Blaring into the morning sky.
He extends his body even more over me. While I drive, he’s careful not to block my vision of the road, but I’m more concentrated on the fact that his shoulder brushes up against my chest. And one of his knees sits between my legs.
Farrow rolls down the driver’s side window. He turns his head, just slightly, our faces literally a breath away. Focusing on the paparazzi, he yells, “Tell the Honda to drive off or I’ll shutter Maximoff’s windows!” Shutter, meaning he’ll tape up sheets to block their money-shots.
The cameraman says, “One more minute! Get out of the way!” He makes a shoo motion to Farrow.
“Hey! Now or never,” Farrow threatens, his tone so caustic that I’m not surprised when the cameraman disappears inside his SUV. Moments later, the Honda takes a left.
Freeing the road.
Freeing us.
I speed off as quickly as I can. Declan never had that kind of affect on paparazzi. It stuns me silent for a minute.
Farrow eases back in his seat, and I roll up the window. He picks up his papers, and I glance at him, then the road, then back to him.
He arches his brows. “Want to say something?”
“Where’d you learn that?”
Farrow snaps his seatbelt locked. “When you’re the bodyguard to the most famous woman in the world, you can’t be a passive bystander.”
My mom.
My mom is the most famous woman in the world. She’s the reason her sisters are famous. The reason I’m famous.
The reason we’re all famous.
Lily Calloway is the origin to the public scrutiny, the media harassment, the paparazzi invasion in Philadelphia of all cities—but it’s not her fault.
It’s never her fault.
I wish I could say our fame derived from a pure act of love, of kindness, of rainbows or motherfucking magic—something other than what actually happened.
But it was a scandal. Years before I was born.
Someone leaked information when she was only twenty-years-old.
Lily Calloway, the heiress of Fizzle soda empire, is a confirmed sex addict. The headline about her addiction rocked the globe. A salacious, shocking headline—that’s all it took. The news caused every Calloway sister to go from rich obscurity to instant notoriety.
Our fame burns. And burns. None of us need to stoke the flames for it to stay lit.
And me—fame is my friend and foe. It’s a part of me. A tangible thing that lives inside of me. This is the only life I’ve ever lived.
It’s the only life I know.
THESE DAYS, I currently reside with Jane in an old, historic Victorian townhouse that’s just shy of 900 square feet. All hardwood floors. Interior brick walls. And a kitchen so cramped that a third person has to play Indiana Jones and scale the counters to fit.
I’d live a more minimalistic lifestyle if I could. I don’t need much.
And I’d say the three-bedroom, one-bath is extremely modest for someone with my bank account, but I’m well aware that living in Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse-Fitler Historic District isn’t cheap for most people.
I may be obnoxiously wealthy, but I try my best to understand what I have, what I can give, and what others need.
I drive into a three-car garage, which is a real luxury in this Philly area, and I park next to Jane’s baby blue Volkswagen Beetle.
My car clock blinks 8:12 a.m. before I shut off the ignition. Farrow already unclips his seatbelt and tucks the folded papers into his back pocket. He acts like he’s just visiting, but my bodyguard is moving in.
That’s right.
This isn’t a welcome to my life sitcom. This is a you’ve joined my life drama or possibly, a horror story.
It’s too soon to tell which.
At least we’re not about to be roommates. Above this garage are two identical townhouses that sit side-by-side and share an adjoining door on the first floor. All for easy access.
Security stays in the right townhouse.
Jane and I stay in the left one.
Farrow barely even takes a second to digest his surroundings. I know that he knows he’s moving in—there are two suitcases and a black duffel in my trunk to prove it.
I unbuckle. “Do you need anything else? I can pick up something for you at the store.” I almost groan at myself. Why the hell am I asking Farrow this? I’m on automatic and someone needs to switch me to manual, quick.
He pauses, his hand on the door handle. As he glances at me, his lips rise. “That’s cute that you’re pretending you can go to the store without me.”
“I wasn’t pretending.” I pocket my keys and push open my door. “I just omitted the fact.” For my own sanity. I’m highly aware that Farrow is now obligated to follow me everywhere. Highly aware. I can’t exactly pretend that this twenty-seven-year-old tattooed guy is some random barnacle that attached itself to my ship.
He’s my fucking co-captain right now.
And I’m not thrilled.
In case I didn’t make that vitally clear.
We climb out of the Audi and shut our doors in unison. I pop the trunk, and while I grab his largest suitcase, I tell him, “I retract my offer.”
“That’s too bad,” Farrow says in a serious tone, slinging his duffel on his shoulder, “I forgot shampoo and conditioner.”
“You can borrow mine—Jesus fucking Christ,” I growl at myself, wanting to be an asshat to him for at least two seconds.
Farrow laughs like he won. “I just now remember. I have shampoo and conditioner.”
I glare and remove his second suitcase while holding the other. “You’re an asshole.”
“You’re pure of heart. What else is still the same?” Farrow tries to take the larger suitcase from me.
I tug it out of his grip. “I can carry it for you.”
He gives me a look. “You’re not earning a valor merit badge. I can carry my own shit.” He adjusts the strap of his duffel. “But to be kind, I’ll let you roll in the little one.”
