Alphas Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

I don’t want either of us to move Xander around a board like a rook on H-6.

  Charlie’s golden-brown hair blows in the wind. “I’m not seeing many volunteers here to accompany you on this excursion,” he says. “So we do this my way.”

  I shake my head. It can never be easy with us. “This is bigger than the bullshit between you and me.”

  Charlie looks annoyed. “You think I’m here for some petty reason, but maybe consider that I’m the only one by your side because I actually understand.” He steals my Ray Bans off my head and slips them on his eyes.

  Those last three words cave my chest. I actually understand.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  Charlie shifts his crutches beneath his armpits. “Nothing.” He glances at the Cobalt Estate, pink tulip trees lining a driveway that leads up to a regal fountain and ornate mansion. It’s nothing like my childhood house that I just passed, which is stone and brick with a fir tree in the front yard.

  “It’s not nothing,” I say, failing at softening my tone. I’m trying. I’m trying. I know I need to try harder for him. “Charlie, I want to understand.”

  He’s quiet.

  “I’m fucking sorry. Please.”

  He hooks my Ray Bans on the collar of his button-down, the leg of his slacks cut to make room for his cast. Charlie looks tormented, his features fracturing in emotion that I can’t pick apart.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Charlie…” Something happened.

  He pinches his eyes, then he puts his weight back on his crutches. And I remember that any act of “heroism” on my part causes him pain and frustration.

  And it’s plunging a knife into my gut.

  I drop my hand, and we don’t continue our trek yet.

  Charlie stays still. “I’ve thought about telling you before now…” He struggles to make a decision, staring up at the sky. “My brother needs more than me to care about him, and you’re the logical choice because you’ll care excessively to the point of stupidity.”

  I ignore that last insult. “Which brother?”

  Charlie takes his weight off his crutches again. “My twin brother.” This is serious. “Every night Beckett is on stage, he strives for perfection in ballet. It’s an impossible goal, and he’s worn his body down to the point of pain. A couple years ago, he found a fix.”

  A lump makes its ascent in my throat.

  “Cocaine,” Charlie says plainly, clearly.

  I didn’t know. I doubt many people in our families do. “Charlie,” I breathe, so much tunneling through me. Concern for Beckett, for Charlie, and wanting to console them both, but I don’t know how in this instance. I don’t know what they need.

  So I wait and listen.

  “He’s a beautiful dancer,” Charlie says, clearing his throat, almost choked. “One of the best in the world, and it won’t take words from me or anyone else to convince him to stop. Not even you.”

  It slices me open for a second.

  He winces. “And now that you know this, there’s a sick part of me that loves that you’ll be hurting with me.” His chin almost quakes, and he drops his head, dragging his gaze across the cement.

  Then he ambles forward.

  “Charlie, wait.” I’ll hurt with him if that’s what he needs. I’ll share in his pain. I’ll do anything for him…I know that’s partly the problem. Heroism.

  He stops. Looks up at me.

  “We’re doing this together?” I ask. “Don’t leave me behind.”

  Charlie takes a breath and nods. “I understand watching your siblings make a mistake and not having the ability to shake them. And all you can do is search for a solution. Any solution.”

  Everything clicks. “The auction,” I realize.

  He slips the sunglasses back on and pulls at his hair. “I convinced Beckett to do the auction because I knew he’d have to take leave from ballet again. He missed Swan Lake, and he won’t return until rehearsals for Cinderella begin. He’s clean for now.”

  That’s good. “Who knows?” I wonder.

  “Me, Oscar, and Donnelly,” Charlie says. “Now you, and I’m assuming Jane and Farrow won’t be far behind. But don’t let it go further than them.”

  “I won’t.” I’m surprised that Charlie’s bodyguard knew. If I remember correctly, Farrow told me that Oscar didn’t know anything. Since Farrow never lies to me, I’m assuming that Oscar lied to Farrow.

  Charlie supports himself on his crutches. “So now can we do this my way?”

  I fight every instinct in me that says to hold on to the figurative wheel, but I nod once and relinquish control.

