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

by Krista Ritchie

  I haven’t actively searched for those, and I have to restrain myself from asking him to surface them. I spin on the desk chair. Facing him more. “I thought you don’t follow pop culture blogs.”

  “I don’t,” Xander says. “You two are popping up in the The Fourth Degree fandom. There’s this theory that Mom’s going to push the studio to cast Farrow in the next movie as Turner Clarke.”

  Christ. “They can’t be fucking serious,” I say. Turner Clarke is a tattooed comic book character who has the ability to manipulate mercury.

  Xander shrugs. “They think Farrow is a wannabe actor just dating you for the connections.”

  I almost groan, and I rub the back of my neck, knowing this shit is what frustrates Farrow. “Don’t mention this to him,” I tell Xander. It’s all baseless and over the top, but it won’t stop the theories. Some people can’t even for a second just believe he’s dating me because he loves me. The truth is too boring.

  “I’m never dating anyone,” my little brother declares. “I have too many people up in my business as it is.”

  The public’s frenzied reaction towards my relationship is scaring a lot of my siblings and cousins away from wanting one. And that’s not what I want.

  “You could change your mind,” I say. “I did.”

  He contemplates that and then just shakes his head. “No way.”

  A knock sounds on the doorway, and we both turn to see my tattooed boyfriend. He leans a shoulder against the doorframe. His brows lift at me. “I just got a call from Quinn. One of Jane’s cats escaped into security’s townhouse and is missing. I have to go help him find the little bastard before she gets back home.” He glances from Xander to me. “I’ll be back to pick you up.”

  I rise from the chair. “I can come with you.”

  “You sure?” He frowns and looks between us, but then he realizes the same thing I did. His eyes dance all over the clean room. “Damn. Xander, your room looks great.” His gaze refocuses on me like I’m the cause.

  I shake my head.

  “It was all Summers,” I say.

  “Nice job,” Farrow tells my little brother.

  Xander tucks the headphone case under his bed. “It’s just a room.”

  For anyone else, maybe. For Xander, it’s a big deal that he took the energy to do something as minimal as cleaning his room.

  “Yeah, but now it doesn’t smell and look like that trash planet your brother won’t shut up about,” Farrow says as I head to the door to meet him. He gives me a sharp look like you didn’t talk to him.

  He can tell.

  “Saakar,” Xander explains. “It’s from Thor: Ragnarok.”

  Farrow smiles casually. “That’s the one.” He nods to Xander. “See you later.”

  “See ya,” Xander calls out, and I say goodbye to my brother before we make our way out of the house. It isn’t until the front door closes behind us and my boots hit pavement that Farrow broaches the topic.

  “What happened?” he asks, his hand resting on the hood of my Audi.

  I try to cross my arms, but it’s kind of fucking impossible with a sling. “He was happy,” I defend. “Really happy. I couldn’t break that.”

  Farrow blinks hard.

  “You don’t agree with me.” I can tell he doesn’t.

  “He’s not my brother, wolf scout,” he replies. “You know him better than me. But the alternative is telling him during a low, and that feels like a worse move.”

  There’s no obvious path, but I’m doing what feels right. “You tell me to go with my gut,” I remind him. “And my gut is saying not today.”

  He nods strongly. “That I can buy,” he says. “But what if your brother is still happy tomorrow, next week, next month? How long?”

  “I thought we were doing the whole no planning, relying on impulse thing?” I counter.

  “If you’re only doing it to avoid shit, then you’re doing it wrong.”

  I take a deep breath and swing my head back to the house. I can’t go back inside and tell him now, but I’ll keep an eye on my brother. And I come up with a new plan. “Not today,” I tell Farrow. “But sometime soon, I’m going to talk to him.”

  That’s a promise.

  14

  FARROW KEENE

  I have a huge decision to make. And I need Maximoff’s help.

  But as I watch him stubbornly try to workout, I find myself delaying what I need to surface. I’m certain that my mere presence almost always distracts him, but he’s definitely hooked me in today.

  On gray gym mats, Maximoff tries to bite his shoelace and use his left hand to tie his Nikes. My smile is killing me. I stare at him while I easily tie my own shoes.

