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

by Krista Ritchie

  A smile plays at the corner of his mouth, and he squeezes my hand before telling them, “Definitely Maximoff.” He’s not changing our dynamic for them, for anyone.

  My lungs inflate in a bigger breath. “In an alternate universe,” I tell the cameramen. “In reality, it’s definitely Farrow. Every damn time.”

  I picture his eyes rolling around the fucking globe behind his aviators. My Ray Bans shield the incoming flashes that hike up a notch.

  “Where’s Jane?!”

  Family dinner at the Cobalt Estate.

  “Why isn’t Jane with you?!”

  My brain blares first public date, first public date, first public fucking date! And my stomach does this weird flutter-kick thing. Brain and body are way too excited at the prospect of tonight.

  It’s not like I haven’t been out with Farrow before.

  But in this capacity, it feels new.

  “Farrow?! Are you on a date with Maximoff right now?!”

  His brows jump, surprised that they guessed right.

  “Is this a date?! What are you eating?! Who’s paying the bill?!”

  Farrow risks a glance at me. Seeing if I want to answer. But I’m looking at him. Trying to see the same thing. He’s been selective about which media questions he’ll respond to. I want him to do what feels the most comfortable and not be fucking pressured.

  “Who thought of the date?!”

  Me.

  “Where are you headed?!”

  We’re nearing our destination. At the corner of the street, a red neon light spells out Tony’s Pizza. I know, I know—our first date is insanely inventive and revolutionary.

  Pizza.

  It only took me a solid month of overanalyzing.

  Farrow pushes back pieces of bleach-white hair that fell to his lashes. And he subconsciously touches his belt—where his radio would normally be attached.

  He’s only been off the security team for a couple days. We’re both still adjusting. Ahead of us, my temp bodyguard for tonight marches like a brick house.

  I haven’t been assigned a replacement yet.

  “Is this a date?!”

  I let go of Farrow’s hand and wrap my arm around his shoulders. Fucking Christ. Pain wells up, and I breathe out through my nose. My left arm is considered my “good” arm. But lifting one shoulder sometimes inadvertently moves the other.

  Outwardly, I’m stoic.

  Inwardly, I’m kicking my ass into another galaxy for not being more careful. My muscle throbs like a dull hammer. Just so you understand, I’m not dropping my arm.

  I plan to hold my boyfriend.

  So I’m fucking holding his shoulders. Sex is already challenging with the sling. I don’t want to eliminate the forms of physical affection that I can finally, finally do in public.

  As we near the pizzeria, Farrow sweeps my build a couple times. Trying to study my state of being. He must’ve felt my body tighten. Flashes blink on my face like strobe lights in a horror film. So there’s no way he’s reading the pain that I barely reveal.

  “Why hasn’t Loren tweeted about your relationship like Lily?!”

  My sore muscles bind at the mention of my parents. Farrow’s carefree stride never grows panicked or pissed.

  He knows my dad isn’t enthusiastic about any couple relationships online. Not even his own brother’s. He mockingly calls my uncle and aunt raisins.

  On the semi-flipside, my mom overcompensates and will tweet fifty times a day about us:

  #Marrow for life!

  This is what love looks like #Marrow

  Proud mom #Marrow

  Fans created our couple ship name, and it really stuck after my mom used it.

  “Does Loren not approve of your relationship—”

  I cut in, “He does approve.” My dad is just overprotective, and I think he feels like a better dad if he gives my significant other a hard time.

  “I love you!! I love you!!”

  Farrow picks up his pace. Purposefully so that my arm will fall off his shoulder. When it does, he swiftly catches my hand, and I lengthen my stride. In line with him again.

  I replay his smooth as fuck movement over and over and over. My blood starts pooling south. I’m agitated and unbelievably hot. Probably because I’m annoyed. Annoyance turns me on. Christ, that’s a weird thought.

  We ascend a couple cement steps to the pizzeria. A glass entrance in sight. Last-ditch questions erupt in the air. Most about my parents and Farrow.

  But our heads swerve back at this one:

  “Did Farrow force you to quit the auction?!”

