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

by Krista Ritchie

  Instead, I meet a stringent severe face, and the wind dies in my sails.

  I turn to Sulli who stretches over the bar and snatches a cherry. “Why are you swimming backstroke?” I ask since she used the word qualify. She’s not competing anymore, so I’m confused.

  “I need a goal,” Sulli tells me.

  I go rigid. “What?”

  Jane looks between us and pops an olive in a martini glass.

  “Moffy—”

  “You have a goal. The ultra,” I say toughly. “It’s been your goal for months, and that’s not fucking changing.” It’s not changing because of me.

  Sulli bites the cherry off its stem. “The course can be fucking dangerous solo. It doesn’t feel like a good idea to do it alone, and my dad’s bad knee can’t handle the terrain—”

  “Sulli, I’m running this marathon with you,” I say, adamant. Not backing down. “I’ve already started training.”

  She coughs on a cherry. “What? You’re in a sling, Mof.”

  Jane shakes her head at me like I’m a disaster to myself.

  “I can do a lot in a sling.” I’ve spent most of my free time in a gym. My hamstrings and quads are sore from the nonstop leg days, but I’m strengthening every muscle until I can work on my right arm and shoulder. “And I ran a mile yesterday.”

  Sulli looks horrified.

  “Alright, it was a walk, not a run,” I clarify. “A PT was there so I wouldn’t kill myself.” I recognize that I need another person in the room to stop me from overexerting myself.

  And I’m not proud of my lack of self-restraint.

  Sulli contemplates this now. “You really think you can run a 250k?”

  250 kilometers in 7 days. That’s 155 miles.

  In Chile.

  For Sulli.

  “I promise I can.” I nod repeatedly.

  Sulli hesitates before nodding back.

  Jane slides over the dirty martini. “Here, Sulli,” she says. “I’ve named this drink You Can’t Say No To A Stubborn Maximoff.”

  Sulli smiles. “Yeah, fucking feels that way.” She tilts her head to me and holds the martini. “You know you’re as hardheaded as my dad.” She cringes. “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean—” to compare me to him.

  “It’s alright,” I say truthfully, and I catch Jack’s warm smile behind the camera.

  I know how much I’m like Ryke Meadows, and I’ve been reaching a place where I can be proud of the similarities. I no longer feel like who I am is a knock against my dad. And I’ve realized something.

  My dad raised me to be like Ryke. Because he loved his brother more than he loved himself.

  That’s the hard truth. Because I just wish I could reach back in time and tell my dad that he’d have a son who loves him so goddamn much, and then maybe he’d realize that he’s worthy of being loved too.

  Sulli sips the dirty martini.

  “How is it?” I ask while Jane shakes another nonalcoholic one for me.

  “Strong.” Sulli smacks her lips together. “But most drinks taste fucking strong to me.” She goes in for another sip.

  “Good sign,” I tell Jane while Sulli gulps the liquor.

  My best friend smiles brightly and procures a clean martini glass.

  Sulli rotates slightly to Akara. “You want to drink, Kits? I can get a temp bodyguard for the night. You can go off-duty.”

  Akara fixes his earpiece. “Not tonight, Sul. But I appreciate the offer.”

  She faces the bar, lost in thought, and then she takes another sip.

  Jane polishes a glass and makes a concerted effort to angle away from Thatcher. About this time, she’d be chatting to her bodyguard and tripping over her words like she normally does around him. I almost feel badly that she’s lost someone to talk to, even if he doesn’t say a lot back, but then I picture the welt on Farrow’s face.

  And my sympathy dies.

  Thatcher braves another glance at Janie, and his hand slides over his hard, scruffy jaw. The longer he looks at her, the more frazzled my best friend becomes.

  She fumbles with a shaker. “Thatc—” Her voices dies in a croak, and she clears her throat. “That drink”—she motions to the polished glass—“is…empty. But just wait, Moffy, it’ll be dreadfully beautiful.”

  “Je n'ai aucun doute,” I say. I have no doubt.

  All I know is that Janie deserves the best, and Thatcher is one of the only names on my very short shit list. He’s not the fucking best.

  He’s far from it.

