Something inside of me has changed. I can’t tell you if it’s being in love or almost dying or maybe I’m just getting older—but something in me is different. And being CEO of my company doesn’t feel as important anymore.
I also recognize that I’m leaving my family’s wealth in the hands of a prick. But Charlie is still on the H.M.C. board, and I need to trust that he’ll take care of our families.
I’m letting go.
“Are you okay with that?” I ask him.
His eyes brush my cheekbones. “You look more unburdened, and now there’s no porn star run-in. This is win-win any way you turn it.”
I think about Ace Steel. How he was a straight porn star. I don’t get it. “I wonder what Ace Steel wanted—”
“You don’t need to wonder,” Farrow interjects.
Off my confusion, he reaches behind his back and then he guides my hand that has slowly crept towards his back pocket into said pocket.
The ass-grab doesn’t make sense…until I feel the outline of a card. This is what Farrow must’ve taken from the end table earlier. Which I theorized was a condom.
Not a condom.
A business card.
“That dickhole told me what he wanted when we were at the auction,” Farrow explains. “It’s why I wanted to talk to you in private in the first place. The topic just kept getting derailed.”
I read the card and immediately freeze at the name: Sensual Flixxxs. “This porn company used to call me a hundred times when I turned eighteen. I had to block their number.” I look up at Farrow.
His jaw hardens. “I figured. Apparently they sent Ace on their behalf to convince you to do a scene. He said the company thought he’d be able to sell you on the idea since he’s a sex worker and not a producer.”
I scowl. “They really thought I’d fuck someone else even though I’m with you?”
“No.” Farrow lets out a short, vexed laugh at the memory. “He told me—and I quote—‘Sexual Flixxxs wants to film you fucking Maximoff Hale in the ass’, and I said they could film me fracturing Ace’s cock with a hammer.”
Since Farrow is literal a lot of the time, that threat or offer seems more real than mine would’ve been. Though, I think I would’ve just punched the porn star.
My face twists as I process. “So they spent millions of dollars on me, just for a meeting? In hopes that we’d agree to fuck on camera, and what…they hoped to make a profit on the video? It’s an insane gamble.”
“They couldn’t get ahold of you,” Farrow says. “The auction was the only way they could even breathe on your fucking neck. If they thought they could manipulate you during the one-on-one night, it could’ve been worth it on their end.”
If my choice to cancel the auction nights wasn’t already cemented, now it’s marbleized, staple-gunned and set to stone. “It’s never happening.” I’m about to rip up the business card, but I only have one damn hand. So I crumple it in my fist.
13
MAXIMOFF HALE
Things that royally suck with a broken collarbone:
Wearing a seatbelt.
Buttoning my pants.
Taking a shower.
Topping in missionary—it’s not easy.
Walking at a speed faster than a slow, unbearable pace. (See on every page: trying to keep up with Farrow Redford Keene.)
Typing on a computer—I look like a goddamn dinosaur.
Riding in a car.
That last one I’m feeling tenfold. Every small bump in the road jostles my shoulder and pain drills through my collar like a million serrated needles poking and cutting flesh.
I breathe.
I try to breathe. Whenever Farrow is behind the wheel, he avoids potholes and the badly paved streets while also driving slowly. Cautiously. More than ever. So it’s not him.
The blame rests solely on my collarbone that won’t heal at lightning speed like I hoped. It’s why I’m practically thanking the heavens and skies when we finally reach my parent’s house.
My old Basset Hound greets Farrow and me in the foyer.
“Gotham,” I smile and bend down like a stiff board. Just to scratch his floppy ears.
He slobbers on me, and as he tries to anchor his paws on my shoulders, Farrow chucks a tennis ball—don’t ask, I don’t know where he found that—but Gotham is more interested in me. Licking my cheek.
“He loves me,” I tell Farrow, patting my Basset Hound’s torso and keeping his four paws on the ground.
“I’m not surprised,” Farrow says as he glances at family photos hung on the foyer wall.