  We ring the doorbell on the stone stoop of a stucco mansion, a welcome mat beneath our feet. Hanging ferns flank the wide front door, and Charlie leans most of his weight on one crutch.

  We wait.

  A few tense seconds pass before the wooden door swings open. I prepared to meet Easton’s mom or dad or maybe even a sibling—it seemed more plausible—but the face staring back at me can’t be older than sixteen.

  First impressions: messy chocolate hair, long aquiline nose, pale sheet-white skin and pinpointed hazel eyes. A navy blue Dalton Academy honor society shirt hangs on his lanky frame. Definitely not built like a jock, and for some reason, I thought he’d be buffer. Older.

  He just seems young to me. Really young.

  I don’t know what it is with me and kids around my sibling’s age, but it fucking gets to me. Like there’s a part of me that just wants to protect this boy. And I don’t know him—but I do know he’s a wrench in my brother’s life and I know Xander is partly to blame—but I also see a human being in front of me.

  I never forget that. I can’t.

  “Are you Easton Mulligan?” I ask, ready to solve this crisis with Charlie.

  “Yeah…” he says slowly and looks from me to my cousin. “And you’re Maximoff Hale and Charlie Cobalt.” He hangs onto his door. “Um…so Xander didn’t say anything about you two coming over.” He hones in on Charlie’s cast.

  Even with a broken leg and bent on a crutch, Charlie evokes supreme confidence. His take-no-shit demeanor intimidates the kid so much that he tries to look at me for comfort.

  I’m not that soft either, but I think I’m empathetic enough that his uncertain eyes linger on me.

  “We’ll make this quick,” Charlie tells him. “We’re here because you’re getting pills from Xander Hale.”

  Easton frowns. “How do you—”

  I raise my phone, already on the text that I screen-shotted from Ben’s phone. “You’ve been bragging about it.”

  “Shit…” Easton curses again. His widened eyes flit between us.

  “Here’s what’ll happen,” Charlie says, sharpness to his voice. He hands me the crutch that he’s not using.

  Don’t ask me what he’s up to. I don’t know. I’m on edge, holding my breath.

  Charlie slips out a piece of paper and passes it to Easton. “This is a phone number to a doctor in Philadelphia. He’ll prescribe whatever you want. Just give him a call, let him know who you are, and you can get your pills legally.”

  What the fuck.

  Easton frowns and reads the paper. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this for me?”

  “Because you’re going to stop taking Xander’s pills,” Charlie says.

  Easton shakes his head. “I’m not—I mean, I am, but…” He looks to me. “You do know that Xander gets refills about a month before he’s even out. For me.”

  I don’t move or flinch or react. I didn’t know.

  The boy glances back into his house, then comes forward and shuts the door behind him. Fully on the front porch. He speaks more to me than to Charlie. “My parents aren’t as nice as yours…I tell my mom I’m not doing well, and she tells me it’s summer allergies.” He shakes his head. “Dude, I would never take pills Xander needed. That’d be…that’s fucked up.”

  This…is not what I expected. I try to grasp onto the truth. Uncover it. Xander was helpi
ng this kid? I don’t understand, and it’s still not okay that my brother was giving someone his meds. Even if he had extra. A pressure mounts on my chest, something screaming at me: I don’t know what’s right. Fuck. I don’t know what’s right.

  I crawl onward. “Why were you bragging about it then?”

  His face crushes. “I…because Colton Ford found out I was getting into LARPing with your brother. He kept calling me a…”

  “A pussy?” I’m guessing.

  “Yeah…” He nods.

  I had that word slung in my face in high school too many times.

  “Your friend is an idiot,” Charlie says bluntly.

  Agreed.

  Easton shifts his weight. “I panicked and I said that stupid thing, and then the next day, I told Xander and apologized. He knows.” His brows knit. “And shouldn’t you know this? He would’ve told you…” Realization floods his face. “Wait, he doesn’t know you’re here?”

  Charlie and I stay silent, not giving information to a stranger.

  In the quiet, Easton folds the paper like a treasure. Unable to look Charlie in the eyes, he tells him, “Thanks for this.”