  I glower. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  All of them thirst after that topic. Too many voices jumble.

  “Slow down,” Farrow snaps at the paparazzi.

  They let the middle-aged photographer speak. “Celebrity Crush published an article tonight. Maximoff would never quit a charity event, and you’re the only thing that’s different in his life.”

  “The only thing that’s different? I got into a fucking car accident!” I yell, my neck straining. “Because your friends sped after my little cousin’s car on a goddamn highway!”

  “They weren’t our friends!” They all disassociate.

  Farrow rolls his eyes.

  We’ve both seen these faces before. Paparazzi in Philly are a tight network of people who call each other when they spot someone in my family. Then they rush out and capture a money-shot.

  I’ve always tried to empathize with them. And I get it.

  This is their job.

  But this is my life.

  And they need to know… “It was my choice to quit the auction,” I almost growl, needing to defend him. “Not Farrow’s. If anyone is territorial in this relationship.” I motion back and forth between his chest and mine. “It’s me.”

  Farrow tilts his head at me, his eyes raking me up and down. And he says, “I’m just as territorial of you, wolf scout.”

  He’s not letting me take all the heat to protect him.

  We are a publicist’s worst nightmare. Setting fire to our public images out of stubborn love.

  Tony’s Pizza smells like greasy cheese and beer, and after a half hour, it’s completely packed. Rowdy kids in soccer jerseys span a long checkered-cloth table and help drown out the paparazzi outside. So do the mounted televisions that air the Stanley Cup and NBA playoffs.

  But not much can distract my stupidly in love brain from him.

  “It’s not that bad,” I say while I pick black olives off my slice of supreme pizza and look up at Farrow, whose brows rise the longer I defend my motorcycle’s capabilities.

  Our table is against the wall, and behind Farrow, an orange neon sign hangs that says true love with a pizza between the words. I keep skimming him.

  All of him.

  He sits slightly sideways. His tattooed arm hangs casually over the back of his wooden chair, and he set the sole of his boot on the empty seat next to him.

  Farrow Redford Keene is infuriatingly cool, and God, I can’t believe he’s mine.

  I’ll never get over it. To think that I’d be here one day. On a public date with the only guy I’ve ever truly needed or wanted—it’s a dream.

  He watches me checking him out, and then his gaze drops down my naturally rigid body in a sweltering wave.

  I’m aware that I look ready for an Armageddon. I always fucking do. But I think about how Farrow is attracted to that part of me. To every part of me. I’m already comfortable in my skin, but he makes me love who I am times infinity.

  I feel the start of my smile. “I can push seventy-five on it,” I add, returning to the motorcycle talk.

  The corner of his mouth lifts with a short laugh. “Your bike’s throttle is shot. I couldn’t even accelerate to thirty when I tried. If anything, I should be buying you a new bike for your birthday in July.” He hoists his dish and holds it out to me.

  I scrape my black olives, which I hate and he loves, onto his pizza. “You can’t get me
a bike,” I say. “I only got you a pair of boots for your 28th.” He’s wearing those boots right now.

  “Rip up the Birthday Rulebook.” Farrow folds his slice of pizza. “Because if you want to start comparing the prices of our gifts to each other—I only spent five bucks on you for Christmas.” He smiles before taking a large bite of pizza.

  That five-buck gift is buckled on my left wrist: an olive-green wristwatch. Right beneath lies the gray paracord bracelet that he gave me out-of-the-blue.

  And I loved that the watch was really cheap. He wasn’t trying to replace my old one with something flashy. He gave me what fit me.

  “Look, all I’m saying,” I tell Farrow, “is that if you buy me a bike, I’m gonna buy you one. I can’t even ride a motorcycle until I’m out of this damn sling. You need it more than me.” I’ve wanted to buy him one since he sold his FZ-09 for the auction, and this whole conversation started because his residency begins tomorrow.

  He has to drive my Audi until he can get another vehicle. I offered my bike to him, and he called it a piece of shit. And that’s how this spiraled here.

  I bite the thick pizza, bell peppers and sausage falling onto my plate. “Fuck,” I mumble.

