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

by Krista Ritchie

  Whenever they all assemble together, Omega inadvertently gathers. And very fucking soon, my role with the famous ones and security will shift drastically. I don’t try to predict how it’ll feel.

  All I know is that I’ve never been afraid of the great unknown, but I’m definitely cautious going forward since I’m leaving more things behind than usual.

  I pluck latex gloves out of a box. Every guy already wears a pair. Mail day is a minefield of the good, the bad, and the disgusting.

  Oscar unfolds a letter. “Dear Charlie,” he reads. “Get Well Soon.” He crumples the letter and free-throws it into the hanging trash bag.

  “Cold,” Donnelly says, reaching for a yellow mailer.

  Thatcher glances up from a letter he’s been reading. “Charlie doesn’t want to read his fan mail?”

  “The guy rarely does.” Oscar balls another letter. “I’ve been instructed to destroy all condolences.”

  I snap on my gloves and tuck one-fifth of Maximoff’s mail under my arm. Drumsticks lie next to a carton of to-go coffees. I frown and pick up a wooden drumstick. “What’s with these?” I ask Akara.

  He answers while texting. “Some teenage girl mailed them to me.”

  That makes little sense. “How does the public know you were on the drumline?”

  To my knowledge, most personal facts about SFO haven’t been unearthed. Especially since we deleted our social medias.

  Then again, I haven’t been actively checking social media threats or keeping in touch with tabloid shit. When my relationship went public, I relinquished that responsibility to the tech team.

  Just making that choice made me realize I was already pulling away from security.

  Akara looks up from his phone. “Did you know Brock Carson from high school?”

  “Never talked to that debate nerd, no.” I twirl the drumstick between my fingers.

  “That debate nerd posted our yearbook on Reddit.” Akara returns to texting. “There’s a whole thread trying to find info on ‘Maximoff Hale’s boyfriend’ and they spotted me in the yearbook’s band section.”

  I roll my eyes. Not thrilled that people are digging this hard into my past. I consider myself a fairly private person. Not many ever step into my business unless I let them. But I chose to be a public figure. I’ve known how invasive this could be.

  Still, the creep factor is real.

  “Let me guess,” I say, walking backwards to the open barstool opposite Oscar, “my senior photo is floating around the internet.” I had green hair in that picture.

  “All over,” Akara nods.

  Predictable.

  I drop the mail onto the high-top table in a heap.

  “Boyfriend’s going to love that photo,” Oscar says to me, being serious. I hold onto that fact and almost laugh.

  I lean my ass on the barstool. “He’ll most likely save it as his lock-screen.”

  And then he’ll make an excuse about how it’s because I hate the picture.

  Oscar cuts a box open. “No, he’ll print that one out, Redford. Then he’ll frame it and hang it in every house you’re in for eternity.”

  Eternity?

  My brows rise at Oscar. He stares at me right in the eye, and I doubt anyone else but Donnelly realizes how he’s not joking right now. And then Oscar nods at me like he knows.

  He knows that what I have with Maximoff isn’t temporary. Not just on my end, but on my boyfriend’s end, too. It’s not something he’s expressed before.

  But I remember that Oscar was at the crash site. Holding an umbrella over us. He heard Maximoff and me. Saw him say his goodbyes. Saw us together, thinking it could’ve been the last time.

  Raw emotion squeezes my throat.

  I nod back.

  We don’t need to exchange any words. I pass him an envelope addressed to Charlie that slipped beneath my stack.

  “Thatch, anything good?” Donnelly asks.

  “Thatcher,” he reminds him, folding a letter. “And it’s private.” Thatcher gently places the letter in a wicker basket labeled Jane.

  I sort through six get well soon cards sent to Maximoff and save them. He’ll read each one, even if it takes him hours. The next envelope, I freeze on the return address and the familiar name.

  “Oliveira,” I say, “why is your mom sending cards to my boyfriend?” I flash the envelope at Oscar.

  “I have one for you. Hold on.” Oscar lifts a few boxes and grabs a letter. He chucks it at my face.

  I catch it easily.

