SFO has gained some fame, Studio 9 Boxing & MMA gym has too. Especially since Akara owns it.

  “You can be excited in front of me.” I lick cream cheese off my thumb.

  Oscar pats Akara’s shoulder. “Congratulations, bro.”

  Akara nods and swigs his beer. “I wish I could be excited, but franchising sounds like a headache. I’m already swimming in work.” He checks an incoming message on his phone. “And there it is.”

  “Sulli,” we all say, ribbing him together.

  His brows crinkle. “Not Sulli.”

  Oscar smirks. “It was a ninety-nine percent chance, Kitsuwon.”

  Akara shakes his head. “Look, all the subtle Sulli shots at me can’t happen anymore. I know you’re fucking around, but at the FanCon, you threw out hints that I liked her as more than a friend in front of Maximoff, in front of her cousins. Sooner or later, they’re gonna stop thinking that’s a joke. So you all need to cut that shit. Just a friendly warning.”

  I don’t mind backing off, but if I slip on accident, I won’t mind that either.

  “Aye aye, captain,” I say with a bagel between my teeth while I grab the other half from the toaster.

  “Sure thing, boss.” Donnelly raises his beer.

  Oscar shakes the pretzel bag, his curly hair falling in his eyes. “How sure are we that you don’t like her as more than a friend?”

  “Oscar.” Akara glares.

  He puts a hand to his heart. “You know I wouldn’t give you shit, if you weren’t a buddyguard. It’s not a good look. Ask Donnelly.”

  Donnelly swishes his beer. “Beckett and I look dope together.”

  “Exactly. That’s weird,” Oscar tells everyone.

  Akara looks about ready to strangle Oliveira. My lips want to rise, partially-somewhat entertained. The Omega lead points at Oscar with his beer. “I’ve been on her detail since she was sixteen. Her dad will have my dick under a knife if he hears you. Do not push it.”

  I let out a low whistle at Oscar. “Keep forgetting that lube before you get fucked hard.”

  “Taking one for the team, Redford. You’ve been fucked hard enough today.”

  I nod a few times. That was a good one, and Oscar holds my gaze for a quiet beat and nods back, more serious.

  “Who was it?” Donnelly asks Akara. “If it wasn’t Sulli texting you.”

  “The rest of the Tri-Force.” Akara names the powers-that-be in the security team that consist of the current Alpha, Omega, and Epsilon lead: Price Kepler, Akara Kitsuwon, and Banks Moretti. “Let’s go in the living room. There’s big news.”

  I lean my ass on the iron café table, but the granny-decorat
ed living room has more seating than usual. Mismatched lawn chairs litter the floorboards, accompanying the ugly pink Victorian loveseat and the old rocking chair.

  While Donnelly slumps on a lawn chair, Oscar stays in the kitchen archway, and Akara stands front-and-center blocking the brick fireplace.

  It’s hard to miss Thatcher.

  He towers next to the adjoining townhouse door. Closer to me than I prefer. Arms crossed, he eyes Jane’s cats that dart across the mint-green rug.

  I’m hoping to keep the silent streak between us intact.

  Jack Highland sits on the loveseat and fiddles with his Canon, but the starry-eyed jock isn’t here to film We Are Calloway. He heard what happened after the auction, and he came here to check on Maximoff and Charlie.

  “Put the phone away for a sec, Quinn,” Akara tells the youngest bodyguard.

  Quinn is bowed forward on the rocking chair. “How long will this meeting take?” He doesn’t pocket his phone.

  “I don’t know,” Akara snaps, not putting up with anyone’s bullshit tonight. “You need to be somewhere? Leave.”

  Quinn glances around at us, and ends up looking to me for the right answer. I’m not solving anyone else’s mini-dilemmas unless their name starts with Maximoff and ends with Hale.

  Boyfriend privileges.

  Before I can tell him off, Quinn starts explaining to me, “I matched with this incredibly cute girl on Tinder and her profile says she’s down for hookups. She can only meet me in like five fucking minutes.”

  My brows hike, and Oscar tries to control his laughter. His little brother is asking for my permission to go fuck a girl.

  “Man, I don’t give a shit what you do,” I tell Quinn.

  Thatcher shoots me a glare. “That’s really your advice?”

  There goes that blissful silence. “Technically, it’s not advice. It’s an opinion.”

  Donnelly asks to see the girl’s profile, and Quinn passes him the phone. Jack leans over to peek at the screen.

  “Be thirty minutes late, little bro,” Oscar tells his brother. “That way she won’t smell your desperation.”

  Quinn gives him a weird look. “I’m not that desperate. I’ve gotten hundreds of messages since the Hot Santa video leak. But this girl is out of my league and she doesn’t care.”