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

by Krista Ritchie

  And the same job got done. I don’t need the radio or the gun or the title.

  I pat his back in thanks before we separate.

  “You sure?” Akara asks me, phone frozen in his hand. He holds the power to alert the rest of the Tri-Force. To turn my choice into a reality.

  I listen to my gut that says push forward. “I’m sure.”

  Akara hesitates, looking like he wants to change my mind, but after a pause and a once-over, he sees that I’m set. And he starts texting. “You’ll need to stay on Maximoff’s detail for one more week while we sort out a transfer.” He looks up. “Sound good?”

  “Perfect.” I already knew the protocol. “I’ve packed most of my shit. I’ll be out of security’s townhouse before then.” It’ll be more official than it has been, but I’ll be living with Maximoff. And I’ve never “officially” lived with any of my past boyfriends before, so this is just as new for me.

  Thatcher should be ecstatic that I’m no longer living one floor apart from him. I’m not expecting the guy to jump for joy. But a mocking clap seems in the realm of possibility.

  But as our eyes lock, he appears the farthest thing from happy.

  And I’m certain.

  He’s going to make this difficult for me. Messy and fucking loud. “Thatcher—”

  “You’ve had one foot in, one foot out from the start. I told you that months ago.” He tears off his latex gloves. “And I’ve known you’re committed only to yourself, but I didn’t realize how fucking selfish you are until right now.” His biting tone is dying to gnaw me apart.

  I run my tongue over my molars. Seething inside out. At first, I want to just let him believe what he believes. My actions haven’t been able to convince him anything different. Not the marathon run in the dark Poconos mountains. Not every push-up, every sit-up, every time I listened when I would’ve rather disobeyed.

  If he wants words, not actions, then I have those too.

  “Wherever I am, I’m all there,” I say strongly. “I’ve always been committed to security, and the fucking millisecond that I felt drawn somewhere else, I chose to leave.” That’s the truth.

  But Thatcher glares.

  I glare, stepping further off the wall.

  And he says, “That’s how you plan to spin this?”

  My nose flares, hot-blooded anger craving to twist my face. There is nothing more I can give him than what I feel. He’s still choosing not to believe me. “I’m not warping shit,” I tell him. “If you don’t see it the way I see it, then fine. Leave it alone.”

  Akara, Quinn, Oscar, and Donnelly all stand rigid. Watching. Tensed. But not surprised that we’re butting heads again.

  Thatcher steps over a pile of mailers. Rolling the sleeves of his plaid flannel. Like he’s boiling as hot as me. He nears me and says, “Did you even consider Maximoff when you decided to quit on him?”

  I glare unblinkingly.

  He’s dead serious.

  He truly believes that I don’t give a flying shit about Maximoff. I almost let out a pained laugh. Fuck, I’d do anything for him.

  I’d even choose security for Maximoff, but here’s the thing: Maximoff would resent me. Every day, every minute, he’d hate me. We are so alike in that we want to give each other what we need. And he wouldn’t, for a second, let me stay in security out of chivalry.

  “Wow,” I say flatly. “Did I even consider my boyfriend when I made a life-altering choice that would directly affect him?”

  Of course I did. Of course I’ve struggled. Of course I’ve beat myself up at the terrible timing. But I’m the one who wakes up to those forest-greens that scream don’t coddle me, just love me.

  Just love me.

  Not this fucker.

  “Your client, your boyfriend, just broke his collarbone,” Thatcher spits out, pointing at my chest. “He just had surgery and lost his job, and you chose this moment to quit on him—”

  “Say that shit again and we’re going to have bigger problems,” I sneer.

  “When one of us quits, we have to hire someone new,” he growls, unable to stop spewing more. “And these families have to learn to trust a stranger to protect them all over again.” His glare grows hotter in a single pause. “Your client, the guy you left behind, will get someone new in his life. You should be worried about that after what’s happened between you two.”

