If he thinks being on the team grants him access to flirt with the girls in these families—he’s out of his fucking mind.
He’s a bodyguard to a minor.
Not the over-eighteen girls, and their bodyguards will rip him the fuck apart. The only reason I’m not in his face right now is because I don’t trust myself not to punch him.
Irritation cinches his brows. “I’m part of the team. Or did you forget that?”
I stare him dead in the eye. Loudly, I say, “She’s my girlfriend , or did you fucking forget that?” People whisper and look over at us. Publicly, we’re together.
A smile tugs her cheeks. It fades fast as Tony laughs under his breath.
He stuffs his hands in his aviator jacket. “Right, right.” He has a shit-eating grin, and only audible to me, he lowers his head and says, “I see you took your balls out of her purse.”
I shake my head. “You’re a fucking scustamad’.” You’re a fucking stupid person. I raise the volume of comms, more intel coming through about outside.
Farrow puts out his cigarette and pockets the pack. He whispers in Maximoff’s ear.
Jane leans more into my side, and I wrap my arm around her waist. She tells Tony, “We’re actually about to return to our cards. The game should start soon.”
“Just stopping by to say hi.” Tony cocks his head. “Moretti knows how it is.” He glances over at Michelina, then to me. “You know whenever I think of this place, I always picture that time your brother got into a fistfight with Jay Amaro and knocked over the bingo balls. Gave an old woman a literal heart attack. Paramedics came.” He lets out a laugh. “Fuck, that was a long time ago.”
My ribs constrict, thinking about that memory. Knives cutting a single breath. Just one.
I exhale through my nose, and the weight is gone. Fifteen years in the past.
“Banks was in a fight?” Jane asks, like she can’t picture him swinging first.
Tony shakes his head. “Not Banks. Their other brother, Skylar.”
My eyes tighten.
Skylar.
Sky.
I’ve been trying to tell her about him, and I couldn’t figure out when. I’m gearing my ass up for the middle of fucking hell.
I should’ve just let it out in the costume shop earlier. Before Charlie’s phone call cut us off. Or in the car afterwards. It’s on me.
A million times, I missed the chance. I fucked it, and now Tony dropped this before I could.
Jane tips her head, thinking rapidly. Her brows bunched. Maximoff and Farrow exchange confusion.
Mostly, I watch her. “Jane—”
“None of you knew about Skylar?” Tony realizes, looking between the three of them. He lets out a light laugh.
“That’s funny?” I ask, voice strict.
He laughs more. “It’s not not funny.”
“Vaffangul’.” Fuck you. I grip my knee to keep from standing. Do not harm another bodyguard. Do not fight while on-duty. Protect your client.
Protect her.
He motions to Jane. “She’s your girlfriend and you didn’t tell her about your own brother—”
I shoot to my feet. Towering over him. Staring down. Blood rushes in my ears. Rage annihilating my senses. Until I’m hyper-focused on this shitbag.
My anger.
His face.
He spreads his arms, goading me to hit him. “I just did you a fucking favor. It’s not my fault you couldn’t man-up and say what needs to be sa—”
I have Tony by the collar. I’m five seconds from slamming his entire body into the fucking ground. Farrow is quick.
He’s already climbed over the table onto my side. He wedges himself between us and rotates to Tony. “Man, I’m sick of listening to you. Walk the fuck away.”
I pull back and I get my mind right almost instantly. Sensing her close.
I turn.
She’s standing. I assess her in one sweep. Chunky heels, a ruffled purple tutu, and a frilly blouse—she has her hand in her purse. Where her pepper spray and switchblade are contained, ready to defend me. She lets go when our eyes meet. “Thatcher.”
Nothing else matters to me right now but this girl. “Jane,” I say strongly. I come closer, my hand on her lower back. I soften my gaze on her. “You good?”
“Yes, are you?”
I nod. “Can you be Oscar Mike in five?” We need to move out.
