Alphas Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  He’s bluffing. “Do you even understand the legal ramifications of you admitting that right now?” I ask, dumbfounded. “I’ll bury you.”

  The Hales have dug graves for weaker transgressions than what he’s confessing. My dad, my grandfather, have ruined countless men.

  I can ruin him.

  But I’m not sure that’d erase this slithering feeling that tries to worm its way inside of me.

  “I didn’t take the photos myself,” Ace clarifies. “A drone did.”

  A drone. I didn’t see one in the air. Neither did Farrow, who’s vigilant about these things. We missed it, and we’re usually careful. We think of everything, but the one time where we both wanted to feel free…

  It was a risk.

  I think we both knew it was.

  Ace unbuttons his suit jacket, hot and uncomfortable. “But I have the photos.”

  “Then show us them,” Farrow says coldly.

  Ace takes out his phone and pops up a picture.

  I see Farrow kissing me on the sundeck, his ass completely exposed, but I’m covered, pressed against his body. Ace swipes up. The next photo is just of me. Walking towards the pool.

  It’s full frontal.

  Farrow decks Ace in the face with skilled, enraged force, a massive amount of power going into that single blow. And I hear a sickening crack in his cheekbone, and the porn star hits the stone porch.

  My pulse jackhammers—I was about to swing at Ace, but Farrow beat me to it and now that it’s done, all I want to do is get this goddamn camera crew out of here.

  “Leave,” I growl at them while Ace stays on the ground, moaning in pain.

  A hipster-looking guy with a handlebar mustache holds out his hand. “Wait, we only want to leak a couple of these photos with your permission. We can even pick the tame ones for you.”

  “What?” I breathe hard, confused as fuck.

  Farrow grips the edge of the door. Seconds from smashing it in their face.

  “You both get to be in the press,” he explains. “It’ll increase your social media following, and in exchange, you’ll drop some hints on an Instagram Live or two about Sensual Flixxxs. How it’s your favorite website. It’s good marketing and a win-win for all of us.”

  What the hell…

  “Get the fuck out,” Farrow says through gritted teeth, “or you’ll join your friend on the fucking ground—”

  “We could film a chaste kissing scene,” he adds quickly, taking a step back. Afraid of Farrow. “No sex or penetration. We’ve got the crew here. We could do it right now. We’ll pay you twenty million.” His gaze swerves to Farrow at the talk of money. Like he knows that’d be his incentive.

  Fuck him.

  Fuck this.

  Farrow lets go of the door, about to throw another knockout punch. But I put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from starting a drag-out fight with five men. Doing what he’d do for me.

  And then an SUV slams to a stop onto the pebbled path. We both go still.

  “It’s not a bad offer,” the hipster tells us, but we’re looking behind him. “Other celebrities would have taken it.”

  “Redford!” Oscar yells from the car. His curly hair blows in the wind. He’s the only guy here from SFO. Bruno and the rest from SFA file in and close around the camera crew.

  “Confiscate their phones,” Farrow tells security before the words leave my mouth, and I watch six bodyguards all descend upon the trespassers to protect us.

  “We’re leaving,” Ace chokes out, picking himself up. His hand to his face. “We’re leaving.”

  “You’re not leaving,” Farrow sneers. “I already gave you that chance. Now you’re going to stay until we’ve—they’ve combed through your equipment.”

  “And then we’re pressing charges,” I say, my voice stilted.

  I don’t know what I feel. Grateful that the full frontal is of me and not him. I know I feel that.

  Farrow kicks the door closed, and it shuts with a loud thud. I back up a few feet, and as soon as he turns towards me, we latch onto one another. Our arms slide around each other’s shoulders.

  Chest to chest, we tighten the embrace, and his heavy pulse thumps against mine. We’re okay.

  His hand warms my neck. “Maximoff,” he breathes.

  He stops there.

  Because he knows.

  Like I do.

  There’s such a small chance that those photos won’t be leaked. I don’t know who else has them, and if they were smart, they would have already sent the pictures to their bosses. Once a photo is taken, the line between a leak and privacy is so damn thin.

