Tangled Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

Pussy.

  God, Jane is right in front of me. Maybe not pussy.

  I scrutinize the photo. “Are you pursuing him?” I ask outright.

  She tilts her head. “What do you mean by pursuing ?”

  “Dating,” I clarify. Having sex.

  “No dating.” She’s practically whispering. “Nothing else. It’s purely platonic.”

  My expression closes up. What she intends as being platonic could become something more.

  And then what?

  And then nothing. My feelings don’t matter. I can’t just break rank and say, fuck it.

  But something in my mind is saying, unfuck this.

  Get rid of the fullback and the Wall of Suitors. “What about just calling your grandmother?” I ask Jane.

  Farrow chimes in, “That’s what I said before these two started tacking dipshits up on the wall.”

  Maximoff blinks slowly. “Thank you for illustrating how great of a friend I am.”

  “The best,” Jane says in a warm smile.

  Maximoff smiles back.

  Jane turns to me. “And I have called our grandmother. Twenty times. She has to be screening the calls because I’m sent to voicemail every time. Watch.” She picks up her phone from the coffee table and dials a number. Hoisting it in the air, we wait.

  It rings once before the line clicks.

  Her eyes expand to saucers, and she brings the speaker to her lips. “Grandmother?”

  “Jane, dear.” Grandmother Calloway sounds like she’s sucked on helium for half her fucking life. Uppity blue-blooded aristocrats were foreign territory to me until I became a bodyguard.

  Her grandmother eats foie gras and Beluga caviar.

  I grew up eating fried baloney three days a week.

  Jane starts, “I—”

  “I’m so glad you called,” she cuts her off.

  She’s been calling.

  I keep an eye on Jane more than anyone else. She’s worried about her cousin.

  Maximoff is glaring at the phone, and Jane backs away from him like she can protect him from their grandmother at a distance.

  Farrow has his hand on the back of Maximoff’s neck in comfort.

  He’s lucky.

  What I’d give to be able to—no, it can’t happen —for Jane. My thoughts are now a clusterfuck. I rake my hand across my jaw.

  She starts again, “Grandmother—”

  “I was disappointed that you put out a press release demeaning the advertisement. But I understand. Not everyone loves surprises.”

  Farrow rolls his eyes.

  “Grandmother. It was—”

  “Better news is coming, dear.”

  Jane sighs out in frustration from being cut off.

  “I’ve scheduled an afternoon tea this Saturday,” her grandmother says.

  “But—”

  “And I’ve picked out the three best men from the resumes. You’ll find a winner in one of them.”

  She takes a breath. “Grandmo—”

  “I’ll send the details over. See you Saturday, and wear a dress.”

  The line clicks.

  “Shit,” Farrow curses.

  Things are now fucking worse. I’ll have to vet three suitors. She’s gone from just entertaining the football player to now taking four men on a tea date.

  Jane stares at the phone in a daze. “What just happened?”

  Maximoff tries to unclench his fist. “You just got roped into afternoon tea.”

  “I don’t even like tea and dresses,” she mutters. “And now she’s staging an episode of The Bachelorette. ”

  I look down at her. “You don’t have to do this,” I remind Jane.

  She shakes her head like she’s disoriented. “No, I can just…I’ll take the football player to afternoon tea. The plan is the same that way. He can just upstage whatever men my grandmother chooses—”

  A fist bangs the door loudly.

  Jane jolts.

  I put a hand to the small of her back. “Hold on.” I pass her and head to the locked door. Farrow is right behind me in seconds.

  Temp guards should be securing the perimeter outside.

  The next sound is a whack. Sounds like an object.

  I speak into my mic and try to communicate with the temps while Farrow checks the security cams on his phone.

  We figure out the issue in less than a minute.

  “Are they throwing eggs?” Jane asks. She’s not even surprised that people would.

  I shake my head.

  “It’s a drone,” Farrow explains.

  “Goddamn drones,” Maximoff growls under his breath.

  “One more thing,” Farrow adds. “The drone dropped off a package.”

