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

by Krista Ritchie

  In the public’s eyes, Quinn Oliveira became the Casanova of Omega. The Young Stud. And I can see Thatcher weighing Quinn’s dedication to this job. Like he does to me all the fucking time.

  Thatcher catches sight of my glare, and he glares back.

  My phone vibrates in my back pocket. Just as I reach for my cell, Akara tells Quinn to make a choice.

  Donnelly shrugs and hands the phone to Jack. “It’s just pussy, Quinnie. You can eat it later.”

  Jack doesn’t flinch, used to blunt talk. “She’s cute. You’d look good together, but I’m with Donnelly.” He passes the phone back to Quinn.

  I check my recent message from Maximoff.

  You busy? – Maximoff

  “Farrow,” Akara calls me out for my phone while Quinn decides to stay put for the meeting.

  “It’s Maximoff,” I say, typing back a reply.

  I send: No. What do you need?

  Akara doesn’t nag, and he snaps his finger to his palm, “Okay, so here’s the deal. Alpha is still the force that’ll work the night with a celebrity a week from now. Price isn’t compromising or letting Omega take the lead.”

  No one thought he would.

  “Bigger news,” Akara says, “Eliot and Tom Cobalt graduated high school. For those that don’t know”—he zeroes in on Quinn—“Security Force Omega was formed when Maximoff left home. At that point, SFO became the division of security that protects the kids who turn eighteen and become legal adults. Epsilon handles all the minors. Normally, this means that we’d be welcoming Eliot and Tom’s bodyguards to SFO, but the Tri-Force has decided on a restructure.”

  Oscar frowns. “A restructure?”

  Akara outstretches his arms. “Omega has gained some fame. We’re the only ones who get stopped for autographs, the only ones getting extra Tinder dates, and if we start adding more bodyguards, there’s a chance they’ll gain notoriety by association. It’s not something the security team wants.”

  I understand now. There’s no plan to add extra bodyguards to SFO. Which is perfectly fine by me.

  Akara continues, “All of us here—we are Omega. Even if you’re transferred to another client, even if you quit or get fired. We’re the bodyguards on SFO until further notice.”

  Thatcher straightens off the door. “What about my brother?”

  Akara nods. “We’re still talking about adding Banks to Omega, and it’s likely that’s the way it’ll fall.” No one asks why. Banks and Thatcher are identical twins, and he’s been recognized just as much as Thatcher on the street.

  My phone buzzes.

  all of SFO + jack. Were gonna chill tonight up here – Maximoff

  After seeing his cousins carry pillows and air mattresses upstairs, I figured he’d invite everyone to this little “sleepover” thing.

  Your text needs an apostrophe and capital letters. And you sure you want Thatcher up there? I send, and rise off the table as a swarm of texts hit me. Everyone in the living room is watching me.

  “Boyfriend okay?” Oscar asks.

  Maximoff texts me a middle finger emoji, along with these:

  Bring snacks – Maximoff

  Chocolate chip cookies in the pantry – Maximoff

  Drinks, another sleeping bag, pillows – Maximoff

  These are definitely requests from his cousins.

  If you need help, I can come down –Maximoff

  I instantly call him, phone to my ear. “Don’t you dare move.”

  “Too late, I’m already doing cartwheels down the stairs.” His voice sounds tight with pain.

  I rub my mouth. “You’re a terrible liar, wolf scout.” My eyes latch onto Akara, and I mouth, upstairs. He nods, and I tell my boyfriend, “We’ll be there soon.”

  Maximoff looks worse than when I left him.

  His pallid skin gleams with sweat, dark brown hair damp like he took a shower, and he breathes measured breaths through his nose.

  But he’s not shaking. No chills.

  Good.

  I block out most of the background chatter as SFO and Jack settle into the attic room. Sleeping bags and pastel blankets cover air mattresses that line almost every inch of floor space. Bags of chips and bowls of popcorn are being passed around.

  I’m already sitting next to Maximoff on his bed, and while he sticks the thermometer in his mouth, I reach over his chest. Carefully.