  I can only hope that my lawyers will be fast enough to file cease and desists. That they’ll obtain the photos before it snowballs out of control.

  And the last thing I think, I can’t propose today. Somehow, that hurts the most.

  32

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  Being with family should have taken the edge off what happened at the villa, but last night we boarded the mega yacht in the Med; and with twenty-seven family members on the ship, I’m feeling the heat of almost everyone’s whispers and silent sympathy.

  It’s heavy.

  And not what I wanted to bring onto a family vacation. On the main deck, sleek white cushions and couches cluster around a five-foot deep pool. Cooling off in the waters, I perch my elbows out of the pool on a towel.

  My thumb marks the place in a paperback: Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, but I train my eyes straight ahead. Where an overhang shades a circular table with fourteen plush chairs, and right behind that seating area, sliding glass doors lead to the main saloon.

  SFO had a debate on the pronunciation of saloon, but Oscar shut it down quickly and let everyone know it’s pronounced “salon.”

  I have a good view inside that saloon, and I see Farrow side-by-side with Dr. Rowin Hart. Both treat severe sunburns. Red fiery blisters are puckered on Winona’s shoulders and arms. Ben looks worse, fire-engine red legs swollen like logs. Both of them used some kind of knockoff organic sunscreen, and it didn’t do its job.

  Rowin cleans a popped blister, and Farrow has been trying to keep Ben’s fever down. I watch as Rowin says something to my boyfriend.

  But I’m out of earshot.

  I notice Farrow rolling his eyes and replying back. He snaps off his gloves.

  You don’t know how much I dislike Rowin Hart. I wouldn’t put him in the Voldemort category, but my aversion towards Farrow’s ex-boyfriend has been a rising tide. Especially now that Farrow is officially on the med team with Rowin.

  These feelings I feel—it’s not jealousy.

  It’s fear.

  Rowin isn’t pining after my boyfriend. It’s clear that he despises Farrow, and I see that raw, emotional pain flare up in Rowin’s eyes every time he converses with him. It puts me on edge. On guard.

  After all the shit Farrow and I have gone through, I can’t let his ex hurt him. Physically, verbally, all of the fucking above.

  “Happy Birthday, Moffy.” My uncle’s smooth voice tears my glare away from Rowin.

  Connor towers above me in navy swim trunks, his poise and stature god-like. My dad jokes about how Uncle Connor is immortal since he only looks better with age.

  “Thanks,” I say to him.

  Today is July 13th, and I’m now twenty-three-years-old. If I contemplate that too hard, I’ll fall into some sort of philosophical stupor. So I try not to.

  And I think there must be something else my uncle wants. Connor could’ve just yelled happy birthday across the yacht deck like half my family already did. Which has been a good distraction. Seriously. Every time I start thinking about all the outside bullshit, someone else howls happy birthday, Moffy! and tears me back to real life. To right here. Right now.

  Connor squats so we’re more eye-level. “The lawyers just called me,” he says. “They’ve stopped most of the pictures from leaking. All that exists is the one photo, and that’ll be it.” His deep blue eyes soften
with soothing powers. “I’m so sorry.”

  The one photo.

  It was my full frontal. But in the one that’s been circulating, my crotch was blurred, and as far as I know, no one has been able to find the uncensored image.

  I should be happy that the world hasn’t seen my dick. But really, I hate that a money-hungry company has tarnished one of the best weeks of my life.

  So no, I’m not really happy.

  But I also recognize I’m talking to a man that had much worse happen to him. “Thanks for the help,” I tell my uncle. “I guess I should be glad it wasn’t worse.”

  “A violation of privacy is a violation,” Uncle Connor says. “It doesn’t matter the severity. It’s okay to be upset, even in front of me.”

  When he was in his twenties, sex videos of him and his soon-to-be wife were illegally recorded and released. And Christ, I just can’t imagine that type of invasion. If Farrow and I had been filmed and that leaked, I’d be devastated. It’s why our families are uneasy around porn companies.

