Tangled Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

Jack is about to reply.

  “Give it to him sloppy,” Donnelly smirks.

  “Ignore Donnelly,” Oscar tells Jack. “You’ll feel smarter.”

  Donnelly scoops pudding with his finger. “Ignoring Oscar makes your dick feel bigger.”

  Oscar ends up laughing, but he nods to Jack. “I’m still waiting, Highland.”

  Jack opens his mouth, and now Farrow chimes in, “Really digging deep for a compliment, Oliveira.”

  Oscar sets down his water bottle. “At least I know what they look like, Redford.” And then he throws a potato chip at Maximoff, which my best friend dodges easily.

  Farrow points at his friend. “Fuck you.” It’s very lighthearted.

  Oscar grins, and Jack has already left my side to go referee Akara and Sulli’s arm wrestling match. Jack has grown closest to Akara out of all the bodyguards.

  Thatcher observes all of them without much of a reaction.

  I truly adore being a fly on the wall among security. The FanCon tour was a pivotal turning point. I was able to peek further and further into the lives of our bodyguards in ways I never had before, and I could spot pre-established friendships of their own.

  “Who bought a hundred banana cream pie pudding cups? Literally, a hundred .” Quinn scrunches his face and hoists a plastic bag at the table.

  Oscar tosses a chip in his mouth. “Who do you think? There’s only one guy who’s eating that shit.”

  Donnelly is crushing the cup, squeezing pudding in his mouth.

  Quinn reads the nutrition label with furrowed brows. He’s a very clean eater, something I noticed during the FanCon tour. “Damn, how come no one bought avocados or bread, but we have a hundred pudding cups?”

  Thatcher stares more sternly. “If you had your radio on, you could’ve asked for that.”

  Donnelly nods. “You tell him, Thatch.”

  “It’s Thatcher,” he corrects. Often, actually.

  I’ve wondered if it frustrates him when people try to shorten his name, but I haven’t found the proper time to ask.

  I’m not even sure now is. Especially since the stairs creak behind us. Our heads swerve as Luna descends with a long yawn.

  Bodyguards glance at Luna, but they offer privacy and try not to plaster their gazes for more than a few seconds.

  I smile at my cousin. “Good afternoon, sleepyhead.”

  Light-brown hair splays messily on her shoulders, faded green marker streaks her cheeks, and her lanky arms and body are hidden beneath an oversized Thrashers hoodie.

  “Howdie.” She yawns longer. “I heard something upstairs about a squirrel in a box.”

  I shift from the staircase to let her pass. “You heard right.” I explain what Akara told us in depth.

  Luna hardly flinches at the news. She was gifted poop in a bag by a bully in high school, so this isn’t shocking for her either.

  “People suck,” Luna says under her breath while she skates past Thatcher and me, and then the adjoining door quietly opens.

  Banks slips inside.

  All of Security Force Omega is now here.

  I thought Thatcher’s brother would be in New York all day. I look to Thatcher, and he leans closer to me. Just to speak privately. Do not elevate any dangerous hopes or wishes, Jane.

  I inhale his strong woody scent as he says, “Tom’s bodyguard went on-duty earlier.”

  “Right,” I breathe.

  It means that Banks is now off-duty and floating to wherever anyone on the team must need him. Especially if Farrow has a med call.

  It’s sometimes strange how security is more attuned to the happenings of my family as a whole unit, more than I can ever possibly be.

  Sulli groans. “Cumbuckets.” She just lost the competitive arm-wrestle match.

  “There’s always next time, Sul.” Akara pushes himself off the cushion to a stance and steals a Fruity Pebble off the donut she’d been eating. He makes his way over to Banks, who has screeched to a halt beside Oscar.

  Banks stares at the photographs of suitors. “What’s this?”

  Akara starts explaining the plan that’s already spread through the rest of Omega, and everyone quiets to listen.

  I hold the banister with two hands. Apprehension rolling around my stomach. Just having Maximoff, Farrow, and Thatcher in my plans is much easier. Having the whole room is more intimidating, but I’m open to more ideas and input.

  I do the math.