I notice the bingo caller headed over to us. We’ve disturbed the whole event, and beyond that, Maximoff is a hothead and if Tony tries to fuck with Farrow, which I’m pretty positive he will try—Maximoff is going to throw a fist.
He’s the client here.
His life. Her life.
That’s what we’re protecting.
Jane adjusts her purse over her shoulder. “I’m ready now.”
Tony sizes Farrow up. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Epsilon—”
“Farrow,” I call. “We’re shoving off.” I click my radio, not taking one of my hands off her. “Thatcher to security, Jane and Maximoff are Oscar Mike in five.”
Farrow steps back over the table and drops down next to Maximoff, taking his hand.
I take hers.
Clearheaded.
Focused.
There is hell outside. Which we have to push through.
37
THATCHER MORETTI
“Does it hurt badly?” Jane asks me after we’ve returned to the townhouse from the bingo hall.
We sit on a weight bench in the quiet garage. Pressed up against the brick wall and facing her parked Volkswagen.
I watch her eyes trace the deep, long cut along my bicep. Clean and stitched just moments ago. My bloodied flannel and T-shirt are balled up and trashed in a bin next to a red toolkit.
Jane turns more towards me. “I can see if we have stronger pain medication or ice, perhaps?”
I rest my shoulders on the brick. My gaze not leaving Jane, watching her concern travel across my body. “I’m good, honey.” Farrow numbed the cut well. He just went back into the townhouse with his trauma bag. Maximoff beside him.
Calm after the storm.
The crowds were aggressive for no good reason. Something I’ve encountered countless times as a bodyguard, and I like the rush of it. The impending nature of this hellfire, the sudden blast and challenge as we confront it and try to diverge from it. How my senses snap into focus, and the stakes are always high.
We escorted Jane and Maximoff safely to their vehicles. They protested because they saw us being dragged back and tried to help. But I literally picked Jane up, and I’ve never seen Farrow shove Maximoff that hard into the car.
Their lives come first.
I prefer that chaos a thousand leagues over my confrontation with Tony. I failed there. Lost my temper for a split-second, and that’s all it takes.
One second and a bad night becomes the worst of your life.
Jane lifts her eyes up to me. “I can’t believe you both got hurt.”
I’m not that affected by it. “It’s not bad. Minor injuries to security are normal.”
She’s only just now seeing them because she’s gotten closer to the team. To me. It’s impossible not to get knocked around on this job.
Especially when hostile crowds start breaking bottles. Some leather-jacket-wearing fuckbag tried to smash a beer bottle over Farrow’s head, and I blocked the blow with my arm and restrained the threat.
Farrow got cut on the knee with glass. He was able to bandage his own wound in the car.
Jane gives her whole attention to me. “Do you feel like you’re being targeted more, in terms of crowds? Now that you and Farrow are more publicly recognizable?”
I unclip my radio off my waistband. “It’s hard to say.” Hecklers will sometimes pick fights with security to get to the client. So I can’t tell if they’re coming at me because I’m publicly Jane’s boyfriend or because I’m just the man in their way.
I describe this to Jane, and she nods in understa
nding. “Are you going off-duty?” She sees me taking out my earpiece.
“I am.” I twist the cord around the radio. “Unless you want to go out—”
“No,” she says quickly. “No, I’m staying in for the rest of the night.” Her eyes light up in realization. “I forgot I have a bottle of Dalmore stashed away somewhere in here—though, don’t feel pressured to drink whiskey with me.” She raises her hands. “I was only thinking that, possibly, with your…cut, it’d help take the edge off.” She clears her throat, soaking up my hard gaze.
I study her shallow breath, and I almost reach out and touch her hand that lies flat on the weight bench. Near mine. Heat washes over my chest. Like we’re in a steaming sauna somewhere remote and alone.
We’re in a fucking garage.
Where one door leads to security’s townhouse, the other to hers. And Akara, Quinn, Sulli, and Luna are already home tonight.
I can’t pretend that we’re in her bedroom with a locked door. In privacy.
She wafts her blouse. “I’m not asking you to drink with me as a fake boyfriend and girlfriend…because clearly, we’re not in public, you see.”