  And I switch on the portable fan. I sense him watching my inked hands, and our muscular legs unconsciously intertwine.

  I grab a limeade Ziff sports drink. Leaving the other half of a bagel on the end table. He has to be too nauseous to eat.

  With Maximoff, and even me, there’s a fine line between “coddling” and taking care of each other. I let him adjust his ice packs on his shoulder and chest, and when I unscrew the sports drink, I see the don’t do that for me in his features.

  The warning dies out the second I take a sizable swig.

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “That’s cute that you thought this was yours.”

  His cheeks flush. That’s one way to return color to his face. With the thermometer under his tongue, he mumbles, “Fuck you.”

  I smile. “That was the most precious fuck you I’ve ever heard.”

  He groans, fighting his upturning lips, and he says with more bite and growl, “Fuck you.”

  I suck in a breath. “Still precious.”

  Maximoff shoots me a middle finger and then removes the beeping thermometer with the same left hand. He reads his temperature, purposefully holding the screen away from me.

  His brows knit.

  “Give me.” I motion to him with two fingers.

  “Just what I expected,” Maximoff says dryly, “I’m the Human Torch.” He passes me the thermometer.

  98.5 degrees Fahrenheit. He’s a fucking dork. “You don’t have a fever,” I tell him.

  He takes another measured breath before looking right at me. “Probably because I never get hot when I’m around you.”

  I nod a few times. Unable to break his gaze. Ensnared. “Must be why you’re sweating right now,” I tell him.

  He grimaces, two seconds from a real smile, but his eyes snap shut abruptly. Pain slamming into him somewhere. I almost wince just watching him. I’m used to seeing people in discomfort at a hospital, but it’s definitely different when it’s someone close to me.

  I massage the back of his neck, my fingers skating upward and threading his thick hair. I’m about to pull my leg off his, but he leans more of his weight into my side, like a physical plea for me to stay.

  Maximoff.

  I keep our legs laced.

  His eyes slowly open with a sharp breath, and he’s looking at Luna. She’s looking at him, concern welled up in her amber gaze.

  He tries to marbleize his features. Tries to be her strong unshakable big brother. These parts of him are so intrinsically Maximoff Hale that I wouldn’t want him to change. He loves people so overwhelmingly, and he cares. Shit, he cares more than anyone, and when people need him to be their everything, he is always there.

  But it only makes me want to be there for him.

  Every time. Every day.

  Twice as hard. Ten times as much.

  “Maximoff,” I breathe, capturing his focus. I lightly shake the sports drink at my boyfriend, what I planned to do from the moment I uncapped the plastic bottle. “I’ll share with you.” And only you.

  His eyes fall to my mouth, and then he quickly snatches the drink. I notice how he doesn’t attempt to talk.

  “Moffy,” Charlie calls. Our heads turn.

  And I reluctantly split my attention between Maximoff and eleven other people. A few pillows prop Charlie’s broken leg, and Donnelly leans over his cast, black Sharpie in hand. He’s sketching the Philly cityscape, and to be honest, I’m surprised that Charlie is letting him. His cast has been blank.

  “Yeah?” Maximoff asks, voice tight.

  I survey the attic in one sweep, the room loud with chatter.


  All eleven people lounge on sleeping bags, but since they’re elevated on the air mattresses, everyone is basically eye-level with us.

  The three girls sit beneath the curtained window. Sulli braids Luna’s hair while Jane talks breezily and sips a beer.

  Near the dresser, Beckett is telling the Oliveira brothers about New York clubs, Donnelly listening in as he draws, and next to the girls, Jack is showing Akara a photo or video on his camera. That doesn’t shock me. Jack and Akara have been more civil since the FanCon.

  Thatcher is the only one observing and not in a group, his back up against the door. And no, I don’t care.

  Charlie slips on dark sunglasses. “You look like shit, Moffy. If you’d just—”

  “I’m not taking a Vicodin,” Maximoff combats and then winces. An icepack slides down his shoulder—I fix it for him since the sports drink occupies his hand.

  Jane says something to her brother in French, and he raises one hand in surrender. Conversations pop up around the room, and I hear the tail end of Oscar talking about the worst flavor of Doritos.