  7 Omega Bodyguards + 3 Cousins + 1 Exec Producer = 11 Brains.

  Eleven brains on top of mine could easily make the situation more dysfunctional, but the professional hierarchy in SFO makes them a functional team. Most of them are good about checking their egos.

  And when they don’t, it never bothers me. I was raised in a family with parents and siblings who love to be right. The ego of my dad alone could fill the entire Milky Way.

  Donnelly rips a photo off the wall. “This one looks like a straight up prick.”

  “Man, they’re not dating you,” Farrow says easily.

  He grins. “They wish they could have this ass.”

  Oscar turns his head to me. “It’s not a bad idea, Cobalt.” He stuffs his hand in the chip bag. “You openly dating a guy should calm down some of the aggressive men outside. They’ll leave knowing they lost their chance.”

  I hadn’t even considered that benefit.

  Subduing hecklers is usually an impossible feat. I always try to keep my chin up and live inside the chaos instead of fight against the forceful current. So my focus has been on ensuring my grandmother won’t try this tactic again on my siblings. Sending her a message that she failed.

  “All those guys outside will leave?” Sulli asks hopefully. I’d love for my cousin to feel more comfortable here.

  “Will they?” I ask Oscar too.

  “Not the whole crowd.” Oscar speaks to us both. “But at least the creeps on the street looking to…” He gestures to me, trying to be polite. “You know.”

  “Sleep with me,” I finish for him. I know.

  “Bingo,” Oscar says.

  The room tenses.

  Thatcher and Banks are staring hard at one another. Practically talking through their eyes, and I think I’d have to live inside their twenty-eight years of existence to fully comprehend what it all means.

  I replay Oscar’s words in my head, and I realize I’ve missed something. “You said openly dating,” I say to Oscar. “But I was just going to take the football player on one afternoon tea. I’m not dating him. I’m not dating anyone.”

  The air could snap, tension stretched at a maximum. Concern bores into me from so many pairs of narrowed eyes.

  Merde.

  These men are all naturally protective. For Omega, it’s practically a job requirement, but I’m starting to feel my age. Just twenty-three. Not the oldest of anything since they’re all so much older than me.

  Except for Moffy. I will always have one month on my best friend.

  I pull back my shoulders, how my mom taught me. To combat brewing heat under my frilly blouse, I tie my hair into a low pony. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  Luna bounces her head. “I see it. I feel it.” She air high-fives me from across the room while licking a pudding cup.

  My lips rise. I adore Luna Hale.

  “Until you’ve officially chosen someone,” Oscar says more seriously, “the men outside are likely to keep coming back around.”

  Well then…there goes that.

  Sullivan’s shoulders drop, more bummed. When she catches me staring, she says hurriedly, “No big deal, Jane. Don’t worry about it. It’s not even your fucking fault. Grandmother Calloway sucks.”

  I take a breath. And I say to everyone, “I was never doing this to deter the men outside anyway.”

  Maximoff is acting strange. He stiffens, staring off at the brick wall and cracking his knuckles.

  “Moffy?” I ask.

  His eyes pin to me with a mountain of concern, his cheekbones sharpened like blade
s ready for war, and he asks the room, “What’s the likelihood those guys outside become stalkers?”

  “High,” many bodyguards say at the same time.

  I know why it’s a high likelihood. It already takes a certain sort of person to not only believe the advertisement but to spend energy screeching my name outside my townhouse.

  Maximoff and I have never feared stalkers before. Not until Nate. Once he breeched the safety of our townhouse, he punctured our trust bubble and made me, in particular, feel incredibly violated.

  I don’t want that to happen again.

  I leave Thatcher’s side and approach the photographs. I scrutinize the auburn-haired football player and below his picture, a firefighter. Maybe I could date one of them?

  Just for a little while.

  “The firefighter looks nice maybe…” I trail off. It feels like a step too far, doesn’t it? Especially after all that’s happened.

  “You’re not dating him, Janie,” Maximoff says, shutting it down.

  “Just date Moretti,” Oscar suggests so suddenly, and the room explodes in two exclamations:

  “What?!”