My brows knit. What we are together in private, in public, in every other setting, is starting to confuse the hell out of me. And we have to be in agreement.
“You need to clarify,” I say deeply. “What do you think you are to me right now?”
Jane tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, then motions to me. “This is just friendship…just two ole pals drinking whiskey. If you’d like to drink with me, that is.”
Friendship.
I’ve been inside her pussy. She’s not some platonic friend. My jaw hardens. “We’re pals who fuck each other?”
“Precisely,” she says like we’re still on the same page.
But my chest tightens. She’s used to friends-with-benefits, and that’s where she’s placed me. That’s all she wants.
The fact that I’m sitting here and feeling like it’s not just that —it’s a fucking problem. I shouldn’t be veering off course.
“Correct?” she asks, waiting for my confirmation.
I nod. “Affirmative.”
“So what do you think?” She’s referring to the whiskey.
I consider her offer in a short beat.
Drinking alone with a client and not in a group setting—it’s a straight shot to buddy-guard territory. Something I normally don’t fuck around with.
But I’m not looking forward to leaving for security’s townhouse. I don’t want to separate from her yet. And I love whiskey.
I set my radio aside on the weight bench. “If we drink, I can’t touch you. It’s too inappropriate if someone walks in and sees.” I’ve one-hundred percent exhausted the “practicing for the op” excuse, and we need to be more careful.
“Oui.” Jane sits straighter, hands flat on her thighs. “No touching, it’s a necessary parameter.”
“I’ll get the liquor.” I start to stand up.
Her curious blue eyes follow my movement. All six-foot-seven of me rising, and a small breath parts her lips.
I zero in on her knees that knock together. Goddamn. My cock strains against my slacks. “Jane,” I say in my core.
She inhales. “Yes?”
I rub my mouth. “Where’s the whiskey?”
“Oh, um.” Jane shakes out her thoughts, then points to an old wooden cabinet. Where the team stores flashlights and extra batteries. “Top shelf, I think.”
It’s not far. Opening the creaky cabinet door, I find a bottle full of dark amber liquid in the back corner, third shelf. I brush off the dust and read the label on my way to Jane.
Taking a seat next to her, I wait to open it. “This is a thirty-year-old whiskey.” Expensive. “You sure?”
“Positive. It’s just been sitting there for years. It was a housewarming present from my brothers. I thought they would’ve all drunk it by now, but Beckett hid it so they wouldn’t.”
I open the bottle and pass it to her. The mention of her brothers reminds me of mine.
Tell her about Skylar.
She hasn’t pressured me to explain more. Neither did Maximoff or Farrow in the car. They’re good people. Compassionate, and I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and regret not saying something.
I’ve compartmentalized so much of my fucking life in order to push through. Built walls that I can’t even break down.
But I think compassion deserves compassion, and I want to be deserving of her.
Even if I can’t have her in the end.
She puts the bottle to her lips. Taking a small sip, then inspecting the label. “Tastes like burnt chocolate and oranges. Though I’m more of a whiskey novice, so I wouldn’t know if it’s any good other than I think I like it.”
I grab the bottle as she passes it. Our fingers accidentally touching. And lingering too long in the exchange.
Neither of us mentions it. The garage blisters, and I wipe sweat off my forehead with my bicep, the one without the numbed, stitched cut.
Tell her.
I’m looking at Jane more than the Dalmore. “I had an older brother growing up.” My voice is even-keeled.
Her brows jump. “Skylar?”
I watch her eyes soften on me. “Yeah.” I swallow a rock in my throat. “I’ve wanted to tell you about him. But it’s not something I usually talk about.” I swig from the bottle. Liquor sliding down smoothly, and my thumb brushes over the label, then I hand it back to Jane. “Skylar probably would’ve gotten a kick out of me drinking whiskey with a girl.”
She swishes the liquid. “Did he like whiskey?”
I breathe deeper for a second. I recognize that I want her curiosity. And intrigue. Full-force.