  I’m uneasy, and I want to interject. But I can’t figure out what to say fast enough. And I wonder if the right thing would’ve been having my parents talk to his parents. Let them help him. But what if his parents are assholes and it makes his life drastically worse?

  “No problem,” Charlie says, and I pass my cousin his crutch. He braces his weight on them.

  Easton steps back to his door. “I have to go.” And to me, he adds, “Xander really never mentioned me?” Not once.

  I shake my head.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, my head heavy on my shoulders for too many reasons.

  He nods, a little hurt, and then he slips back inside his house.

  Charlie and I leave the front porch, and as he slowly descends the few steps, Charlie tells me, “Well, that was not exactly how I saw that going.”

  I watch him to make sure he doesn’t trip, and when we walk across the long driveway, I keep shaking my head. “You know a doctor who’s writing illegal prescriptions, and you just gave a sixteen-year-old their number,” I say out loud.

  Dumbfounded.

  “And I solved the issue,” Charlie tells me. “It’s done.”

  “That doctor should be stripped of his license, and that kid could use that contact for something other than antidepressants,” I counter. “If he gets hooked on opioids—”

  “Not my problem.” His crutches make a thunk thunk noise on the cement.

  “Fucking Christ.” I rub my mouth, distressed. Everything is wrong about today.

  Charlie halts at the curb. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Did I swindle you into thinking I’d choose the moral choice? People make stupid decisions, and I’m not you. I don’t bear responsibility for other people’s choices. How do you even live with that? How are you not dying from that?”

  So many emotions slam at me.

  So much has changed. So much is in flux. I don’t know what’s up and what’s down. Right from wrong anymore. It’s like I have paths and choices and I keep running down the darkest one.

  I’m not even sure if what we did here today was right.

  And I just want to shut down.

  To go numb. Really, I want to call him. To talk to Farrow. Because when my universe feels like it’s spiraling and trying to drag me under, he has this ability to make me feel lighter than air.

  And then I remember his text about being unavailable.

  I can’t call him. I won’t fucking disturb him at work.

  So I just walk forward, shoulders locked. And I carry this weight.

  24

  FARROW KEENE

  Missing Jane’s 23rd birthday party is par for the course by now. My schedule at Philly General doesn’t allow for sick days or personal hours. Add in the overtime charting and other bullshit—and I’m sufficiently MIA more than I like.

  It’s not my favorite thing.

  Not even close.

  Working inside a hospital wields a certain kind of discomfort for me—suffocating, aggravating, choked—and I didn’t forget its existence but it’s amplified this time around. For too many reasons.

  Like missing the quietest, purest moments. My recent 22-hour shift means that I didn’t go to sleep with Maximoff. I didn’t see him wake up, and I couldn’t rake my fingers through his hair. Couldn’t see him struggle into his jeans and glare in my direction before he flips me off.

  Hell, I wasn’t even there to laugh or smile or help. And there’ll be other moments to make up for those. Sure. But I sense what I’m losing because I’ve had those powerful minutes, those unbearably beautiful seconds before.

  I’m trying my best not to keep tally of what could’ve been with Maximoff. Because then it starts feeling like regret. And I can honestly say that I don’t know how to deal with that emotion other than change course.

  I can’t change this.

  I just have to remind myself that the goal isn’t to work at a hospital. That’s not what I’m chasing.

  I’m running after the concierge position. To be a doctor to these famous families so I’m not an outlier but involved. And needed.

  Unfortunately, the path to that ideal job is this residency at Philly General.

  Three years.

  Just three fucking years, and then I’m out and working for the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts again.

  I climb stairs to the rooftop of Superheroes & Scones, motorcycle helmet tucked beneath my arm.

  It’s still June 10th. I may’ve missed Jane’s birthday party at the Cobalt Estate, but I’m on time to make the tail end of her birthday tradition. Typically it’s just her and Maximoff (plus their bodyguards) but Jane extended an invite to me.

  I swing open the metal door to the roof, and before I come face-to-face with the eccentric putt-putt course—made with milk bottles, garden gnomes, antique gas station signs—I hear a phrase that I really, really do not want to fucking hear.