  “Oscar?!”

  My big eyes have just popped out of my flushed face and rolled across the hardwood toward the source of my heat, shock, and all other tragically startled things.

  Thatcher.

  Thatcher.

  Thatcher.

  His name is a heartbeat in my head.

  I look directly at him. He’s still beside the staircase, and I’m frozen on the other side of the room.

  His forehead is creased, brows drawn together, and his strong gaze pierces me so deeply that I wonder…is he actually considering this?

  My mouth falls little by little, and my head tilts sideways off my neck. Does he want to do this?

  His eyes detour to Banks.

  My pulse has jumped on a trampoline, soared, and splattered on hard grass.

  “Everyone, take a breath,” Akara says, then he turns to the most tactical bodyguard. “Explain, Oscar.”

  Oscar crumples the chip bag in his hand. “I meant pretend to date. As in, just do it long enough that the unstable men outside can take a hint that she’s taken.”

  Farrow lifts his brows at his friend. “You want Jane to pretend to date her bodyguard. Do you even know the consequences of that?”

  “Not more than you would,” Oscar admits.

  Jack slips a pen behind his ear. He always has one handy for note-taking. “From a public perception standpoint, you’re looking at two different headlines.” He picks up my black cat, old and wise Lady Macbeth. “It’ll be Heiress is Dating Her Bodyguard versus Heiress Seeks Rich Husband.”

  Maximoff shakes his head, neck tensed. “Either way, there’ll be crowds. Christ, there might actually be more if she dates a bodyguard.”

  We saw an exponential increase in fans outside the house after Maximoff and Farrow’s relationship went public. What they’ve experienced is a good basis for what would happen publicly if I dated Thatcher.

  I clear my throat. “So there’d be no point to go forward with this.” I hope I don’t sound disappointed.

  Oh my God, I can’t believe my stomach is sinking in actual disappointment right now.

  Why do I even want to take this dramatic turn? Is it because I’m a Cobalt? I’m a part of the most tragically dramatic family.

  Or maybe my curiosity has piqued and finally punctured the atmosphere. Dating my bodyguard would break down doors that have been cemented shut.

  Pretend dating, of course.

  “It’d help,” Oscar tells us. “It won’t clear out the crowds, but it’ll change the temperament of whoever surrounds Jane and the townhouse.”

  “More hecklers,” Donnelly pipes in.

  “More obsessive fans,” Banks adds, sticking a toothpick between his lips.

  Farrow peels a piece of Winterfresh gum. “Not to mention drunk fucks screaming outside bedroom windows.”

  “None of that is good,” Quinn says with furrowed brows.

  “But it’s better than these unstable motherfuckers, little bro,” Oscar tells him. “The ad lit something in some strange bastards, and now they think they have a chance with Jane. We can rid about sixty-five percent of the could-be stalkers if we nip this early and they think Jane’s taken.”

  Farrow pops a bubble in his mouth, and he wraps an arm around Maximoff’s waist, territorial and protective. “Okay, but there are still some hostile fuckers who think they have a shot with Maximoff, and he’s not just dating a bodyguard like Jane would be. He’s a fucking step further and engaged.”

  “That’s why it’s not a hundred-percent, Redford. Can’t rid them all.”

  “Sixty-five percent success rate,” Akara says. “It’s not bad.”

  I lift a finger. “Pardon, but where did that number come from?”

  Oscar answers, “Seven years of experience handling a thousand different kinds of motherfuckers.”

  “Amen,” Banks nods.

  It reminds me that I wasn’t always a part of these serious security meetings. Not until Maximoff and I became closer to SFO. I trust their knowledge and what they’ve been through and dealt with as bodyguards.

  I can’t assume that I know best when I actually know very little about what they’ve each experienced.

  But I have witnessed the consequences through Maximoff and Farrow.

  I lock eyes with Thatcher, his stern expression yet to change shape. To lessen the risk of another Nate situation—I wonder how far he’d be willing to go.

  I think being thrown into a media and public wildfire is too great of a sacrifice. “You can’t go through what Farrow has gone through just to protect me,” I tell him. “You’ll be doxxed, and your family in South Philly could be harassed.”