  I hear what he’s insinuating. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “I know Maximoff is impressionable.” He cups a hand around his fist. Like he knows what he’s about to say will set me the fuck off. “If he fell for someone like you, he’d have no problem falling for his new bodyguard—”

  I explode forward to hit him; I’m going to fucking slam my fist in his fucking face—and then Oscar wrenches me back, my feet smashing boxes. And he means well by restraining me.

  But the other guys don’t catch Thatcher in enough time. I jerk in Oscar’s grip as a reflex, seeing the pair of knuckles, and my friend lets go too late—Thatcher’s fist slams into my cheek.

  My head whips, the stinging pain familiar from all the blows I’ve taken in a ring.

  Yells pierce the air. Oscar shoves Thatcher backwards, and Donnelly tries to jump the six-foot-seven guy. But Akara stops another fight from breaking out.

  I don’t move.

  I’m staring at the floorboards, my self-restraint greater than my rage, and I look to the door that connects the two townhouses. And I’m confident about where I want to be and where I need to go.

  Tuning out SFO, I head to the adjoining door to find Maximoff.

  It opens before I even grab the knob. And my boyfriend fills the doorway. He looks at the welt on my face, and then his eyes basically murder Thatcher a hundred different ways.

  Maximoff almost charges.

  “Wolf scout,” I say, quickly putting a hand on his waist. Guiding him into his townhouse. I kick the door closed behind me, my smile almost rising. Maximoff trying to protect me has definitely become one of my all-time favorite things.

  His thick hair is disheveled like he just sprung out of bed, and his drawstring pants ride low like he just raced down the staircase. He must’ve heard the shouting.

  He holds my hip and glowers at the door like he’s cursing Thatcher for eternal damnation. He really wants to go back in there and fight on my behalf.

  I can’t stop staring at him. Feeling how much he cares about me, his hand rises to my cheek. Hovering over the welt.

  I clutch his hand in mind and lower them to our sides.

  “He fucking hit you,” he says.

  I nod a few times. “I love that you want to stick up for me. But among other things, your dominant arm is bound to your chest.”

  Maximoff glances at his red sling, then looks right at me. “I’m stronger than you with just one arm.”

  I laugh.

  Shit, I can’t believe I’m laughing after that shit show. But he brings me this effortless joy, and I cling onto that for dear fucking life.

  “He took you quitting that badly?” he asks.

  “I’ll catch you up in the car.” And before he asks, I tell him, “We’re going to my old neighborhood. And I’m going to talk to my father.”

  Right now. There’s not a better time than the present. Because there will never be a good time.

  Maximoff doesn’t question the abruptness. As soon as I start to lead him to the garage, he’s pace-for-pace in step with me. Hand-in-hand.

  Like a soldier prepared for love and war.

  16

  FARROW KEENE

  Door is unlocked. I’ll be in the sunroom. – Dad

  No face-to-face verbal contact in almost four years and that was his reply. I only messaged him that I wanted to talk in person and that I was on my way to his house with Maximoff. I can’t even be surprised by my father’s lack of enthusiasm. It’s not like I texted: I’m returning to medicine. You’re welcome.

  I’m treating this interaction like a meeting
with a college professor. That’s all it really is.

  Maximoff knows this too.

  It’s why he didn’t ask to change clothes to impress my father. He’s shirtless, still in the same drawstring pants that hang low on his muscular waist.

  His ass looks great. But he wouldn’t catch me checking him out, even if I waved a hand in front of his face.

  Because as soon as we enter the foyer and hallway, he soaks up our surroundings. Like he’s placing my younger self everywhere.

  I watch him with a growing smile. He’s lost in the décor of Italian painters and overflowing vases of wildflowers. He looks up at the vaulted glass ceiling and down at the marble floors beneath his scuffed Timberlands.

  Where his family home is warm and inviting, mine is a poster child for blue-blooded pretentiousness.

  Maximoff glances at the dining room’s table set for twelve. “Did your house look like this when you grew up here?”