  “Is it Rowin?” Jane asks.

  Rowin.

  As in my ex-boyfriend. As in an official concierge doctor to the famous families.

  If they called him, then someone must be injured.

  Maximoff.

  A pit is in my stomach, and with more urgency, I walk onto the makeshift putt-putt course, door thudding behind me.

  Strung outdoor lights twinkle in the night, and Jane and Maximoff have their phones out like pistols. I assess each of them as I near.

  Maximoff drapes his metal putter over his left shoulder like a baseball bat. He grips his cell in his right hand, and Jane leans her weight on a pink putter, blue eyes on me.

  Both look okay.

  “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you,” Maximoff says, hurt somehow hardening his face. “Christ, I’ve called you like seventeen times.”

  Shit. I absolutely hate being inaccessible to the people I care about, and he’s my number one. “I had 1% battery before I left the hospital,” I say. “My phone must’ve died.” I hook my motorcycle helmet on the arm of a six-foot red-and-black Deadpool statue. The third putt-putt hole is an overturned bucket between the statue’s legs. “Why’d you call Rowin?”

  His eyes dance over my features like he hasn’t seen me in years. I look at him just the same, sweeping his jawline, his chest that falls and rises in time with my chest, and his stiff neck, the fresh scar peeking out of his T-shirt collar.

  Before I reach Maximoff, he starts redialing a number. “Since you weren’t picking up, he was the only choice. I’m trying to get ahold of him. To tell him not to come.”

  “Out of loyalty, we would have waited longer,” Jane says to me. “But Thatcher started looking pale.”

  And that’s when I notice six-foot-seven brooding-as-hell Thatcher Moretti. He’s uncharacteristically sitting down on a lawn chair, and a plaid flannel shirt is wrapped around his hand.

  Blood soaks the fabric.

  His ch
eeks are a little pallid, and as soon as our gazes meet, he glowers. “I told them I could just go to the hospital.” He braces his forearms on his knees. “I don’t need to get involved in your petty drama.”

  Petty drama.

  Wow.

  See, the concierge team extends to security. It saves time and resources from a famous one having to call in a temp bodyguard for the day. But Thatcher Moretti asking to go to a hospital is a motherfucking surprise. Because that means he’s choosing to break security rules just to avoid me and my “petty drama.”

  My brows rise. “Interesting.” I dig in my pocket and cup a silver chain in my fist. “Considering you didn’t care about me and my petty drama when you socked me in the face.” I turn to Jane. “Happy Birthday.” I drop a necklace in her palm, a cursive pendant spells: merde.

  She’s distracted a little since her bodyguard is bleeding, but her face brightens as she says, “A shit necklace.”

  “Love it?” I ask.

  “Oui.” She presses the necklace to her chest, and then she looks over at her bodyguard. Concerned and troubled.

  This is all more complicated than I like.

  “I thought I was defending a client,” Thatcher suddenly tells me.

  I turn and roll a yellow golf ball beneath my boot. “A client, as in Maximoff. So you thought you were protecting my boyfriend from me?”

  Does he realize how that sounds?

  Thatcher lets out a heavier breath. He’s trying not to glare at me, even when I’m definitely glaring at him. “I was wrong,” he confesses. “I crossed a fucking line just to set you off towards the end. It was out of anger, and I’ve already apologized to Maximoff tonight.”

  I glance at Maximoff, and he nods once to me, still dialing Rowin’s number. My ex is going to have about fifty missed calls from my boyfriend.

  Thatcher tightens the knot on the flannel shirt. “You want to lay into me. Go ahead, but don’t fucking come at me for wanting to go to the hospital so your ex doesn’t have to share a rooftop with your current boyfriend.”

  I kick the golf ball at a gnome. “You really think you’re doing me a favor?”

  It takes him a hot second, but he admits, “No.” He curls a piece of hair behind his ears. “I think my hand is sliced open from a rusted sheet of metal. And I’d prefer not to be stitched up by the guy who hates me. Nor the guy who hates you.”