  I already see how this is ending: me, helping him. But I let him try a little bit longer.

  Mostly because it makes him feel better.

  Partially because his tenacity is fucking attractive.

  I usually work out at Akara’s gym, but around the time that SFO gained fame, a celebrity gossip blog started posting about Studio 9. Citing how it’s a hotbed of “bodyguard activity” for the famous families and how Omega can easily be spotted there.

  Cut to the third week of May, and the gym has turned into a zoo. People will flock to the windows like it’s Superheroes & Scones. Hoping to catch sight of Omega. Namely, Quinn.

  And I’m certain that if I arrived with Maximoff, it’d incite a larger crowd.

  Simple solution: skip the gym.

  Maximoff has only worn a sling for six days, and he’s not even allowed to stretch until the eight-week mark. I figured Studio 9’s crowds would be an easy excuse to bench him.

  My boyfriend’s solution: find another gym.

  More specifically, a home gym that belongs to his uncle.

  An afternoon rain shower drips down three glass walls and blurs the view of a landscaped backyard and wooden treehouse, along with the Meadows’ quaint cottage. The gym looks like a garden house from the outside, and the inside is equipped with two treadmills, gym mats, a weight bench, and a small-scale rock wall.

  Since we’re in the famous one’s gated neighborhood and in a cul-de-sac, it’s private and quiet and I’m considered off-duty. He invited his little brother to join us, and Xander turned him down. I’d say it’s out of the ordinary, but Maximoff usually always tries to invite him to things, especially the gym. Xander’s response is nothing new.

  “Race me,” Maximoff says with the shoelace between his teeth. He motions with his head to the side-by-side treadmills.

  Race him.

  Honestly, I thought he’d do a few one-handed push-ups and then call it a day. But I’ve hopped on this batshit crazy ride, and I’m not hitting the brakes. If he derails, I’ll catch him.

  I finish knotting my shoelaces. “How long are you planning to pretend you didn’t just have surgery six days ago?”

  “Tomorrow,” he mumbles through the shoelace, “because then it’ll be seven days.”

  I roll my eyes and end up shaking my head, smiling. I lean back on my palms and watch him do a halfway decent job at tying his right shoe.

  Marvel stickers and Elfish words decorate his red sling. Handiwork of his brother and sisters. His right arm is still braced to his upper abdomen. We’re both shirtless and in gym shorts, but he’s the only one with lingering bruises.

  Fuck, I’ve never liked seeing him bruised, and while I’m a few feet away, I skim the yellowish-green marks on his ribs…

  I smell rain on metal. I glance at the windows. Rain softly pelts the glass. I almost feel wet cement beneath my hands, gravel digging into my palms.

  My smile fades. I’m still on a gym mat, and I try to train my focus on Maximoff.

  “Goddammit,” he growls, his laces coming completely loose. On both shoes.

  I push myself to a stance and tower over him. “Let me help, wolf scout.”

  He nods after a short pause. As he rises to his feet, his gaze scales my six-foot-three frame, fixating on my chiseled abs and che
st tattoos. His carriage rises in a heady breath.

  Fuck, Maximoff.

  My muscles contract. I slowly lower to my knees and my carnal gaze drips down his swimmer’s build on my descent.

  He’s watching my fingers as I tie his left Nike, and before I mention how he’s obsessed with my hands, Maximoff says, “Let’s place a bet on the race.” His deep voice comes out raspy.

  “The race,” I repeat with raised brows. “You really want to place a bet on that?” I knot his lace and work on the right shoe.

  “Yeah.” He nods. “I can run a faster mile than you, man.”

  I laugh. “The fact that you think you can run a mile right now is truly something else.”

  Maximoff tries hard not to smile. “Maybe I can…maybe I can’t, but we’ll see. And if you beat me, I’ll give you head.”

  I can’t fucking tear my eyes off him. “You must really want to give me head. Because there’s no chance in hell you’re beating me.”

  “There’s a chance,” he refutes, his hand on my head while I kneel at his feet. His fuck me eyes and bobbing Adam’s apple just about drive me nuts.