  11

  JANE COBALT

  My curiosity about the package is only half-full. Thatcher occupies the other half, and I catch myself looking backwards for him.

  He’s not here.

  He carried the luxury shoebox to security’s townhouse a few minutes ago, Farrow in tow. But only after they scanned the package for metal.

  Our bodyguards have more tools to test the contents for anything hazardous. I know Moffy would prefer to be involved, but I don’t love hearing about all the ball gags and leather that stalkers send me.

  Maximoff has stayed behind to keep me company, and our twenty-year-old cousin has finally arrived.

  “It’s a fucking madhouse outside, guys. Way worse than a few days ago,” Sulli tells us in the tiny kitchen while the three of us unpack groceries from canvas tote bags.

  At six beautiful feet tall with cascading brown hair, carved biceps, and a squared jaw, Sulli looks like the athlete she was born to be. She lingers in the walk-in pantry. Just so we can hand her paper towels and other items to shelve.

  “Akara had to do some kind of reverse-maneuver and a three-point turn just to avoid running over some old dude with flowers,” Sulli says. “And there are literal fucking news vans. Like Channel 14 and Good Morning Philadelphia.”

  I slowly take out a dozen eggs from a tote. I can imagine a morning news segment about the Cinderella ad. All the smiling anchors and their theories about who I’ll choose to date. It’s one thing to have my grandmother play matchmaker.

  It’s another to have the world laser-focused and invested in my love life.

  I’m trying not to worry, but I’m starting to realize this may be less of a passing storm and more of a staple to my every day.

  I look to Sulli. “Hopefully they’ll disperse and we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming.”

  Maximoff feigns confusion. “What is that again?”

  “Glorious dumpster fires on Tuesdays,” I say theatrically.

  He nods strongly. “Shit storms every other Friday.”

  I smile at him. “And we can’t forget the evening apocalypse.”

  Maximoff smiles back. “Jesus, we’ve survived the apocalypse. It’s like we’re pros at this already.”

  “That we are, old chap.” I mime tipping a top hat to him.

  He hooks an arm around my shoulders. “Que ferais-je sans toi, ma moitié?” What would I do without you, my other half? He kisses the top of my head.

  I’m about to reply, but we notice Sulli deep in thought, a few fingers to her lips.

  “Sulli,” I call out. “Is something wrong?”

  “Fuck…no, I just…I hope you two know that I’m a novice at this stuff compared to you guys.” She means the media chaos outside.

  Maximoff hands her a jar of jellybeans, a topping she puts on pancakes. “You won’t even notice them after a while, Sul.”

  “And we’re in this together,” I chime in. “You don’t have to face anyone or anything alone.”

  “Yeah.” She nods, thinking. “It’s such a strange time to be moving in with you two. You’re like Philly’s Bachelorette, Jane, and Moffy, you’re getting married— ”

  “Not any time soon,” he cuts in, his tone forceful like he’s enacting a new law: no wedding talk.

>   He’s been adamant this whole week about it too. While this crisis revolves around me, he doesn’t want any wedding planning going on.

  Sulli smiles. “Got it. No wedding bells yet.”

  Maximoff flips open a box of donuts that we bought for Sulli as a welcome, this house is now yours gift. He picked them up yesterday, so they may be stale. “Are you regretting moving in already?” he asks.

  “No way.” She shelves the jellybeans. “I’m excited. Just a little freaked out by the people on the fucking street, but I think the FanCon prepared me for a lot.”

  I’m happy the tour could help more than just my friendship with Moffy.

  Sulli reaches for a Fruity Pebbles donut and bites into the dough. Cereal crumbs fall on her striped shirt. “And this place already feels like home.” She speaks with a mouthful. “I know where everything goes. I’ve slept over so many times, and you’re both here and so is Luna.”

  My heart mushrooms, and a smile tugs my cheeks. I squeeze past Maximoff and wrap my arms around my cousin.

  We hug and sway playfully side-to-side.

  “I love you so much,” I tell her.

  “I love you more.”