  I toss my head from side-to-side. “Somewhat. Less paintings. Rachel is an art collector,” I remind him in case he forgot. He knows my stepmom moved in around the time when I went to college.

  We turn a corner into an open living room, cigar bar, and upscale kitchen. I put a piece of gum in my mouth.

  He zones in on the baby grand piano near a towering bookcase. “You can play?” he asks.

  I leave his side and approach the piano. I look over my shoulder. “Can you, wolf scout?”

  Maximoff gestures to me. “I asked you first, man.”

  He can’t play. I pop a bubble in my mouth. “How badly are you hoping I’m a shit pianist because you are?” My fingers brush the keys.

  “Who said I was a shit piano player?” he combats. “Maybe I’m the best there ever was, the goddamn best piano player of all piano players.”

  My brows rise. “You’re definitely the most conceited pianist.” Every time I say pianist, he grimaces a little bit.

  He nears me while I rest my knee on the velveteen bench. He skims my hands that hover above the keys.

  “So you can’t play either,” Maximoff concludes since I’m prolonging this and he’s impatient as hell.

  “And you just admitted that you can’t play,” I point out and sweep him in a slow-burning once-over.

  He’s trying fucking hard not to smile. He licks his lips, eyeing my mouth. “I didn’t say that.”

  “I love when you pretend to have amnesia.” I smile as he breathes out heavily in agitation, just wanting me to hurry this shit up. But I could bask in this moment for hours on end.

  “Farrow,” he starts.

  I bang on the keys harshly. Shrill chords jumble and pitch the air. I watch his smile take shape like he beat me.

  “You like that?” I ask huskily.

  His forest-greens pour through my brown eyes with so many yeses, and I’m tempted to draw closer—

  “Farrow.”

  That’s not Maximoff.

  With no urgency, I retract my hands from the piano, the room deadening. Maximoff rigidly faces my father, and I glance over at the old man.

  He stuffs his hands into khaki slacks, sporting a warm smile. His brown hair is tied back in a small pony, graying at his temples, and his forehead is lined with age.

  Part of me almost wishes I could be a resentful bastard. Rub salt in his wounds before I give him what he’s wanted for so long, but I’ve never really enjoyed being needlessly bitter. That shit just isn’t for me, and if I can help it, I try not to be.

  His eyes flit to the welt on my cheekbone. The one that Thatcher gifted me. My father doesn’t say anything about it, and I bet he’s assuming it’s from the hazards of security work.

  “Let’s talk on the patio,” he suggests. “I’ll grab a few cigars—”

  “No, we aren’t going to be long.” I drop my boot to the ground. My father contributes a lot of money to Philadelphia General, and they’ll easily let me restart my residency where I left off, so I’m not going to ask him to pull strings when my last name already will.

  Nepotism. It’s real.

  My father glances at Maximoff and hones in on his bandaged shoulder. “How’s that healing?”

  “It’s alright,” Maximoff says, not intimidated. By anyone. He keeps eye contact until my father has to look away.

  I’m about to speak, and then my father tells me, “If this is about Rowin, I hired him onto the med team because I’ve built trust with him. In thanks because of you—”

  “Stop.” I shut my eyes for a long, annoyed beat. “Don’t tell me that.”

  “Then tell me why you’re here,” he says, cordial. Non-confrontational. He ambles to the kitchen bar and yanks open the fridge. Maximoff and I follow so we won’t have to shout across the huge room.

  I rest my sole on the rung of a barstool. “I came by to tell you that I’m finishing my residency.”

  My father pours a glass of ice water for my boyfriend. Digesting my words slowly like he didn’t hear me well. He scrutinizes my earpiece and mic to my radio.

  “This is my last week of security. I’m going back after that,” I explain. “I don’t need anything from you right now, but I’m doing this because I want to be a concierge doctor—”

  “You will be.” His face brightens like I’ve given him all he needs to die a happy fucking man.

  He never asks why I’ve had a sudden change of heart. I didn’t expect the why to be important to him, and that’s perfectly fine by me. He makes it easier to stay at a distance.