  Oscar nods to me. “She didn’t know if she should send you two separate invites or one together. I went through seven phone calls in one hour, Redford. Just to reassure her that two were fine.”

  I cock my head. “Did you tell Sônia that I wouldn’t have given a shit either way?”

  “Yeah, I reminded her who you are.” Oscar grabs two more letters. “And then she pulled the Farrow has no mom on me. Look, she’s fucking frazzled that the Boyfriend is a Famous Boyfriend. Additional note: you both need to RSVP separately.”

  “Sure.” I rip open the one addressed to me and read the invitation.

  Please join us for the confirmation of our daughter Joana Raquel Sousa Oliveira.

  My brows arch. For as long as I’ve known Oscar, I’ve only met his eighteen-year-old sister once or twice.

  “I know,” Oscar tells me, “but it’s a big deal.”

  I skim the details.

  Location: a local Catholic church.

  Date: a Sunday afternoon next month.

  I frown.

  Shit.

  Probability that I’ll be stuck in the hospital working that day = extremely high.

  What’s worse: years ago I couldn’t attend Quinn’s confirmation for the same reason. This’ll be the second time that I bail on the Oliveira family, and I’m not feeling great about it.

  Maximoff will definitely want to go, and I would’ve loved to be his date to this. There’ll be others.

  It reminds me how Maximoff has been planning our “first” formal date. In my eyes, we’ve been on a hundred-and-twelve dates already. In wolf scout’s eyes, they were all “semi-dates” since I had to keep up the bodyguard charade. I couldn’t eat dessert off his plate. Couldn’t kiss him. Couldn’t even hold his hand.

  All restrictions are gone now, and honestly, I love how much Maximoff is treating this like it’s all new, all over again. Because there are very few feelings I love more than experiencing firsts with him.

  I slip the invite into its envelope.

  Oscar holds out two more cards to the guys. “Moretti, Kitsuwon.” Thatcher and Akara grab their invites.

  I eye Donnelly who easily brushes off the rejection. Caring and loving parents worry about guys like Donnelly befriending their children. On paper, he reads like a bad influence.

  In reality, he’s not.

  I recognize the greatest benefit of having a father who really only cared about medicine. I was able to invite Donnelly everywhere. And Donnelly always said yes and came along.

  I unsnap a rubber band off a package. “Joana is finally going through with it?” I ask Oscar since I witnessed the Oliveira family meltdown when she refused to get confirmed two years ago. I wasn’t raised in a religious household, but her decision appeared like a familial betrayal.

  Quinn chimes in, “Only because our avó stopped talking to Jo.” He uncovers an alien plushie from tissue paper.

  Thatcher pockets his invite. “If I’d been confirmed late, my grandma would’ve done the same to me.”

  Oscar discards a Charlie Motherfucking Cobalt mug. “She’s lucky that I’m picking up our avó from the airport next week.”

  I skim another get well card. “You volunteer for that, Oliveira, or were you selected for the slaughter?”

  “My confirmation gift to my baby sister,” he explains, slicing open another box. “What’d I miss when Charlie went to the bar?” He means from tonight. We all joined in trivia with the famous ones, but we were also all on
-duty. Consequently, Oscar had to follow his client away from our booth.

  I trash homemade chocolate chip cookies. “Just how Ben hasn’t been able to drive since the crash.”

  Donnelly adds, “Jane said his foot keeps shaking on the pedal.”

  Oscar mutters a curse. “I have fifteen years of driving experience on Ben, and I was having issues keeping the Range Rover on all four wheels that night.”

  Quinn hurls an empty box at the fireplace. “Paparazzi should’ve backed the fuck off.”

  “They won’t,” Akara says, flipping through a handcrafted Sullivan Meadows scrapbook. “The best the parents can do is keep filing lawsuits.”

  But none have stuck yet. The Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts have also requested that the bodyguards drive for the younger kids until further notice.

  Donnelly rattles his open mailer upside-down, and a lacy thong falls to the floor.

  We all see it.

  “Smell it, Donnelly,” I say with a rising smile. “Could be the mystery scent.”

  He pinches the pink thong between gloved fingers and sniffs.

  Quinn gags into his fist.