  I tune everyone out and hone in on Maximoff.

  He’s pinching his eyes, and he readjusts himself, starting to slide back off the headboard.

  Shit.

  He’s not upset about Charlie nagging him.

  He’s physically hurting. More.

  And more.

  He’s even willing to lie flat and advertise his pain. Before the ice packs slip, I remove them from his body. His shoulders sink onto the soft mattress, and his head finds the pillow. Eyes closing.

  I stroke his hair out of his face.

  He shifts his head on my thigh. And he tries to roll more towards me but can’t with his bandaged shoulder—his left hand quakes, distressed tears wet the corners of his eyes.

  That’s it.

  I have to do something.

  Spreading my legs, I pull Maximoff carefully between them, and I reach for the ice packs, placing one lightly on his chest, one below the red sling on his abdomen.

  I already know it’s not enough to extinguish his discomfort. With his head on my lap, I wipe the wet corners of his eyes with my thumb.

  More conversations ignite in the attic, some about the We Are Calloway docuseries and others about the auction. They’re all good about not drawing attention to Maximoff.

  The fact that he’s this vulnerable, head on my lap, in front of them is the clearest sign that he’s not doing well.

  Maximoff drops his shaking left hand from his face. And he grips my bent knee in a vice, combating that post-op pain. His cheekbones sharpen when he clenches his teeth—and he tries to bury his face into my thigh again.

  Fuck, I have to do more. I have to. And I’ve been hesitating on one option because I don’t know how he’ll react.

  I love safeguarding the good in Maximoff while also being the one to loosen his tight laces. It sounds contradictory, but to me, good isn’t straight-edged. Good is compassion and love for all people, for humanity. Good is a selfless kindness so unadulterated it stings your eyes.

  If there’s anything I know, it’s that the offer I’m about to make won’t hurt his morality. It will just take away his pain.

  And I need him to believe this too.

  I comb his hair back one more time, and then I dip my head down to whisper against his ear. “Can I shotgun you?”

  11

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  Can I shotgun you?

  The hammering pain inside my bones dulls as my brain processes those four words.

  Can I shotgun you?

  It sounds sexual in my head. Maybe it’s the way Farrow said it, his voice quiet but rough but silky-smooth all at once.

  Or maybe it’s because I have no goddamn idea what shotgun entails.

  I know about “calling shotgun” in terms of a passenger seat in a car. And I’ve seen a guy puncture a hole in a can at college and shotgun a beer. Neither of which seem that relevant right now.

  So I’m lost and too inexperienced to make complete sense of his question.

  I swallow a ball in my throat. “With…?” I can’t even get any words out; a stabbing sensation detonates again and again. Fucking Christ.

  Imagine a nonstop sledgehammer banging on your bones and insides—and you can’t cast the sledgehammer aside.

  It just slams and crushes.

  Ignoring this torment—it’s close to impossible.

  I clutch Farrow’s knee in a death-grip. God, I’m nearing a point where I just want to pass out.

  I need this to end.

  I need this to end.

  “Donnelly,” Farrow calls, and to distract myself, I try to focus on things that my brain loves. Like Farrow Keene’s precise movements. How he stretches his arm out and takes something from his friend.

  I try to concentrate on his age.

  Twenty-eight. Six years older than me. I breathe through my nose at a sharp pain. Brain, you annoyingly love that he’s older. Don’t act like you’re disinterested now.

  Twenty-eight. He’s twenty-eight.

  I shut my eyes for a longer second and open them slowly. Lying down between his legs with my head on his thigh, my view mostly consists of the ceiling rafters and Farrow.

  My head is in his lap is a song that plays too softly on repeat. That track should be blaring and drowning out I_Feel_Like_I’m_Dying.mp3 and Fuck_This_Shitty_Feeling.mp3.

  Farrow bends somewhat over me, blocking the rafters from view. Pieces of his white hair fall to his lashes. “This is a blunt,” he explains, pinching the blunt between two inked fingers. “Shotgunning is where you take a hit from me. You don’t need to hold the blunt. Okay?”