  On impulse, I glance at my wristwatch. Thirty minutes have passed, and Farrow still isn’t here.

  I just hope he’s okay.

  21

  FARROW KEENE

  “Farrow, look here! Look here!”

  I’m not looking at these fuckers. Paparazzi try to be blood-sucking ticks, but for me, they’re more like gnats. Cameras swarm me and my parked motorcycle while I pull off my helmet.

  “Look here!!”

  “What’d you do at the hospital?!”

  “How are you, Farrow?!”

  Pissed.

  That I’m not on time for this mixology thing. When I say I’m going to make it, I’ll make it. But shit, I don’t enjoy being held up. Especially when I could’ve been with Maximoff.

  My favorite part of the day is returning to my tight-laced, strong-willed boyfriend, and traffic had been bad. But it’s not what made me an extra half hour late.

  I run a hand through my messy hair and leave my new Yamaha on the curb, right outside the Philly bar.

  “LOOK HERE!”

  Still not looking, I make my way to the entrance of Killer Gatsby and send a quick text to Maximoff: here.

  Before I push into the bar, the door starts cracking open. Maximoff wedges himself in the entrance, and the first thing I notice: his marbleized, impassive face.

  Something happened.

  My pulse spikes. And I immediately skim him, up and down, jumbled emotion slamming into me from all angles. He’s okay.

  He’s okay. But something must be wrong with his family. I clutch his hand the same time he grabs for mine, and Maximoff pulls me inside.

  I shut the cameras out behind us, and I frown at my surroundings. “Where is everyone?” Fringed lamps cast dim light on crystal bottles shelved behind an empty bar. All the tables are bare, but if I strain my ears, I can pick up muttering.

  “In the back lounge area.” He brings me in that direction.

  I stare hard at Maximoff. Concerned about him. He’s bottled up, but if this were a 9-1-1 severe crisis, he’d be running. He’s walking, so I’m guessing he’s settled this storm and I’m here for the aftermath. “Is it Jane?” I ask.

  “Sulli.” His body is stringent. “I need you to check on her.”

  “Okay.” I squeeze his hand. I’m here, wolf scout.

  His chest tries to rise.

  We turn a corner near an old record player. Gold and black beads drape an archway, and once we walk through, I hone in on an extremely passed out Sullivan Meadows.

  On a dark-green buttoned couch, all six-feet of her athletic frame slumps lifelessly against Akara’s side. Her squared jaw starts sliding off his shoulder.

  Akara pulls her closer and holds her waist to support her weight. Seriousness hardens his gaze, and he looks up at me like she needs your help. “She’s been out for the last fifteen minutes.”

  “How much did she drink?” I let go of my boyfriend’s hand and rest a knee on the couch. Leaning over, I put my fingers to her carotid artery. Akara brushes Sulli’s thick hair off her neck for me.

  “Not a lot,” Maximoff answers, his left hand clutching his slinged-elbow. An attempt at crossing his arms. I’d joke about how he’s inexperienced with alcohol, but time and place, and plus, he adds, “I think.”

  I’m about to double-check with Akara.

  “I’m calculating her blood-alcohol concentration level,” Jane chimes in, voice unnaturally high. She’s upset.

  I turn my head and see
Jane seated on a Queen Anne velveteen chair. Right next to an unlit fireplace, she presses a pink calculator with guilt-ridden urgency. I ignore Thatcher who towers three feet away from Jane.

  Jack Highland is on a chaise nearby. His camera is powered off and lens turned away from Sulli. Any footage of her passed out won’t be aired.

  I focus on Sulli and talk to Jane. “I don’t need an exact BAC, Cobalt. Just tell me what drinks she had.”

  Jane speaks so quickly in her breezy-as-hell voice that I can’t understand a fucking thing.

  I raise my brows at Akara.

  “Two shots, two cocktails,” he answers. “A single shot was in each cocktail.”

  “Okay, that shouldn’t knock out a six-foot girl who weighs…one-sixty, one-sixty-five?”

  “Around there,” Akara nods.

  Her BAC has to be low, but she’s not a regular drinker. “How much sleep has she had?” I step back since her pulse is normal. I stand next to Maximoff.