  We pull back and smile. This past year, we’ve grown closer than ever before. Since she’s retired from competitive swimming, she’s been able to join us for more outings and trips.

  And now she’s finally decided to leave the nest. She’s flown the parental coup and landed in our cramped but loving home.

  Sulli could have so easily chosen my brothers’ flat in Hell’s Kitchen, seeing as how she’s best friends with Beckett. We’ve always had the open invitation extended to her, but I was even surprised when she finally accepted it.

  I remember asking, “It’s because Eliot and Tom moved up to New York, isn’t it?” Living with two Cobalt boys is one thing. Living with four is hazardous. And I should know, I grew up with all five of them.

  “Nope,” Sulli replied. “Beckett is super fucking busy with the new ballet, and I just really wanted a roommate. Luna sold me. She said we were going to get the fucked-up college experience that we’ll probably never really have.” She nudged my shoulder. “Plus, you and Moffy are pretty fucking rad.”

  Our big life changes affect the lives of our bodyguards. Sulli’s move means that Akara Kitsuwon is officially living in security’s townhouse. Right now, most of SFO, plus Jack Highland, are helping him settle in next door. While also dealing with the mystery shoebox.

  Later this weekend, the rest of our family is planning to help Sulli move furniture into Luna’s room. They’re transforming the space into a mini dorm. Complete with a bunk bed and beanbags. It almost makes me nostalgic for the whole three months I lived in Princeton dorms.

  Almost.

  Because those were also the loneliest, most miserable times of my life.

  I don’t wish to repeat that.

  The door to the adjoining townhouses suddenly opens. All of security returning. I try and look for Thatcher first, but I catch sight of Maximoff’s gaze. His powerful green eyes carry one urgent inquiry. As if silently asking: what was in the box?

  12

  JANE COBALT

  Akara just shared the disturbing details of the shoebox with Sulli, Maximoff, and me in the tightly packed living room. Mainly to let us know this is a security matter.

  Don’t worry, they all say.

  It’s not about you , they all say.

  It only affects us , they all say.

  I think Security Force Omega has forgotten how much we deeply care about them and how much it hurts seeing them harassed while they shield us from harassment.

  It’s our job , they say.

  I know.

  I appreciate their sacrifice more than they can possibly understand.

  Did I ever imagine one of our bodyguards would be sent roadkill? In a box? With a bow wrapped around the mangled squirrel’s broken neck?

  No.

  Gross acts are tragically normal for me, but mostly when my family and I are the recipients. I’m not used to my bodyguard being a target.

  Thatcher is a soldier. Tremendously tall. He’s physically a powerhouse, a supreme godly and angelic being who is built to protect and defend. I see so clearly that this is where he wants to be. I see how much of himself he’s willing to give to keep my family safe.

  I’d just like to be next to him.

  To be a wingwoman.

  His confidante.

  His right-hand.

  I want to slip into his back pocket.

  Possibly even literally sliding my hand down south and squeezing his…oh-so-inappropriate, Jane.

  I try not to pulse. Now is definitely not the time. But the air has lightened as chatter returns, cats scampering around everyone who’s gathered here, which includes Farrow, Donnelly, Oscar, Quinn, Thatcher, and Jack.

  I sit on a stair, nibbling on a chocolate turtle, and I find myself picking my bodyguard out of the small crowd.

  Thatcher stands incredibly stoic at the front door. He’s shrugged off his flannel, his plain gray crew-neck snug on his firm build. Features hardened, biceps chiseled, and shoulders braced in a vigilant stronghold.

  His narrowed gaze slides along the room and lands on me.

  I inhale a soft breath.

  His chest rises.

  I ache to talk to him. To ask how he’s feeling. I ache to be closer, for his large hand to hover beside my arm or waist. I ache for so much between him and me that I shouldn’t welcome or invite.

  But we are allowed to converse. We should talk.

  Reach out, Jane.

  Just as I begin to stand, Thatcher detaches from his spot, and he crosses the room. His attentive gaze never leaves me.