  “Wolf scout,” I say while I finish tying his other shoe, “we can easily skip the part where you bust your ass on a treadmill, and I’ll let you suck me off.”

  His muscles noticeably flex. “Or I could outrun you, and then I’ll drive my cock in your mouth.”

  Damn.

  I breathe through my nose, my blood cranking to a red-hot simmer. I clutch his waist, my hand moving towards his ass. “Or we could pretend you outran me, and I’ll gladly put your cock in my mouth.” It’s an out so he won’t have to hurt himself.

  “Maybe,” he says without a pause.

  I stand up, an inch taller, and my hand dives down his shorts. I grip his bare ass and watch his eyes devour me whole.

  “Maybe?” I ask deeply.

  Maximoff tilts his head back, almost bathing in mounting arousal and want. His daggered eyes are groaning fuck me fuck me.

  I hold his jaw and close my lips over his bare neck. Sucking harder and harder—he rocks his hips against mine, our bodies tensed. Blistering veins pulsing.

  Pulsing.

  And then he says, “No.”

  I frown and instantly retract my hands.

  He breathes heavily. Pent-up. Neither of us came this morning since he had an early doctor’s appointment for a post-op checkup. But we were teasing the hell out of each other in bed with no release.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, concerned.

  “I need to run first.” He tears away from me and goes to the treadmill.

  I really don’t understand why he’s so adamant.

  Sure, he’s been managing the pain better. His uncle and dad have been sharing tips since they’ve both been in similar spots as Maximoff. But trying to run, of all things, will flare up his injury and hurt him.

  I reach the other machine. “You realize running requires shoulder movement?”

  “Pretty much everything under the sun requires shoulder movement. I’m aware.” He climbs onto the unmoving belt.

  I do the same on my treadmill, but I lean casually on the handlebar. Watching him push buttons to change his machine’s settings. “What’s so special about running?”

  He ups the incline and the speed but doesn’t press start yet. “I planned to train for the ultra marathon this summer, and before you say I can’t run anymore, I’m not letting Sulli down. I have to fucking try.”

  Sulli and Maximoff signed up for the ultra marathon almost an entire year in advance of the August race day. Things change.

  Shit happens.

  Like a car crash.

  But he’s lost a lot recently. The H.M.C. board was furious when Maximoff decided to cancel the night with a celebrity. The charity sent out a scathing press release a few days ago, and Ernest nailed Maximoff’s career in a coffin:

  Maximoff Hale continues to value himself above the needs of others, and his entitlement has caused this charity to suffer in recent years. He bowed out of an event and instructed his family to do so, which would’ve earned millions for our upcoming humanitarian projects. Due to his carelessness and irresponsibility, we are permanently severing ties with Maximoff Hale. He no longer represents H.M.C. Philanthropies.

  He has no job for the first time in years. He can’t swim, his greatest stress reliever gone. And he still has no license. When he drove, he had this compulsive need to push faster. And faster. Speeding, even on the days when he shouldn’t or didn’t need to.

  It’d be easy for Maximoff to put all of his energy into the one thing he has left.

  The ultra.

  And that need to push and push won’t be a foot on a pedal. It’ll be on his body.

  I hold his gaze that doesn’t ask for comfort this time. “Okay, but you can’t run, and as much as I love fucking with you, I take no enjoyment in telling you that there’s no chance you’ll be able to compete. The ultra is in Chile, Maximoff. It’s rocky terrain that’ll move your shoulder.”

  This morning, I drove at a snail’s pace over a small speed bump, and he winced between his teeth.

  Maximoff clicks into a Cross Training program. “I can try.”

  I roll my eyes, and the corner of my mouth gradually rises. Fuck, I adore this guy, even when he’s so hardheaded. But no matter how far he pushes, I’ll be right by his side. Ensuring he’s not killing himself.

  I glance at his machine’s screen. He’s on a speed setting that shouldn’t overexert him right now.

  And as our eyes lock, I tell him, “Prove it.” See, I’d much rather Maximoff realize he’s not healed up yet at this pace than a speed that’ll just annihilate him.