  “Nah,” Donnelly says, “just smells like pussy.” He flings the panties into the trash and reads the card aloud. “Beckett Joyce Cobalt, I came in these thinking of you.” He smirks. “My guy has so many admirers.”

  Silently, Thatcher dumps a ball gag and dildo in the trash. All mailed to Jane.

  Oscar swigs a Ziff sports drink and reads, “Dear Charlie, I want to have your babies. She left her phone number.”

  “Can’t blame her.” Donnelly reaches for a new package. “Who wouldn’t want to have some Cobalt babies?”

  Thatcher casts a reprimanding look but stays quiet.

  I spin a knife between my fingers and then point to myself with the blade. “Me.”

  Donnelly grins. “That’s just because you’re all up in that Hale dick.”

  I laugh into a smile, about to dish it back—and then the unknown stench unleashes itself tenfold. We all recoil.

  “It’s this,” Quinn chokes and coughs into his bicep. He just flipped the flaps to a cardboard box, the contents not visible. Everyone is asking what was sent to Luna.

  I’m about to stand off the barstool and see for myself. But Quinn starts taping up the package. Then he rises to his feet and places the box in Luna’s wicker basket—

  “Whoa!” all of us basically shout some sort of expletive.

  Quinn ignores us. Leaving the package in her good mail.

  Thatcher glares at me, as though I caused the youngest bodyguard’s “bad” behavior from my short “mentoring” days. I’m not taking the blame for this shit.

  I glare back at Thatcher.

  I quit.

  Slinging those two words out in anger is not what I had in mind today. I bite my tongue hard.

  “It’s not trash,” Quinn says, still choked from the smell. He coughs into his fist.

  Akara digs in the wicker basket and inspects the taped package.

  “What the fuck is it?” Oscar asks.

  Quinn takes a seat around his mail piles. “Really shitty perfume that spilt.”

  My brows spike. “Sounds like trash to me.”

  Thatcher crosses his arms. “Farrow, you should’ve instructed Quinn better. Told him that liquids need to be thrown out.”

  I did.

  His assumption that I didn’t grates on me. I grit down to keep from spewing out, I’m quitting, you fucking tool. Instead I say simply, “I’ll keep that in mind.” While I stand, I rest my shoulders up against the brick wall.

  Thatcher uncrosses his arms. He looks surprised that I’m admitting fault.

  Akara carries the perfume package to the trash bag.

  “Wait!” Quinn springs to his feet and extends an arm, an angered scowl crossing his face. “Just wait a fucking second. I know what I’m doing.”

  Akara raises his shoulders. “Quinn, we don’t allow liquids—”

  “Luna asked me not to,” Quinn retorts. “I get that I haven’t been a bodyguard as long as any of you, but I’ve been here long enough. And I fucking know if a client asks you to do something, you do it. Sometimes, even if it’s illegal—”

  “No,” Thatcher says sternly. “Not if it’s illegal. You can say no.” His glare drills into me again.

  I’m starting to believe Quinn Oliveira wants Thatcher to murder me.

  I still lean casually on the wall. And to Thatcher, I say, “I never told Quinn that he couldn’t say no.” That implication is not even close to who I am.

  “Wait a sec,” Akara interjects, box in hand. “Quinn, did Luna specifically ask you not to discard liquids?”

  Quinn scratches his unshaven jaw. “No…I was trying to keep this private, but if you all have to know…” He motions to the box. “Luna asked me not to throw anything away that’s from her boyfriend.”

  Boyfriend?

  Voices collide together, everyone asking the same shit.

  I peel off my gloves and then comb my hair back. If anyone had known about Luna Hale suddenly having a boyfriend, it would’ve been her older brother.

  And Maximoff knows nothing.

  I question whether this “boyfriend” is real. “Have you seen him?” I ask on top of the mounting questions.

  “When?” Donnelly asks.

  “For how long?” Akara wonders.

  Quinn runs two frustrated hands through his thick, wavy hair. “MyGod,” he snaps. “Shut the fuck up and I’ll tell you!”

  We all go quiet.

  Quinn breathes out. “It’s been about a week.” He shifts his weight and before Akara asks, he says, “Yeah, I did a background check. The guy panned out.”