“Oh thanks,” I say dryly and then I shove the little one in his chest and keep the larger one.
We’re two alpha males, and it becomes extremely apparent during these pointless fights. Where we want to carry the heavier suitcase.
I’m just used to helping out, especially since I have a large extended family and I’m the oldest guy. And Farrow—his whole job, his whole upbringing has been about duty and aid towards others. We’re like lightning and thunder, inherently different but alike enough to share the same sky.
Farrow doesn’t argue for the larger suitcase.
So I shut my trunk. “You remember which is which?” I nod to the two entrances. He’s been here before as my mom’s bodyguard.
Farrow keeps his gaze on mine. “Left door goes to Azkaban. Right to Mordor.”
I stare at him like he just grew antlers. I’m the one who cracks the pop culture references. Farrow doesn’t even like fantasy.
He tolerates it like someone who hates mayo and eats it on a turkey sandwich.
“You’ve been hanging around my mom too long?” I question. I have comic-book-loving, pop-culture-obsessed parents. The coolest. I’m sure the two Meadows girls and the seven Cobalt children would protest and say their parents are cool, but there’s no comparison.
Hands down, mine are the goddamn best.
Farrow slowly licks his bottom lip into a smile. My muscles contract, and I try to focus on his eyes and not his mouth. Not his mouth.
“No,” he says. “It’s an inside joke with the whole security team.”
I’m surprised he’s sharing this with me. “Seriously?”
He nods, and we head to the right door. What he called Mordor. “I was told that this one started with your little brother. His bodyguard repeated the joke to another bodyguard, and it spread.”
I could see Xander making a comment about Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings. Easily.
We head up the few stairs, and I wait on one
below him and place the suitcase on its wheels.
Farrow searches for his key in his pocket. “Declan didn’t talk to you that often, did he?”
I go still, my apprehension filling the garage. In hindsight, I wonder if I was supposed to make a greater effort to know my bodyguard personally. Was I being rude? What if all that time, he wanted me to pry into his fucking life, and I thought I was just respecting his space.
Declan knew everything about me. The world knows most everything about me. And I only knew the names of his kids and wife.
Almost nothing else.
Farrow peeks back at me and assesses my features. “It’s okay if he didn’t.”
I remember the origin of his question. “He didn’t spill any security team secrets, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Farrow finds his key, but he rotates fully to face me. “Let’s deal with this, Moffy—”
“Maximoff,” I correct, my voice firm like solid marble. All of my family calls me Moffy, but when he uses the nickname, I flashback to childhood where he called me that. It makes our five-year age-gap more apparent, and when I imagine my young, teenage self in bed with him (which only happened in my fantasies), it’s cringe-worthy.
So he’s not allowed to call me Moffy.
Done and done.
“Maximoff,” he says like I’m being a stick-in-the-mud prick.
“What are we dealing with exactly?” I put the train back on the tracks before he catches my actual reasons.
“What I share with you—they’re not secrets. At least half of us don’t consider them secrets. The other half are so uptight they could be mistaken for the Queen’s Guard outside Buckingham Palace.”
“So you’re pretty much like a rebel in the security team.” I give him a blatant once-over, eyeing his tattoos, the black wardrobe, the piercings. “All this time, I had no idea.”
Farrow lets out a short laugh into an agitated, amused smile, nodding a few times. I think smartass sits on his tongue, and then his gaze falls to my lips—for the briefest second.
Before I even process what that means, he acts like nothing transpired. And he starts to unlock the door.
It could’ve just been in my head.
I’m prone to fantasizing. What’s to say I didn’t invent that out of the horny recesses of my sexually frustrated brain?
I need to go out and find a one-night stand tonight.
It’s my first thought. My second jarring thought slaps me cold: Farrow has to come with me.
I can’t escape him. For pretty much all of eternity.
4
FARROW KEENE
LUGGAGE IN HAND, I lead the way up two flights of narrow wooden stairs. Much to Maximoff’s chagrin. I’m certain he’d love to be the one leading the nonexistent pack, but he has to be second-place to me this time.
And really, every time as far as I’m concerned.
It’s not just me being pompous or arbitrarily arrogant. For his safety, he has to learn to let me lead.
Thick silence stretches while we both ascend the stairs. I’m not used to uncomfortable tension, and I doubt he is either.
See, I didn’t ask to be his bodyguard. I didn’t apply for the position or submit an application. I fell into the role at his mom’s request.
I like change.
I welcome change. But when one of my favorite pastimes is pissing off Maximoff Hale—I’m not so sure I’d have volunteered for this job.
Another tense beat passes between us before Moffy warns me, “Your room is small.”
I end up smiling because I’ve been in these two townhouses multiple times. They’re identical. Second floor has two bedrooms and the only bath. Third floor is an attic bedroom. Everything else is crammed on the first floor.
Maximoff lives in the third-floor attic inside the other townhouse. A room barely big enough for a full-sized bed, a bookshelf, and a dresser.
I’m about to live in the identical version of that same attic room. “I can manage. It’s the same size as yours.” I glance back at him.
Only two stairs below me, one of the most beloved celebrities stands confident and agitated at my heels.