  Make no mistake: I’m watching his body very fucking closely in case I need to rip the emergency stop cord.

  We both press start at the same time, same speed.

  Maximoff starts walking briskly. No pain yet.

  I jog. Looking over at him.

  He glances at me. And then he picks up his pace, jogging—pain suddenly cinches his eyes. We’re stride-for-stride for exactly two strides.

  His jaw sharpens and he steps onto the stationary track, legs spread. It always hurts seeing him hurt, a rock wedging in my ribs.

  He snaps his eyes shut for a longer second.

  I lower my machine’s speed to a walk. “What do you need?” I ask.

  He blows out a measured breath, opening his eyes on me. “Your honesty.”

  I stay walking on the moving belt next to his powered off treadmill. “I honestly believe you’re too hard on yourself and you’re too afraid of disappointing Sulli.”

  Maximoff listens intently. He’s thinking hard, and then rests his weight against the machine’s handlebar and monitor. Not starting the treadmill back up.

  I’m about to stop mine—

  “Don’t,” he says. “You wanted to workout. You should.”

  I can do a lot of things, but I can’t sprint in front of my boyfriend while he’s dying to run. It’s not even my workout of choice. It’s one of his, and if I stay on this track, it’s just being callous towards someone who’s extremely kind.

  I turn off my machine. “I’m doing abs on the mats.”

  Maximoff adjusts his sling. “You sure?”

  I hang on my handlebar and careen towards him. “I’m always sure.” Shit, that’s not entirely true. There is something I’m unsure about…but before I retract my statement, Maximoff gestures to me.

  “You know,” he says, “watching you run wouldn’t upset me. It’d probably just make me hornier.”

  My smile reaches cheek-to-cheek.

  He blinks into a glare. “I take it back. You didn’t hear that.”

  “I heard that,” I say matter-of-factly, leaning over my handlebar towards his treadmill. “Watching me run does it for you. So does when I walk, talk, smile, breathe—”

  “Thank you for listing my turn-offs.”

  “Anytime.” I remember what I needed to talk abo
ut again, and my smile vanishes faster.

  Maximoff notices, and questions flash in his eyes. “I’d been meaning to ask—at the appointment earlier, you didn’t like my doctor, did you?”

  Now I really can’t stop staring at him, a surprised breath in my throat. He hit the topic almost dead center, and it’d take someone who truly understands me to put these small pieces together.

  My affection for Maximoff overflows me, swelling up inside my chest. This is the overwhelming effect of spending almost every minute with each other. To the point where being with him has felt like years stacked on top of years. And my only fear is it ending.

  I comb a hand through my white hair. “No, I didn’t like that doctor.” I step off my treadmill. “Did you?”

  Maximoff follows me to the gym mats near the rock wall. “He seemed fine to me. He was polite, professional, and it’s not like he’s my primary care physician.” Because he still doesn’t have one.

  “He was professional,” I agree, watching Maximoff lower to the mat, his back up against the multi-colored anchors and bolts. I add, “My dislike has more to do with me than him.”

  His brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

  Taking a seat in front of my boyfriend, I hang my arm on my bent knee. “I was jealous.” It’s not a small statement. It’s the start of something much larger and more consequential.

  His strong-willed eyes never drift off mine. Maximoff exudes quiet compassion that feels louder than thunder. “Is your jealousy from wanting to be my doctor?” he asks. “Or because you aren’t practicing medicine at all?”

  I tilt my head back-and-forth. “Both.” I nod, certain. Both. “It wasn’t just this morning at the doctor’s office. It was when you were rushed into Philly General on a stretcher.” I pause. Remembering that night, and I explain how when I finally made the choice to leave medicine four years ago, I had no reservations.

  There was no longing to return.

  Only a peace to let go and never look back.

  “I always thought I’d go through those hospital doors and feel nostalgic. Not bitter or envious,” I tell him while he listens carefully. “I was pushed aside trying to help you in the ER, and I chalked up my emotion to being protective of you and being frustrated that I couldn’t do more.” I pause again.