  I pop another bubble. “That’s it. I’ll stay in touch for work.” I lower my boot off the barstool.

  “Good. I’ll be available.” He pours a glass of water for himself, and he feels the need to tell Maximoff, “First-year doctors are filled with fear and doubt, and rarely do med interns run towards codes. But my son always did.”

  I didn’t run towards codes thinking I’d bolster the family name. I ran towards them because I was confident I could handle the pressure. And I wanted to help. That’s it.

  Maximoff curves his left arm around my shoulder. “You should be proud of your son,” he says so entirely that I can feel his pride for me. For so much more than just this choice.

  My eyes are only on him.

  “I am proud now,” my father tells Maximoff. “But not these past years—”

  “Of course not,” I say.

  He sighs. “Farrow, you don’t understand. You are gifted. More than me, more than your grandfather. You can’t waste talent like that—”

  “Why don’t you tell Maximoff the story about how I came out to you?” I ask to make a point that I’ve never made before.

  My father chooses this moment to take a sip of water. He clears his throat and glances at Maximoff with the shake of his head. “There’s not a lot to say.”

  “Because you don’t remember.” I stand more upright. “It’s okay.” I hold out a genial hand. “It’s not a bad story. Shit, I actually like it.” I touch my chest. “You asked me about my crush. We talked for a few minutes, and things were easy. They always were, but eventually you’d forget about that boy. You’d forget we even spoke.”

  “That’s not fair,” he says. “That was years ago.”

  “Name one memory that doesn’t involve medicine.”

  He lets out a deeper sigh. “Farrow…” He’s thinking. My life is entangled with medicine, but there are plenty of memories he could choose.

  My first high school dance—he let me take his Bentley to pick up my date.

  My mall excursion at twelve-years-old where I got my nose pierced—he signed the parental consent forms.

  My second grade chorus recital—he made me blueberry pancakes as a good luck, do well thing.

  He exists in memories that are void of medicine, but he has trouble coming up with one. He just never placed value on any of them. While he raised me, he looked through one lens and never widened the scope. I know how this ends before it even does. I tell him it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. We exchange a few more words about
medicine.

  And then I leave with Maximoff.

  I’m not clairvoyant, but that I can predict.

  17

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  “FARROW! Boxers or briefs?!”

  Gotta love paparazzi. Asking the good questions. And by good, I mean trivial. Kind of funny if not predictable, but pretty trivial.

  You should know that I’m not annoyed, but I’m more than cautious. This is one of the first times Farrow and I have walked hand-in-hand on a sidewalk in Center City together. He’s used to being the silent bodyguard companion.

  Not the boyfriend to a celebrity.

  The click, click, click of cameras that follow our trek to dinner—this is my normal. I have almost no recollection of walking without paparazzi in Philly.

  And it’s all immortalized on videos they sold to tabloids. You’ve seen when I was a toddler, my dad threatened paparazzi who pushed too close to my mom while I was in her protective arms. Then I’d grow up and be the one holding my sister’s hand. Yelling at paparazzi to stay back, she’s only a kid.

  Now I’m twenty-two, and if I could conceptualize a public first date scenario, it would’ve looked pretty close to this reality. Eight or nine paparazzi crowding Farrow and me. Cameras flashing in blinding succession and illuminating our features in the pitch black night.

  His unwavering, assured stride that matches mine. His aviators that block the exploding light, and his hand that squeezes my hand with each incoming question. As though to tell me, I’m okay, wolf scout.

  I don’t know…it makes me smile.

  Maybe because this is my life, and I’ve always tried to accept the crazy parts that I can’t change.

  “I love you!! I love you!!” a middle-aged cameraman constantly praises. Being overly complimentary is a thing paparazzi do. Others will just try to piss us off for a money-shot.

  “Farrow!! Maximoff! Who hogs the blankets?!”

  I steal a glance at Farrow. We’re both pretty good about not hogging the comforter, and as the sweltering summer approaches, we’ve only been sleeping with a sheet.