I stand up, rigid. “Because I’m easily lovable.”
He gives me a pointed look. “Because dogs love everyone.”
I blink slowly while his smile grows, and I don’t have the chance to reply. Voices in the kitchen pull our attention. We leave the foyer and pass through my living room. Superhero figurines line a couple bookshelves, and X-Men single-issue comics are framed above a comfortable sectional couch.
Once we enter the spacious kitchen, we spot my dad and uncle. Both immediately stop what they’re doing, their heads veering towards Farrow and me. Uncle Ryke has a hand on a blender, and the machine grinds to a halt.
My dad abandons a volume of Love and Rockets by Jaime and Gilbert Hernandez that he’d been reading at the island bar.
Silence falls, both of them sweeping me in once-overs like they’re checking and establishing my mortality. It’s the first time they’ve seen me since surgery, and they hardly pay attention to Farrow who leaves my side and tugs open the fridge.
He may as well be wearing an invisibility cloak.
I cut the tension by saying, “Two stops to death and straight on ‘til morning.” It’s a play on a Peter Pan quote that I know my dad will get.
He does.
He glares at me and says, “Not even a good joke.”
“Fucking terrible,” Ryke agrees.
I catch a water bottle that Farrow throws to me—
“Be easy with him,” my dad warns, voice supremely edged.
Farrow slows down his movements as he reaches back into the fridge, eyeing my dad with more uncertainty.
“Dad, I’m fine.” I love that Farrow isn’t treating me like a wounded puppy. Please, God, do not let this change. “And Farrow has an MD.”
My dad is only looking for Farrow’s response.
Farrow shuts the fridge door, a container of blackberries in hand, and he leans back casually. But his brows pinch. “Trust me, I’m not going to hurt your son.”
My dad mulls this over for a second, and I draw his attention when I head over to Farrow. I’m unscrewing my water bottle. Not well.
Uncle Ryke is also zeroed in on my every step. Like I might break. I can barely look at my uncle.
We haven’t spoken since the hospital, and I can’t imagine what he thinks of me. His daughters are his life, his world, and I was supposed to look after them. Instead, Winona ended up in a car crash with me. Needing stitches on her face.
That fact fucking hurts as much as the short walk to the fridge. I breathe out a measured breath through my nose. Farrow looks me over in a warm wave and pops a blackberry in his mouth. His inked fingers moving meticulously.
“Farrow,” my dad says, capturing our gazes. “Is Moffy pushing himself too hard? Because he looks like shit.”
“I’m right here,” I tell my dad.
He flashes a half-smile. “I’m talking to your boyfriend.”
“Never heard of him.” I look to Farrow. “You know I have a boyfriend?”
“Yeah.” He watches me watch his fingers pick up another blackberry. “Because my memory is better than yours.”
“Never mind, I do remember,” I say and take a swig of water.
Farrow smiles wide like it’s too late. I’ve already lost whatever lead I had. And he answers my dad’s earlier question with, “He’s Maximoff. Pushing himself too hard is basically his middle name.”
My dad leans forward on
his barstool, looking at me. “Funny because I didn’t give you a middle name.”
“Really?” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Could’ve sworn I was named Maximoff Fucking Hale.”
My dad cringes at my features. “How about Maximoff Paler-Than-My-Ass Hale? Are you even taking anything?”
Uncle Ryke pulses the blender. “Toradol should fucking help, but you should talk to your doctor first.” Green liquid churns in the glass.
I don’t have a primary care physician, and that unsaid thing noticeably tenses Farrow beside me. He closes the blackberry container.
Toradol. “Is that a narcotic?” I ask.
“No,” Ryke says and pours his shake into a to-go thermos.
“He’s on some decently strong NSAIDs,” Farrow answers.
“Then stop moving around,” my dad snaps at me, his voice sharp and harsh. “You shouldn’t even be here.” He points at the door. “Bed. Rest—”
“I have things to do,” I interject. Which…is a lie. I have nothing to do now that I don’t have a job, but I can’t just lounge.