  He’s asking for my permission.

  Because he’s a good guy. He’ll tell you he’s not, but he is.

  I think for half a second and then nod with my chin. Giving into my body’s pleas. I’m not as afraid of weed like I am Vicodin or Oxy.

  And it helps that I trust Farrow with my body. I’d never fucking agree to this without him.

  “Okay,” Farrow repeats in relief, and he collects a lighter that’s thrown on my bed. I can’t tell from who.

  But I just watch Farrow. Every damn movement. How he puts the blunt confidently between his lips. How he cups his hand around it while he strikes the lighter.

  How his eyes lock on mine.

  You wouldn’t even believe how much this helps. Just observing Farrow. Because for a fleeting second, I forget I’m in pain, and I’ll take that second, even brief. Christ, I’ll take anything.

  A flame eats the paper as he inhales. Blunt now lit, he blows smoke up at the twinkling rafters. After that, he spins the blunt backwards, the burning end facing his lips.

  I’m confused about how this works.

  “Suck in the smoke, wolf scout,” Farrow tells me. “That’s all you need to do.” With two fingers, he places the blunt between his teeth, burning end in his mouth, the other side sticks out—and he leans over me again.

  Lowering his head down.

  Down.

  Until the paper is an inch from my lips. Our mouths are lined up like an upside-down kiss.

  His large hand sheathes my jaw. Protectively. Comfortingly. His other palm rests on top of my hand that death-grips his knee.

  Farrow has told me how cinematic we are together, and I realize that I didn’t fully get it. Not until now.

  Not until this blissful, out-of-body moment crawls to slow-motion and our intimacy intoxicates me. Dizzies me. Fills me to the brim. And I haven’t even inhaled a thing yet.

  I could freeze-frame this second for eternity. But it plays out.

  With the burning embers in his mouth, Farrow exhales. Smoke billows from the unlit end, and I breathe in. A silky line of smoke trickles down my throat.

  I cough. Fuck.

  He lets go of my jaw to take the blunt out of his mouth. Assessing me, and I try to relax and adjust to the new sensation. Smoke plumes around us, the smell more pungent than cigarette
s, and Farrow draws back down for another hit.

  He blows out, and I suck in smoke again. Trying not to cough this time.

  My muscles unbind, and with a few more inhales, my hand loosens on his knee. I’m not spinning like the edible made me feel.

  Probably since pain is my current state. Slowly, my joints ease like oil drips into every rusted crevice, and the torment begins to dull. Pushed to the background.

  “One more time,” Farrow says to me, his husky voice too damn sexy. My brain starts tuning into the Farrow 69.1 radio station, volume on blast.

  For once, thank you, brain.

  Farrow is careful not to burn himself, like he’s done this a billion times, and he lowers his head again.

  Now I gain enough energy to move my hand off his knee. I clasp the back of his head, gripping his bleach-white hair between fingers.

  When I inhale the smoke, I see his lips curve upward.

  He plucks the blunt out of his mouth, leaning back against the headboard, and he eyes me deeply. “Did you like that?” he asks.

  I breathe better. “Not more than you,” I say, gritting down as I use one hand to sit up. The cool ice packs fall off my chest and thud onto the bed.

  My first move is to go to grab them…with the wrong hand—goddammit. Pain infiltrates, and I try to remind my subconscious that my right hand is firmly bound in a sling for a fucking reason.

  In a good distraction, Farrow breaks his legs open a bit wider, and I slide back until my spine meets his chest. His arm curves around my bare waist. At nearly the same height, our broad shoulders frame, almost parallel.

  Before I ask for the blunt, he’s already passing me it. Knowing that I’d want to try on my own. I take a normal drag myself, and my throat burns. But I force myself not to cough.

  I pass it back.

  Farrow takes another drag too, and then he reaches out and hands the blunt to Donnelly.

  I’m now unconscionably, totally, colossally aware of the eleven-person audience. Most of them pretend to be interested in Cape Cod chips or the mound of pillows on sleeping bags. But their eyes dart over to us and land on me.