  “I’m not upset, I’m pissed,” I tell Connor. “Like really goddamn pissed.” I run a hand through my wet hair. “But I don’t want to talk about it. I just…want to forget it.”

  Uncle Connor nods, understanding. “If you ever change your mind”—he rises to stand—“I’m always here.”

  I thank him again, and he walks off towards the saloon. Eighteen-year-old Tom and Eliot jump out from behind the mini bar, trying to scare him, and their dad just blinks at them. Unfazed.

  I try to spot Farrow through the glass doors. But I don’t see him.

  Suddenly, water splashes behind me. Wetting my paperback.

  I feel his hands on my waist and his chin on my shoulder. His chest presses up against my back, and I try to restrain a smile.

  But I fail as soon as he places a kiss on the side of my neck. “You’re tense, wolf scout,” he breathes, kneading my muscles with the heel of his palm. Goddamn.

  My waist knocks into the pool wall, my blood hot. Craning my head over my shoulder, I catch the amusement in his eyes. His bleach-white hair looks darker wet, and beads of water roll down the light stubble on his jaw and inked wings on his neck.

  His barbell piercing rises at me with his brown brows. But his smile fades fast. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “You and Rowin.”

  He cringes, but he doesn’t drop his hands. “Not my favorite phrase. Let’s actually remove it from your lexicon.”

  “You work together,” I remind him. “You’re going to be around him, and my trust level with strangers has about plummeted to negative-infinity.”

  He nods slowly, and his hands work their magic on my traps, gentle on my bad shoulder. Whatever he’s doing feels too damn good.

  I add, “You shouldn’t be around someone who’s made it clear they literally hate you. Not only is that a toxic work environment, but Christ, he could fucking hurt you.” I have more to say. So I abandon my paperback.

  And I turn around completely. Facing him now, his hands fall off my back and clutch my waist beneath the water.

  “I don’t trust him,” I continue while Farrow never breaks eye contact. “I know if I go to my parents and ask for him to be fired, it’s going to seem like I’m a jealous boyfriend. But after the villa, after you’ve been doxxed, I can’t watch you share space with that guy.”

  Farrow waits for me to finish, still nonchalant. Like I just announced today’s forecast. “Done?”

  I add one final thing, “But if you’re utterly against it, I’ll try not to do anything.” It’ll be hard.

  “Okay, working with Rowin is irritating at most,” Farrow says. “He’s not going to murder me and throw me overboard. Plus, I’m stronger than him.”

  “Great,” I say dryly.

  He smiles. “But if this is something you need to do, I’m behind you. Always.”

  That feels good.

  I nod a few times. “After this trip, I’ll make it happen.” Getting Rowin fired while he’s on a free vacation in Greece seems callous for some reason.

  My voice fades as one of my younger cousins races across the deck, darting past us and yelling, “Happy Birthday, Moffy!”

  It brings me back to this morning. When Farrow gave me my birthday present. He bent down in front of me and rolled up the hem of my drawstring pants. Revealing the holster strapped to my ankle.

  And Farrow pulled out my tactical knife.

  When he stood up, he said, “Your present is on your ankle.”

  I didn’t understand until I reached for my ankle and I realized he slipped a new knife in the holster. One that he bought in Mykonos. The wooden hilt is carved in intricate patterns.

  He knew I loved it. And I didn’t conceal the fact that I did. I just kissed the fuck out of my boyfriend. And the delivery of the present got to me as much as the actual knife. No wrapping paper or bag.

  Farrow Redford Keene’s movements were all over that birthday gift. My brain loves that to death. I replay the way he bent down and smiled up at me on repeat.

  “Maximoff.” Farrow splashes water at my chest.

  I wake up from a slight daydream, but he’s not teasing me about it. I follow his ultra-focused gaze across the main deck.

  Fucking Christ no.

  Gray hair pulled into a bun, string of pearls around a wrinkled neck, and a strawberry daiquiri in hand—nothing good can come from talking to my Grandmother Calloway.

  She plays favorites with her four daughters. And that hierarchy directly affects me and my siblings and my cousins. I’ll give you the breakdown.