I want to move.
To swim.
To run.
And I have an ultra marathon to train for—I promised Sullivan that I’d race with her in Chile. I’m not missing it for anything. Not even a broken collarbone. And that—that is the last thing I need to surface in front of my dad and uncle. They’ll bombard me as soon as the word ultra leaves my mouth.
My dad’s brows scrunch at me. “Did your mom and I not teach you the art of being a couch potato? Jesus Christ, I’ve truly failed as a parent.”
Ryke almost laughs, but he turns more to me. This time, I don’t look away. And he tells me, “You’ve got time to rehab. Your dad is right. With these first few fucking weeks, you need to take it easy.”
I freeze even more than I already am. Ryke is offering advice like this is just another day of my life. Not the day after his daughter…I shake my head, confused.
Almost wishing he hated me. “You’re not upset?” I ask.
His brows furrow. “Upset?”
Farrow wraps an arm around my side. He knows. He knows that I’m beating myself up about this, and I can’t help it. I can’t stop the fucking guilt from attacking me.
“Winona was in that car with us,” I tell him. “She has a gash—”
“It’ll fucking heal,” Ryke says, scowling hard at me. Now he’s pissed.
“It’ll scar—”
“Don’t do this to yourself, bud,” my dad interjects.
Ryke adds, “You couldn’t have protected her from a car crash. That’s not on you. Don’t ever put that fucking weight on yourself.”
I breathe.
Farrow watches my expression, and I think he knew I needed them. He’s been urging me to see Ryke, maybe because my uncle is the only one who could come close to absolving me.
But I’ll always wonder if we could’ve prevented the crash someway. Somehow. Stayed in the alley, waited out the storm. If Charlie or Farrow had driven from the get-go. If we pulled over sooner. Anything, anything different and maybe they’d be okay.
It takes a lot of energy just to leave Farrow in the kitchen with my uncle and dad. He’d tell you he can handle the probing questions and sharp sarcasm from my dad, but I’d much rather be there to take half the heat.
Still, I have a goal today.
One that has to be done alone.
Walking down the second-floor hallway, I come to a stop at a door-less room. My fifteen-year-old rapidly growing brother is sprawled on his bed. He’s already six-foot-one, and the day before the auction, he texted me a selfie of pieces of toilet paper stuck to his shaving nicks. His message: Razor vs. Man.
He’s growing up, and he’s going to fuck-up. And as his older brother, I’m trying to figure out how to minimize that damage and protect him.
I have to.
In his bedroom, Xander has on bulky headphones and flips through a thick fantasy novel.
I knock on the doorframe.
He glances up and slides his headphones to his neck. His straight brown hair is tucked behind his ears. “Hey, I didn’t know you were coming over.” His amber eyes light up like he’s genuinely happy to see me.
My stomach twists because the conversation I’m about to have—it’s not going to be pleasant. And I’ve been sprinting around inside my head, trying to determine the best way to phrase this stuff without it sounding accusatory.
But it is an accusation, any way I turn it. He did something wrong…he’s doing something wrong.
Before I say anything, I walk further into his room. Distracted at the sparkling clean area. No heaps of clothes on the floor. No soda cans stuffed under his bed or empty pizza boxes littering the ground. It hasn’t looked like this in months.
The metal of his life-sized armored knight seems polished. I look at my little brother. “Did mom cave and clean your room for you?”
Xander snorts. “No way,” he says. “She said if I didn’t clean it, I’d have to do inventory at Superheroes & Scones.” He shuts his paperback. “I think…I really scared her last time. She’s been super strict again.”
Last time.
Where he locked his door and retreated to a low point that scared pretty much all of us. It’s hard to touch that memory. The one where I was on tour and received the phone call from Kinney.
But I’d return to that place if he needs me to.
I roll out his desk chair near his bed and take a seat. “You wanna talk about it, Summers?” I ask him.