  “Not much,” Akara says, adjusting Sulli again.

  There you go. “That’s most likely why she passed out after four shots.” I glance back at Jane who’s stuck calculating. “She’ll be fine, Cobalt. People pass out from drinking. Shit happens.”

  Jane raises a finger at me. Not a middle finger. A pointer finger to shut up.

  Maximoff whispers, “It’ll make her feel better.” I assume that Jane was the one supplying and mixing Sulli’s drinks.

  And I don’t need to ask why they’re all tense.

  From an outsider’s standpoint, having a friend facedown drunk is a nuisance at best. I’ve lugged Donnelly’s ass up a flight of stairs at 4 a.m. before, and we cracked jokes about it the next morning.

  From a security standpoint, having a celebrity pass out—one who is female and has a family history of alcoholism—is a fucking PR nightmare. The moniker Drunken Heiress will follow Sulli around for the rest of her life.

  From a friend and family standpoint, none of us want Sulli to have to deal with bad shit.

  I turn to Maximoff, sweeping his sharp features again. “Who’s carrying her out of here?”

  “Akara already picked her up, and she looked dead.” He shakes his head once, neck stiff. “She can’t be carried out, and there’s no way outside without a camera catching us.”

  Not good.

  Akara says what I’ve realized. “We’re staying here until she wakes up.”

  Maximoff tries to crack his knuckles. The longer I stare at him, the more I know something is eating at my boyfriend, and fuck, I just want to be alone with him. It’s the only way he’ll unwind.

  “Follow me, wolf scout.” I take his hand and try to lead him to the men’s bathroom. He ends up next to me, step-for-step, and he opens the dark wooden door.

  I easily let him have that lead. Teasing him isn’t a good idea right now.

  The bathroom is as elaborate as the bar: gold fixtures and faucet, three obsidian sinks and urinals, two varnished wooden stalls.

  Maximoff puts a hand to his neck and glares at the fringed chandelier.

  “What are you thinking?” I lean casually against a sink and grip the granite counter behind me. To be honest, I want to hold him. Badly. But I have to wait until he’ll let me. Until we talk this shit out.

  And I love driving along the weaving and crisscrossing roads of his ever-turning mind. The fact that he lets me in means everything to me.

  He tries to blow out a breath. “My chest is on fire.”

  Just watching him, my chest is burning alive too.

  Before I respond, he adds, “And I almost hit Akara.”

  I quickly replay Akara and Maximoff’s interactions in my mind. They seemed normal. “He didn’t act like you swung at him.”

  “Because I stopped myself from even moving my arm.” Maximoff tugs at the collar of his Philadelphia Eagles crew-neck. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel, but all I could reach was anger when Akara said this has happened before.”

  I frown. “When?”

  He tries to roll his taut neck. “A few weeks ago at Charlie and Beckett’s apartment. Apparently Sulli thought it was some fluke happening since she only drank three beers and conked out. Not asleep, but fucking unresponsive.” He holds my gaze in a tight vice. “And I keep thinking…Maximoff…” His eyes redden. “You had a chance to keep her away from alcohol. You stupid fucker. Why’d you let her drink at all?”

  I take the strong breath that he can’t take. Staying at ease when he can’t be at ease. “Because despite loving to be in control, you’re not a controlling fucker, Maximoff. You don’t make other people’s choices for them. You’re just there for them.” And when he needs to be reminded of that, of anything, I’ll be the first to tell him every time.

  He pinches his eyes.

  I move off the counter. Please let me wrap my arms around you. I stop when he backs up for a second. “Maximoff.”

  He lowers his hand. “And I keep thinking about how you just spent forty-million hours working nonstop to come back to this.”

  I almost smile. “Thirty hours,” I correct.

  He scrutinizes my unruffled state of being. “I don’t get how you’re okay with this.” He gestures from his chest to my chest. “I’ve taken so much away from you, and I can’t stop it. I can’t change the fact that my family is chaotic, messy, and bizarre-as-fuck because I love them as they fucking are, and I feel selfish wanting you to be a part of that.”