And he has my fifty-pound suitcase easily hoisted on his shoulders like a soldier carrying a rucksack. He’s not flaunting his strength. With Moffy, he’s just being efficient. Giving himself more room to walk up the narrowest staircase imaginable.
His carved biceps stretch the fabric of his green tee.
I smile. I’m sure most people would faint at his feet right now. Possibly stammer. Maybe try to seduce him. Say all the right things in the right way.
Instead, he has me.
“If only your grammar were as good as your weight lifting skills,” I tell him, “you’d be a real contender.”
“If only your wit was actually funny, I’d be laughing.”
I smile wider. “I wasn’t trying to make you laugh, wolf scout.”
Moffy groans out his irritation, but his lips slowly rise. He scrunches his face until his features set in a scowl.
“Feel better?” I ask and keep ascending the stairs.
He’d flip me off if he had use of his hands, but he never falters with the suitcase. Never struggles. Many tabloids rank Maximoff Hale as the number one hottest celeb.
It’s accurate.
He has eyes like blades of grass, a jawline just as sharp—features so striking that he’s already a treasured, marble relic before adding his statuesque, out-of-this-fucking-world body.
And he’s entered my thoughts in ways that Disney wouldn’t permit. It started three years ago. During his first semester of college.
I’d just become his mom’s personal bodyguard, and she attended one of his swim meets. I sat on the bleachers and watched as he pulled himself out of the collegiate pool, Ivy League banners hanging overhead. Latin insignias scrawled on free wall space.
His muscles flexed when he stood straight and confident at six-foot-two. Pulling his goggles to his head, water dripped down the ridges of his tanned skin. His legs were more muscular. Shoulders broader. He looked older.
I remember thinking, Maximoff Hale is a man.
After that, his image basically invaded my mind during “personal” moments. Being his mom’s bodyguard didn’t really stop me from envisioning Maximoff naked and bent over a bed. Things happen. People pop into your head when you’re rubbing one out.
I’m just glad I have good taste.
When I discovered that I was assigned to his security detail, I didn’t fixate on the fact that I’m attracted to him. It’s irrelevant.
I could have a framed photograph of him that I jack off to every night (I don’t), and I’d still do my job at 100%.
I’m a damned good bodyguard.
One of the best, and nothing and no one will change the fact that I’m going to protect him.
While silence blankets us again, I reach the top of the staircase where a single door lies. I enter my new room with Maximoff close behind.
I let out a long whistle. “You decided to warn me that it’s small but not hot and musty?” I toss my luggage beside my full-bed and test the springs with my boot. Ah, it’ll do. Nothing but a mattress and box springs.
Moffy drops my suitcase by the door. “I’ll check the AC.”
“You don’t need to.” I rub my mouth, my lip piercing cold. Of course saying it’s hot would make him want to fix the temperature. “I appreciate the concern, but this is where you have to stop treating me like a guest or a sibling or really, anyone you feel the need to coddle and protect.” I hold his strong gaze. “And heat rises. We’re in an attic.”
“I’ve never known that before,” he says dryly. “I’ve just been living in the other attic for three years thinking, why the fuck does it feel like hell’s sauna? Thank God you’re here to share this unfound wisdom.”
I have to lean on the brick wall, my smile killing me.
Sarcasm is just written in his DNA. Equipped with verbal pitchforks at birth.
I gesture him onward with my hand. “Keep going.”
“I’m done.”
I roll my eyes before standing off the interior brick wall. They’re all brick, I realize. No mold, luckily, but the wooden ceiling rafters look like they haven’t been dusted in a decade.
I waft my shirt from my chest. It must be ninety degrees in here. It’s August in Philly, summer heat still present, but with the AC cranked low, downstairs is a freezer in comparison to the attic.
I’m about to open the only window, but Moffy already aims for the windowsill. Completely ignoring my earlier speech.
I tilt my head upward, restraining another eye-roll.
He has no idea that I spent six hours being debriefed this morning about him and the entrances, exits, and windows of the two townhouses.
Omega’s recommendation: try to keep him away from windows. I’m not in a gated neighborhood anymore. Windows face public streets. Which means anyone can whip out a camera, point a lens upwards, and try to film him.
Moffy’s 44th rule: I open my own windows.
And there lies the discord. His mom welcomed all the airbags that kept her safe, but Moffy would rather live his life as unrestricted as possible.
It’s considered dangerous.
See, a very small space exits between freedom and safety for celebrities. I fight to give that middle-ground to a client. Especially for someone like Maximoff who wants that freedom. But the more he tries to protect himself, the more we’re going to have a problem.
He can’t be his own bodyguard.
It’s impossible.
“For every one window you open, I get two,” I tell him.
He pauses by the windowsill. “Why the hell would I agree to a lopsided ratio that’s in your favor?”
“Because one-to-two is better than one-to-three.”
He licks his lips. “How about one-to-one?”
I swing my head from side-to-side, considering for less than a second. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Fine,” I concede early, surprising him, but I really just need him to let me in somewhere. One-to-one is better than one-to-zero.
Damaged Like Us (Like Us Series Book 1) Page 3