He considers for a long moment, and then he shakes his head. “Not really. I’ve already been through it about fifteen times with Dr. Kora. You know she told Mom and Dad that if she didn’t see improvement, she’s going to recommend me going to this inpatient treatment center for depression and anxiety.”
I watch him fan the pages of his book. I didn’t know about the inpatient center, but I’m not surprised that I wasn’t told until now. It’s not something my parents would share with me, and they’d let Xander tell whoever he wanted in his own time.
“But,” he continues. “There’s a zero percent chance I’m going. Check this out.” He rises off his bed and sidles to the desk.
I roll my chair backwards, out of the way so he can bend down and slide open a bottom drawer.
Xander pulls out a folded poster board. “Don’t laugh, it’s rough.”
“I’m not going to laugh,” I say seriously. In all honesty, this is the most excited I’ve seen my brother in years. I don’t know what’s changed. I don’t know if it’ll be a blip, but I’m overwhelmed for him because I recognize how big this is, even if it’s just today. An hour. A moment. It’s something.
He unfolds the poster board. It’s a collage of different medieval and fantasy-inspired costumes and fabrics.
“Mom and Dad helped,” he explains. “I’ve already figured out the LARPing schedule for this summer, and Mom says that if I want to wear prosthetics to look more elf-like I can. That way, you know, less chances for being recognized.”
He’s getting back into Live Action Role-Playing.
It’s huge.
He stopped a while ago, said he just didn’t enjoy it anymore. Falling out of love with things is something he does a lot. But LARPing was so good for him, got him out of the house.
I smile at the costume sketches that resemble the elves and hobbits from Lord of the Rings. “This is awesome, man.” I point out a couple drawings and fabrics, imagining my brother dressed up and out in the world. Doing something he loves. “Which one’s your favorite?”
When I look back at him, he almost smiles. “This one.” He rubs a glassy eye roughly with the heel of his palm, and then points to the elf sketch. “But I’m thinking of going with the red fabric. I’m not that into light blue.”
While we discuss his costume and LARPing, a sinking dread starts washing over me. And by the time he stuffs the poster into the desk, pressure nearly crushes my shoulders.
Ho
w the fuck am I supposed to bring up the pills?
Xander is happy.
Really goddamn happy. And maybe you don’t understand. Maybe you couldn’t, but my brother is literally glowing right now. He looks like he found a bottle of hope and chugged that shit down.
I don’t know how long that’ll last, and I’m so conflicted on what to do. I’m afraid of bulldozing this situation and coming in swinging. I need to think about this. Because on one hand, Xander needs his pills and this other guy shouldn’t be taking another person’s medication. On the other hand, Xander is doing better than okay right now, and I can’t rip him apart.
Tough love is easy for me, but not at this cost.
Biding my time, I reach for his Game of Thrones Daenerys Targaryen figurine on his desk. “What prompted this newfound love of LARPing again?” I ask.
Xander plops back onto his bed. “Nothing really. It just sounded fun again.” He pauses and then adds, “I know you used to go with me, but I think maybe I should do it on my own this time. No family. Like, I love you guys, but you just make it harder sometimes to…blend.” He gestures to me.
I’ve been front-page news lately. Going public with Farrow cranked the spotlight on me, and it sucks that I can’t experience this with my brother because of the media attention but I want him to be comfortable.
I nod. “I get it.”
“Not that I can blend that well on my own.” Hair falls into his eyes and he brushes it back. “Yesterday, there was a Tumblr debate about my shampoo preferences because Mom was photographed buying men’s shampoo at a salon. I was almost tempted to just shave my head.” He touches his chest. “But then I thought—do I really need more teenage and preteen girls now having an opinion about my new hairstyle?”
I’m surprised that he saw any gossip. He’s not supposed to search for that bullshit. “How’d you hear about that?”
“It was on my dash,” he rolls eyes. “I was just searching for some Shannara gifs.” He folds his headphones and zips them up into a case. “You wanna know what else is all over my dash? Gifs of you and your boyfriend.”
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