  Donnelly slips a pen behind his ear. “Does he live in Philly?”

  “How old is he?” I ask.

  “What does he do?” Oscar adds.

  Quinn hangs onto the fireplace mantel. “This stays between us.” He tries to send a warning look my way, but I’m not having it.

  “I’ll tell you upfront,” I say easily. “There’s absolutely a hundred percent chance that I’ll share this with Maximoff.”

  He frowns. “Why?”

  “Because he’s my boyfriend. It’s as simple as that.”

  Oscar leans forward on his stool. “Redford can leave the room. I want the fucking details.”

  “Same,” Donnelly says, unsnapping his gloves. Just to remove his septum piercing.

  Quinn expels a breath and then nods to me. “It’s alright. Stay. I’m guessing Luna will tell Maximoff soon, so it shouldn’t matter.” He starts unleashing the news. “So the guy is named Andrew Umbers. Twenty-two. He’s originally from Houston but now lives in Philly. He created some kind of start-up for a parking app. And yeah, I’ve seen him.”

  Everyone is quiet. Processing.

  Thatcher straightens letters in his hands. “Did Luna tell you not to share?”

  “No…I have no fucking clue what she’d think if I told everyone,” Quinn admits. “And look, before you guys say anything, you should know that their dates have consisted of eating takeout at his apartment and listening to NPR. It feels like he’s just using her.”

  I grit down. I’m not happy about anyone using these families, let alone the Hales. This is exactly why most of them have trust issues. And I sense the real irony here: the public believes I’m using her brother for fame.

  But I’m not going to apologize for loving him. And wanting to be with him.

  We all talk about Luna and the intentions of her new boyfriend. Mainly ways to protect her, and I hang back and look at each guy.

  This is it.

  I’ve had some of them in my lives long before I joined security. So I’m not losing them. But I am leaving behind Omega. The camaraderie, the brotherhood. A protective force of men who will jump into the wildfire, no questions asked.

  And I’ve been here before. Way back when, I believed I’d lose my job once the families and security found out I was with
Maximoff. I was ready to accept that, but there is more peace in choosing this path now than being forced here back then.

  “Redford,” Oscar calls out. “What’s going on?” He’s been reading into my features.

  “I have something to say.” I comb both of my hands through my hair and step off the brick wall. My shift in demeanor causes the living room to go silent.

  Akara is confused.

  I didn’t tell anyone in advance. Not even the Omega lead, and that’s mostly because I need this to be less of an ordeal. Just quiet and easy. Not a big mess.

  “This isn’t about Luna,” I start off. “I appreciate everything you’ve all done for me so I could remain my boyfriend’s bodyguard.” I glance briefly at Thatcher. Because back in December, he was the deciding vote that helped me keep my job.

  He’s scowling like I’m far from genuine.

  If I didn’t believe those words, I wouldn’t have said them.

  I swing my head to the Omega lead. “And Akara…o’ captain my captain.” I wouldn’t call anyone else that but him. “All the times you’ve put your neck on the fucking line for me, I was grateful then and I’m still grateful now.”

  Akara nods. “You’re quitting security, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m quitting. I need to finish my residency.” And before they ask, I add, “Not for my father, but for me.” I first look at Donnelly.

  His lips slowly lift, unlit cigarette in his mouth. “We’re getting our Meredith back.” He slow-claps.

  I smile. “Man, you know I’m a Christina.”

  “I don’t get it,” Quinn mutters.

  “It’s Grey’s Anatomy, little bro,” Oscar says, clapping with Donnelly before he walks over and pats my shoulder, bringing me in a hug. He whispers in my ear, “We’re going to keep your guy safe. Don’t agonize over it.”

  I already have been.

  A hell of a lot went into this choice. And I look at ease, but he knows this is far from easy for me. Someone else will be filling the job description of protecting Maximoff Hale. As his boyfriend, that job should be mine.

  I protect the people I love, and choosing the medical path sometimes feels at war with protecting Maximoff. But I have to remember that I haven’t lost that ability. At the charity auction, I was there for him as his boyfriend in the end. Not as his bodyguard.