  Farrow looks too amused. Like he has me beat at something else. He’s eating his pizza without an avalanche of toppings.

  Yeah, I don’t fold-and-hold my pizza, and I don’t know how he made that look cool.

  After he takes a swig of water, he tells me, “Okay, let’s do this.” His eyes meet mine. “We’re not gifting any bikes since we both need new ones. I can’t afford a brand new MT-10, and that’s the Yamaha I’d want. I’ll split the cost with you, and then when you buy a new bike, we’ll split the cost of that one.”

  I swallow my food. Thinking about this. “So we’ll both own both bikes?”

  His pizza hovers near his mouth. “Technically, my insurance will be on mine, but personally I’d consider them both of ours.”

  Both of ours.

  I repeat that.

  Both of ours.

  “You’re smiling,” he points out before eating.

  Yeah, it’s hard to grimace. “What can I say? I like your personalies more than your technicalities.”

  His rings clank on wood as he taps his chair. He swallows his food. “Technically,” he starts, and I’m already groaning, “personalies don’t exist. It’s not a word.”

  I fill my mouth with pizza to free my hand—and I flip him off.

  He rolls his eyes into a smile. As he eats the crust of his, I zero in on his cheek. Where Thatcher hit him. The bruise is almost gone, but Jane has helped Farrow conceal the blemish with makeup whenever we go out.

  Farrow didn’t want a tabloid to spin a story about me punching him.

  I’m still majorly pissed at Thatcher. More than even Farrow at this point. I don’t understand why Thatcher keeps shitting on my boyfriend, and if he does it again, I’ll snap on him.

  I told Jane what her bodyguard said, and immediately she told me, “I won’t speak to him. I can’t.” Out of loyalty to us, she’s been on a gigantic silent treatment with Thatcher until further notice.

  I know it’s hard for Janie. She likes to engage in conversation, even if it’s a one-sided chat and the person rarely answers back.

  In the pizzeria, my gaze falls from his cheek to his carved biceps. More distracted by his tattoos than his muscles. An inked ribbon circles a compass with the words, go your own way.

  The media keeps speculating what my next career will be.

  A recent headline: Maximoff Hale, Heir to Three Corporations. Which one will he choose? You believe that I’ll be hired to one of the family companies: Fizzle, Hale Co., or Halway Comics.

  I can even help out at Superheroes & Scones. But I don’t know where my heart is yet.

  “What are you thinking?” Farrow crumples a napkin.

  I retrace my brain’s endless paths. “I’m thinking about life. How I left my family legacy, and tomorrow, you’re returning to yours.” My head turns as someone approaches.

  A waiter brings over hot tea that I ordered. I thank him, the water steaming and cup too hot to touch.

  As he leaves, I tell Farrow, “And how I have a gigantic load of free time and maybe I should build a house with my bare hands or go into the wild and figure out the philosophical meaning of my fragile existence. And then I think about how I’d rather go into the wild with you.” I add, “And how my ass is better than your ass.”

  Physical, mental, and sexual—those are the routes of my mind.

  He looks me up and down, his earring swaying. “I have the better ass, but I can let you believe that you do.”

  I picture his ass now. And I instantly imagine my cock sliding inside of him and the way his muscles contract in scalding arousal—fuck me. I blink a few times to avoid fantasizing.

  His knowing smile spreads wider and wider.

  I scowl. “Your smile is ripping your face apart.”

  “Anatomically impossible, but nice try.” He laughs as I grimace, and then my phone vibrates. Texts from my family. Asking about the date. It’s been constant all night.

  I take out my phone just to ensure it’s nothing serious.

  But I’m distracted.

  By you-know-who.

  Not Voldemort. Someone hotter. Not that I think the villain in the Harry Potter books is even remotely hot—Christ, stop thinking.

  Farrow tears apart a straw wrapper, his eyes falling to me, before rising to the television. The Philadelphia Flyers are in the Stanley Cup playoffs. We both like watching pro sports, especially if our hometown is involved.

  But that’s not what’s getting me.