  I inhale. “The media took my privacy; you haven’t taken a thing from me, Maximoff. You’re giving me something so fucking precious: your chaotic, messy, bizarre-as-fuck family, and I also love them as they fucking are. Plus, I look forward to coming home and putting out wildfires with you. It’s not that complicated.”

  I knew we’d need to talk this through again. It’s different now that I’m finishing my residency and not working directly for his family yet. He thinks he needs to give me peace and quiet away from the chaos.

  But I want everything that comes with him.

  Maximoff stands still, taking deeper breaths. His gaze fastens tight to me, and love is written all over his eyes. “I was excited to see you,” he admits. “Like stupidly excited.”

  I picture that, and the corner of my mouth rises. “Your infatuation is showing.”

  “I don’t care.”

  It swells my chest, and my eyes burn. I give him a once-over before I move closer.

  He steps back. “Wait.”

  I stop a few feet from him, and I comb my hand through my hair.

  Maximoff pinches his eyes one more time, then stares upward like he’s wracking his brain. When he looks down at me, he asks, “Did April call back?”

  “Yeah.” My older stepsister never used to dial my number, and in the past few days, April has bombarded me with phone calls and texts. “It’s why I was late.” I run my tongue over my molars, almost wincing.

  “That bad?” he asks. Now Maximoff looks like he wants to hold me.

  But we wait a little bit longer to bridge the space.

  “It’s not good,” I say. “She said she still doesn’t feel safe at her house. Someone threw a bouquet of flowers over the gate.”

  Maximoff shakes his head. “We can hire more private security for her.”

  “We’ve already hired three around-the-clock security guards, plus installed security cameras, plus we had a gated fence put up.” It all happened after April called me. Panicked about how people kept ringing her doorbell and asking her questions about me and Maximoff.

  My stepsister’s home address in Palo Alto was leaked when I was doxxed.

  Maximoff nods. “Then she needs to move houses if she still doesn’t feel safe. I’ll pay for any costs.”

  “That’s exactly what I told April.” I raise my brows. “And she started screaming at me about how I don’t have to move out of my house, and it’s not fair since I did this to her.”

  His eyes flash hot. “Jesus Christ, you didn’t ask to be doxxed. This isn’t
your fault.”

  “No shit,” I say, and I catch him smile-grimacing at that. I almost laugh, and after a short pause, I tell him, “I don’t feel that guilty anymore. Right now she has more protection around her house in Palo fucking Alto than your townhouse in Philly.”

  Maximoff nods again, and it’s taking all of my energy not to walk forward and close the gap that separates us.

  I feel my lip piercing beneath my tongue. “Still stupidly excited to see me?”

  He smiles, his eyes welling. “You have no goddamn idea.”

  It overwhelms me, and I move forward.

  Maximoff moves forward. Our arms find each other, and our mouths crash together, hungry and starved—I clutch the back of his head, and his arm hooks around my shoulders. Pulling me closer. And closer.

  With passion that builds hot tears and spurns all types of heartbreak. I live and breathe inside this emotion. He pins me to the outside of the stall, a sink on our right. My back slams to the wood with a thud.

  And we break apart to breathe, keeping our hands on each other. We both look at the door.

  Locked.

  Maximoff tries to unbuckle my belt with one hand. “We have time to kill.”

  I thread his hair with my fingers. “We do,” I agree.

  He pauses his mission and lifts his forest-greens to me, commanding kiss me, man. I don’t yet, and he tries to come in for one.

  I shift my head out of the way, and then I turn back and kiss him myself.

  He groans against my mouth, “Fuck.”

  My blood cranks to a swelter.

  Maximoff palms the outside of my pants. Fuck, that feels good. He pulls his head back and orders, “Unzip your jacket.”

  Okay, Bossy. “Someone loves my fingers,” I say and slowly, slowly unzip my leather bike jacket. He watches my hand, and I use my other to unbutton his jeans.

  My palm dives down his pants, his boxer-briefs. I fist his gorgeous cock, and he bucks his hips into me. More than once. More than twice. Fuck—a deep noise is trapped in my throat. And I devour his arousal that narrows his eyes to burning points.

  We kiss again, pulled into a rough, ravenous undertow. And I’m always careful of his collarbone. I even look for signs of pain, but he’s so far gone in pleasure.