My job is about split-second choices that affect his life. And I subtly and quickly weigh risks. My window faces an overgrown magnolia tree that obstructs the street view. Also, if he cared about being caught on camera, he wouldn’t actively go for the window right now.
Conclusion:
Risk = low.
Window = have at it, Moffy.
I keep an attentive eye on him and remove my black sheets and bedding from my duffel.
Maximoff wrenches the crusted window open, muscles flexed. The old wood screeches as it reaches the top.
When he returns to my mattress, he cracks his knuckles. Moffy scans my bedding, his phone buzzing in his jean’s pocket, but it’s been vibrating since I first saw him today.
Earlier, I deduced that he’s ignoring his texts. “Do you need a minute?” I ask.
“For what?” He’s rigid, but he always stands at attention like he’s one breath from sprinting into a fight to save his family.
I nearly smile. “A minute to let this sink in.”
He inhales a strong breath. “Sure. Just change that minute to a century, and I’m good.”
I rest my knee on the mattress, my hand slipping in my pocket. “If I give you a century, you’ll be dead.”
“Great. You can guard my corpse.”
My brows hike. “That’s really adorable that you think I’ll outlive you.”
“Who says you won’t?”
“I’m five years older than you.” I find a piece of gum in my pocket and peel the foil. “And I’m still taller than you too.” By one inch.
“I forgot that in your fucked-up alternate universe, height determines one’s life expectancy.”
I laugh a short laugh and pop my gum in my mouth.
We stand still on either side of my bed, and neither of us really moves. I skim his wardrobe, just a green T-shirt, jeans, and a cheap canvas watch. He looks like he’s worth twenty bucks, not over a billion.
His quiet humility makes him seem even older.
My eyes flit up to his, and he visibly tenses.
One of us needs to speak. Not jokingly. No humor. I rarely have serious conversations with him, and to be his bodyguard, our serious talks need to outweigh all the others.
I rake both of my hands through my hair for the third time today. Pushing the strands back. “What are your plans for tonight?”
My words must wash over him like a bucket of ice water. He cringes, looks away and shakes his head a few times. “This is too fucking weird.”
I slowly chew my gum, thinking of how to approach this. I’m attaching myself to his life. Not the other way around. I’d be just as irked if our positions were reversed.
“Help me make my bed,” I say.
Maximoff easily takes the detour, and he motions for me to give him the corner of the sheet. I do.
He’d never reject someone’s request for help. I can’t even remember the last time I asked him to help me with anything.
Most likely never.
We both hook my fitted sheet onto the corners of the mattress, and then I toss him a pillow and the black pillowcase.
I stare at him for a long moment, and his daggered green eyes lift to my brown. We slow down, and neither of us needs to speak to be aware of the taut air.
I know the source.
He knows the source.
It’s sex. Sex is the untouched topic.
Maximoff Hale is the most eligible bachelor in the country. It’s public knowledge that he frequents nightclubs and bars. It’s my job to hide how many one-night stands he has from the media.
The security team gossips, but Declan never shared with anyone how many people Maximoff fucks. I’m now supposed to safeguard that mystery. And whoever he wants to sleep with, I have the distinct responsibility of not only meeting them.
But interrogating them.
I’ll get them to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement. I’ll stand guard at his bedroom door in case something bad happens. I’ll be there until they leave. I’ll even escort them out of his townhouse.
I’m the one who has to protect his cock. And his heart.
“You can trust me,” I tell him.
He shakes my pillow into its case. “I have to trust you. There’s a fucking difference.”
I pop a bubble and tilt my head back and forth, considering both statements. “You’ll see that you can trust me sooner rather than later. I work for you now. Not your mom.”
Those words loosen his shoulders a fraction. The whole security team often refers back to the parents since most of the Hale, Meadows, and Cobalt children are still underage. Out of fear of parental wrath and subsequent termination, many bodyguards would snitch on Maximoff in a heartbeat.
I won’t.
I fear none of the parents or the possibility of being fired. Three years, nearly 24-hours a day protecting his mom was no joke. She’s shy, a sex addict, and her gangly build and soft features make her look perpetually young: round cheeks, shoulder-length brown hair, and green eyes like Moffy. Hecklers see her as an easy target.
I’ve been spit in the face numerous times. I’ve taken right hooks to the jaw, uppercuts to the ribs—all meant for her. I’ve broken a fucker’s cheekbone and was subsequently sued. Though, he was the one who tried to reach beneath her dress.