  His molten eyes fall back to me again. Pricking my nerves, and then they lift to the TV. Eyes on me, then the TV, me—his lip rises, then the TV.

  My cock strains against my jeans. I’m aware that within the crowded pizzeria, phones are aimed at us. Some better hidden than others. We’re being recorded from inside and outside.

  We’re public.

  I remind myself that. We’re public, and I’m allowed to touch my boyfriend. So I stand up about the same time that he drops his boot. He gestures me over, but I’m already heading to his side of the table.

  When I sit beside him—so close that my thigh is up against his thigh and his strong arm wraps around my lower back—flashes ignite outside. Glaring through the windowpanes.

  My temp bodyguard sits one table away, faking interest in his phone and bowl of soup. I briefly glance at my cell, too. No emergency text messages. All should be well.

  More flashes.

  More bright light.

  Paparazzi won’t leave if I ask. The only way to fix this is to leave myself, and the cameramen will follow me.

  But out of all nights, I don’t want this night to be short-lived. So I drape my left arm over his shoulders and ignore the thumping in my sore muscle.

  Farrow slouches a bit so my arm drops to a lower angle. Ten times less strain on my shoulder, but I’m still holding him.

  His inked fingers dip beneath my jean’s band, not going far. Just enough to warm the skin on my waist with his skin. We tune out the gawking and the lenses. And we watch ice hockey in public. Clearly romantically linked.

  It’s the most casual, ordinary thing.

  You have no idea how much this means to me.

  “Maximoff Hale.” All of a sudden, a stocky guy in a local college sweatshirt approaches our table, and my temp bodyguard bobs up and down in his seat. Hesitating to intervene. I usually let fans near.

  I motion to the bodyguard to sit.

  Farrow is super-glued to the guy, even as he whispers to me, “Recognize him?”

  18

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  “No,” I whisper back to Farrow, and then I smile at the guy who raises a hand in hello. I tell him, “Hey, man. I’m kind of busy tonight—”

  “I was just hoping for an autograph.” He reaches over the half-eaten supreme pizza, trying to
pass me a napkin and a ballpoint pen.

  I have to take my arm off Farrow to grab both. To me, it’s not a big deal to sign a napkin. It’ll take a half a second and could make someone’s day. But I notice how the guy checks over his shoulder and smiles impishly at a booth, a potted plant shrouding the other faces from view.

  It puts me on edge.

  But I don’t falter, uncapping the pen. “I’m right-handed, so this’ll be sloppy.” It looks nothing like my actual signature.

  “Whatever’s good,” he says distantly, zeroing in on Farrow. “Can I get your autograph too?”

  Farrow barely blinks. “I’ll pass.” He’s turned down autographs and pictures before, but not with this much coldness attached.

  The college-aged guy almost…smiles.

  This isn’t a fan.

  “Here.” I extend the napkin and pen to the guy. “Have a good night, man.” Please leave. Please don’t ruin my fucking date.

  Pocketing the autograph, the guy loiters for another half second. And stiltedly, like he’s rehearsed this line with his friends, he tells me, “I didn’t think Farrow was your type, Maximoff. I thought you’d end up with a rich dick, not a fame whore.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Are you fucking serious?”

  “I said—”

  “Get the fuck out,” Farrow cuts in, standing up. But he can’t usher him away that easily. I’m sure he wants to, but he’s not a bodyguard or a bystander. He’s a part of the confrontation.

  The guy laughs, then looks at me. “Is your boyfriend gonna hit me?”

  Farrow rolls his eyes. He’s intimidating to most, but as my boyfriend, the worst of the worst kinds of humans will try to provoke him for fifteen minutes of fame.

  Chair scraping back, I stand up next to Farrow. “Kids are here,” I growl. “Go back to your goddamn booth.”

  My temp bodyguard is speaking into his radio. Hesitating.

  “You seem tense, Maximoff.” The guy takes a single step back. “That’s what happens when you trade down—”

  “Fuck you,” I sneer, and Farrow fists the back of my shirt—because I almost lunge. Then he holds the back of my head, protective. Comforting. Telling me not to defend him and let street hecklers get to me.