It makes this easier for me.
“More than he should’ve,” I answer. “He broke every rule my dad ever made.” I watch her sip the whiskey. “Banks and I were the good sons. Obedient. But I looked up to Sky, asked him a lot.”
She hands me the bottle, listening intently.
“I think he told me a lot of horseshit. But it was loving horseshit.” I rest the bottle on my knee. Staring at the blue Beetle for a second.
If she looks at you a lot, it means she likes you. His advice. He’d ruffle my hair with his hand and grin. Teasing me, and I thought he was a badass. Some kind of invincible warrior.
I tell this to Jane. Succinctly. Probably too stoically. Some walls will never break down. I don’t think I could ever cry about it, but I can at least try to share this, finally.
My gaze tightens, brows drawn together, and I take another swig. “It was a long time ago. We were kids, and then we weren’t.”
I tell her how Skylar was three years older. He died at fifteen. Banks and I were twelve at the time. “His death caused a lot of friction in my family.”
I notice her lips slowly parting in realization. She’s adding up pieces. “You were twelve when your parents divorced, weren’t you?”
I nod.
Same age as my brother’s passing.
More dawns on her. How I was around twelve, thirteen when I was adamant I’d join the military.
I’ve also told Jane that I’m not close to my dad. Not since the divorce. We only really talk about football.
I pass back the whiskey. “When my brother died, my dad said a lot of things. Things that he thought he could never take back. To my mom. To Banks. To me.”
“To you?” She draws nearer, her knees almost knocking into my legs. “You were only twelve.”
I’ll never forget the blackout rage on my dad’s face. “He probably would’ve lashed out at a fucking garden gnome that night.”
Jane hugs the bottle to her chest. “Has he ever mentioned it? That night and what he said to you?”
“Hell no.” I shake my head a couple times. “He’s too ashamed.”
Instead of making it right, he just withdrew. Became distant. He never showed me how to seek forgiveness, ask for it or accept it. Just to take fault for my
mistakes.
To carry blame.
I’m good at that. But I’m not him. If I were, I would’ve never walked over to Jane on the beach in Greece and tried to right what I’d wronged.
“My mom wasn’t doing well,” I explain, a pit in my ribs. There’s not a word to describe my mom around this time. Eviscerated seems too light. “But we were all lucky.”
She hands back the whiskey without taking a sip. “In what way?”
“We had my grandma.” I tell Jane how Carol Piscitelli, my four-foot-eleven grandma, packed up our small, one-bedroom apartment and found us a row house to live in.
She moved in with us.
She got my mom back on her feet.
She made sure that we kept our heads up. “We didn’t have a lot of things growing up,” I tell Jane. “But we had family.”
At a time where we were starved for anything but emptiness and grief, our grandma gave so much love.
“She sounds like a beautiful person,” Jane tells me, her soft smile so genuine. “I’d love to meet her and your mom one day—if appropriate. I know it may not be possible for security reasons, but I just…” She takes a measured breath. “They seem quite lovely, is all.”
My chest rises. “They’d like to meet you.”
She smiles more. “They would?”
I nod and I put the rim of the bottle to my mouth. Taking another swig. I watch a thousand other questions rush through her eyes.
She smooths her lips repeatedly. Contemplating what to ask.
She’s quiet for a while, and I almost move closer. I almost brush a strand of frizzed hair off her cheek. I almost pull her onto my lap.
Don’t touch her.
My muscles tense, and I look her over. “What are you most curious about?”
She’s wary. “That’s an incredibly dangerous thing to ask, you realize.”
“I’m good to go.” I nod to her. “Shoot.”
“What did your dad tell you that night?”
I figured this could’ve been on her mind. And I’ve never told this to anyone. Never repeated it. But I just let it out now. “He said I should’ve biked harder.” Off her confusion, I explain the rest.
How my brother died.
He used to bike out to a quarry. He’d sneak a few beers to drink, throw rocks, and swim. Sometimes alone, sometime with friends. Always to let off steam.
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