  He’s one of the most private people I’ve ever met. More private than even Farrow, and by publicly dating me, he’d expose himself to so many probes from paparazzi, tabloids, and internet fiends without the ability to say no or stop.

  They will dig up his military service.

  They will dig up more than he could even think of or imagine.

  Akara looks to Thatcher. “The tech team can try to wipe out web searches that pop up your mom’s home address, phone number, all of that. They think it’s how Reddit users found out where Farrow’s stepsister lived.”

  Maximoff slides an arm over Farrow’s shoulders.

  So there’s a slight ability to circumvent some negative attention to his family. Keeping them safer if we were theoretically publicly together.

  It seems like such a dreadfully high risk, but now mostly it’s just on his shoulders and Banks.

  “Your life will be fodder for the public. I can’t let you do this for me,” I tell Thatcher. “If you’re considering it at all, that is.” I’m not even sure what he’s leaning towards.

  “I’d do anything to keep you safe, Jane,” he says deeply and without falter.

  I hear what he just told me: I feel a strong responsibility to you.

  I inhale a sharper breath.

  Can we do this?

  Should we do this?

  Am I in the strangest dream?

  And do I even want to wake up?

  No.

  I’d rather see what happens next. Selfishly. This may be the most selfish thing I’ve ever craved.

  “Will her parents care?” Oscar asks.

  Every person turns to me for the answer.

  The attention doesn’t cause me to balk, but Thatcher’s intensity heats me up from head to toe.

  My parents.

  That hasn’t even crossed my mind yet. My parents. My brothers. My little sister. What will they say?

  “My parents,” I ponder quickly. “No, they won’t think it’s unprofessional if I fake-date a bodyguard.” I smile in thought. “I’m sure they’ll actually think it’s a bit of fun strategy. Like chess.”

  SFO relaxes more at this news.

  Banks rotates to Akara. “Wh
at about Alpha and Epsilon? They’re already on Omega’s ass about all of us being barely famous, and they’ve limited our ability to go on-duty during events. So having another bodyguard as famous as Farrow will…?”

  “The other forces may try to tie our hands, guys,” Akara says diplomatically to all of SFO. “But we already have less power on the team right now, regardless if we take a risk today or down the line.” He snaps his fingers to his palm and then glances between Thatcher and me. “Whatever you both decide, we’ll all back.”

  Every bodyguard nods in agreement.

  Even Farrow, who easily rises above his dislike for Thatcher if the outcome means protecting me.

  Thatcher steps away from the staircase. Eyes set on Banks, he motions to the adjoining door, and then he glances at me. “We’ll be back.”

  I nod, understanding completely.

  Whatever happens will affect Banks, and possibly, he’s confirming with his brother that he’s okay about their military backgrounds being exposed to the team and the world.

  As they disappear, SFO whispers quietly to each other, and I head to the fireplace where Maximoff and Farrow stand.

  I’m so confused, and my voice is a whisper as I ask, “Shouldn’t you two be anti-this-plan? It involves me being closer to someone you both dislike.” I don’t blame them at all for not loving Thatcher.

  Maximoff puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m pro-Jane.” His intense green eyes speak a thousand promises. To always stick by my side. Through every terrible and wonderful thing.

  My eyes burn with emotion, and I feel a smile at my lips.

  Very casually, Farrow tells me, “I’m also pro-Jane more than I’m anti-anything-else.”

  Maximoff smiles at Farrow like he beat him at something strenuous. “You just copied me.”

  Farrow chews gum while grinning at him.

  They both love one-upping each other.

  His smile vanishes, and he gestures to Farrow’s chest. “You did copy me, man.”

  “Technically, I said a hell of a lot more than you.”

  Maximoff grimaces, trying to hide his affection for his fiancé in this moment. He does a very decent job. I give my best friend a solid 7.5 out of 10 for effort and execution. His arm is still around Farrow’s shoulders or else he’d be a perfect 10.

  He’s about to speak, but the adjoining door swings open.