  1. Rose Calloway – Jane’s mom

  2. Poppy Calloway

  3. Daisy Calloway – Sullivan’s mom

  4. Lily Calloway – my mom is dead last. Always.

  Before I make eye contact with Grandmother Calloway, I come up with a kindergarten idea. But if you knew my grandmother like I know her, you’d do the same.

  I tell Farrow, “Under. Now. Hold your breath.” Quickly, I dip beneath the water, avoiding someone who should be avoided. At all costs.

  It takes me a solid second to realize that Farrow isn’t coming down with me.

  33

  FARROW KEENE

  Yeah, I’m not hiding from his grandmother.

  She’s the definition of a crotchety old bat, and whatever she wants to say, she can say to my face.

  Grandmother Calloway approaches and halts a few feet from the pool’s edge. Careful not to wet her bejeweled sandals. Her bony fingers skim the pearls at her neck. “Have you seen my grandson?” she asks me.

  “He’s around here somewhere,” I say casually. Maximoff might be a swimmer, but he won’t be able to hold his breath forever.

  She purses her lips, scrutinizing my tattoos and my brow, lip, nose, and nipple piercings, all with visible judgment. Nothing that I haven’t met before.

  “Do you need something?” I ask in an easygoing tone. “Maybe I can help.”

  Her fingers pause on her neckline, and she meets my gaze. “I think you’ve done enough.”

  I let out a short laugh. For fuck’s sake. Should’ve expected that. But I’m a little shocked she had the nerve to say it directly to my face. “Honestly, I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

  Maximoff is tugging my bathing suit trunks underneath the water. Wanting me to dive down. I have to hold onto the waistband so he doesn’t pull them off. And fuck, I’m smiling.

  Grandmother Calloway instantly sees my amusement as an affront. She bristles, her lips more compressed together than before. “My grandson had a bright philanthropic career ahead of him, and then you came along. His life would’ve been better-served with a…”

  She falters at the sight of my cutting glare.

  “…with someone else,” she finishes.

  “No, he wouldn’t have,” I say plainly. “There is no one better for Maximoff than me.”

  Maximoff suddenly breaches the water, wiping water off his face.

  His g
randmother startles backwards. Shock parting her lips, and accusations lace her eyes. That’s when it dawns on me. Grandmother Calloway thinks that Maximoff was just blowing me in the pool.

  I’m near laughter. Can’t make this shit up. Donnelly is going to be rolling on the floor when he hears.

  “I should’ve known.” She’s trying to bite her tongue, but she spits out at Maximoff, “You’re just like your mother.”

  My smile fades. I instinctively hold the back of his head. He’s stunned cold.

  “Maximoff,” I whisper, wanting to draw him away from his grandmother.

  He’s marble. Immovable. Cemented in place. “What’d you say?” Shock is seizing every part of him.

  My hand falls to his left shoulder.

  His grandmother shakes her head. “I’m sorry, sweetie. You know I told her I’d raise you in my home. It would’ve been better. She’s admitted she has a problem, and that problem has obviously affected you—”

  “You can’t say that to him,” I cut in, coldness frosting each word.

  “He’s my grandson—”

  “That’s his mother,” I retort. I love Lily Calloway, and she’s one of the closest things that I’ve had to a mom. So no, I won’t let this fucking old bat try to drag Lily or Lily’s son down.

  She fumes and looks to her grandson. “Max?”

  I roll my eyes. “Max” is the only socially-acceptable name to this blue-blooded aristocrat.

  Maximoff unfreezes enough to speak. “I know you’ve had issues with my mom in the past. But I thought you two buried that a while ago.”

  My chest caves. He’s more upset that what she said could potentially fracture his mom’s relationship with his grandmother. I squeeze his shoulder.

  Grandmother Calloway stiffens like she’s never taken a shit in her life. “We’re at a good place, but there’s room for everyone to hear advice. Especially your mother. If she can’t hear it from family, how will she grow?”

  Loren Hale exits the saloon, passing the eating area, and once he leaves the shaded part of the deck and enters the sun, I see that his target is his mother-in-law.