  My heart begins to race, and I lower back onto the old creaking stair.

  My bodyguard halts at the banister. Towering above me, the staircase too narrow for more than one person to sit.

  “Thatcher,” I greet.

  “Jane.” He asks, “How are you doing?”

  Chocolate melts between my fingers, and I lick my thumb. “I’m doing fine. I’m more concerned…” about you.

  My voice fades completely. We both seem to tense in our silence, but the room is quite loud as SFO, Jack, and my cousins talk.

  I break our quiet. “How are you feeling?”

  Thatcher drops his voice another cavernous octave. “The same.” He holds my gaze much more securely. “I feel a strong responsibility to you.”

  Dear God, let me breathe properly. “To protect me,” I state for clarity.

  He nods firmly, but another raw emotion almost surfaces through his tightened gaze. He blinks and deadbolts it shut.

  To protect me.

  I push my wavy hair off my shoulder, hot all of a sudden. I need to backtrack, and I’m curious, of course. “What you found in the box, it doesn’t affect you? It’s not every day that bodyguards are sent roadkill.”

  Security hasn’t discovered who dropped the package via a drone, but the anonymous delivery included a mutilated squirrel and a note:

  For the tall bodyguard.

  Fuck you.

  That was all.

  Omega thinks it must be a vexed suitor from earlier this morning. Someone Thatcher must’ve accidentally angered.

  His expression darkens. “I’ve seen a lot worse than a dead squirrel.” He ends there. Cut and dry.

  I hesitate to prod. “Can I ask you something more personal?”

  He looks readied. “Go ahead.”

  I rest my elbows on my knees, my mint-green tulle skirt splayed over them. “Have you seen worse while you’ve been in security or before this job?”

  “Both,” he answers without pause. He checks over his shoulder for a millisecond, and I track his brief glimpse to the fireplace. To Farrow.

  Farrow is holding Maximoff’s cheek and whispering in the pit of his ear. Less serious, I think, since Farrow smiles wider and wider with each word he murmurs.

  I frown. “It involves Far
row?”

  He gives me a serious look.

  Nate.

  The realization strikes me cold. The night that Nate was apprehended, there were only two bodyguards on the scene: Farrow and Thatcher. And he’s telling me that night was more horrific than a dead mutilated squirrel.

  I want to express my guilt for trusting Nate, but it’ll open a dam and I’m not ready to drown in those feelings.

  “Turtle?” I offer, holding up the tin of caramel pecan chocolates.

  Thatcher has never rejected one before, and he doesn’t now. We eat turtles and face the room together.

  I whisper to my bodyguard, “It seems Akara and Sulli are back on good terms.” They had an awkward month or so after Greece, but their buddy-guard friendship is intact.

  The Omega lead, a six-foot-two commanding Akara Kitsuwon is dressed in his usual Studio 9 muscle shirt and backwards baseball cap, and he shares the Victorian loveseat with Sulli. Fuzzy pillow on their laps, their hands are clasped together in an intense arm-wrestle match.

  I missed their bet, but they look about tied right now.

  Thatcher studies them a little longer, and then his attention drifts to the corkboard. Where Oscar and Donnelly are surveying the photographs of suitors while eating Sun Chips and a pudding cup. I think they must have temp bodyguards covering their clients for a short bit so they could help Akara move in.

  Jack and I make eye contact from across the room, and he treks over to the staircase to greet me. “Jane,” he says; his charming smile radiates a thousand feet in all directions.

  The exec producer is very charismatic, affectionate, and a good friend to me and Maximoff after so many seasons filming We Are Calloway . We shed our armor and share our insecurities in the docuseries, usually with Jack first.

  I instantly smile back.

  He hugs me. “Looking gorgeous as ever.”

  “You as well.”

  Oscar looks back at us, his curly hair falling over a rolled blue bandana. “Where’s my positive affirmation, Highland?”

  Jack wears a softer grin. “What kind are you looking for?”

  “What do you want to give me?” Oscar shakes a water bottle full of protein mix.