I’ve disarmed gunmen, knife-carriers, and hecklers wielding plastic water pistols, bags of glitter, dildos—any hard projectiles. I’ve driven Lily out of passionate crowds that rocked her car. I’ve cleared thousands of rooms and bathrooms before she entered. I’ve made sure no one in the fucking world would put a hand on her.
I live by my actions, and my actions say: I’m the best at whatever I do.
And if someone really wants to fire me, they would’ve done it years ago whenever I turn off my coms and leave blanks in my daily “where did you go” and “what did you do” write-ups. That standard practice serves more to ignite gossip in the security team than to protect my client.
Maximoff tosses my pillow down. “So what is this, a promotion or demotion for you?”
I tuck in my black comforter. “It’s a transfer. Everyone on security earns the same amount of money. Except you make more if you’re a lead of a Force.” I wipe sweat off my forehead with my bicep, the heat not dying down.
Moffy uses the hem of his shirt to rub his own forehead. Revealing his cut abs. Damn. I casually avert my eyes.
I pop another bubble with my gum. “But this little housing situation is a definite demotion.” I look up and smile as he uses his middle finger to point at the door.
“There’s the exit if you can’t handle it.”
“I can handle anything, Maximoff.” I bite my gum into a wider smile. “I’m stating a fact. This townhouse is old and small. Where I lived before was brand new and a mansion.” The Hales, Cobalts, and Meadows families live on the same street in a rich gated neighborhood. Not far from here.
Philadelphia suburbs.
One street over in that same neighborhood, they bought two eight-bedroom mansions just to house the 24/7 bodyguards. Security Force Alpha and Epsilon all currently room there; basically the ones who protect the parents and the underage kids.
Omega, those of us who protect the eighteen-and-older children, are the ones spread out.
Our movements mimic our clients. We don’t choose where we live. We just live wherever our clients do, and bodyguard shuffles happen.
Someone quits to start a family or concentrate on their kids. Someone is fired for incompetence. Someone wants a life-change. Whatever the case, the three security leads will shift many of us once a vacancy appears.
That person just happened to be me this time.
I never became a part of the “cliques” of Security Force Alpha. Because I hate cliques. And I was too much of a maverick to be accepted by the older, regimented bodyguards. Now that I’m a part of Omega, I’ll see Alpha less, which is perfectly fine with me.
Moffy tucks in the last corner of my comforter. “So wh
en security found out you’d be my bodyguard, no one sent you condolence cards or told you that you’d be better off rocketing to the fucking moon?”
He’s fishing for information on how security perceives him—because Declan obviously told him shit. “No one had time to send me cards,” I say. “But if they did, most would say good luck trying to steer that ship.”
“Sounds about right,” he says. “Is that it?”
Wow, he knows nothing. If I came face-to-face with Declan today, I’d shake his hand and say, you’re a fucking asshole. But I’d have to do that with two-thirds of the security team. We all have different relationships with our clients.
I prefer the mutual kind.
“No one would pity me.” I slide my empty duffel beneath my bed. “It’s not like when Oscar was transferred to Charlie’s detail. We all threw him a funeral.” I raise my brows in a wave at Moffy.
He smiles a bit and shakes his head a couple times. “Charlie.”
Charlie Cobalt, his nineteen-year-old cousin and the oldest Cobalt boy, is notoriously difficult to follow around. One day he’ll be in Ibiza, the next Paris, then Japan—he’s spontaneous, unpredictable, and out of all the kids, his frank tweets and comments go viral the most.
Only a second passes and Moffy’s lips start to downturn, his cheekbones sharpening. I’ve heard rumors from security that Moffy and Charlie don’t get along.
I’ve even seen them argue before. If he rarely hangs out with Charlie, then I’ll rarely see Oscar.
That’s how this works.
Maximoff checks his buzzing texts, but soon after, he slips his phone back into his pocket. “So today, I’ll have lunch at my place. You can settle in here, whatever you need to do, and I’ll go to my office in Center City about two. I’ll text you when I’m in the garage.”
“I need your number.”
His brows pinch. “We’ve never exchanged numbers?”
I chew slowly again. “We’ve never needed to, wolf scout.” When we were younger, I only saw him when I had to tag along my dad’s on-call appointments or the holidays the Hales invited us to. Labor Day cookouts, some birthdays. It’s not like Moffy and I were friends.
He was only fifteen when I was twenty. I was in college with friends my own age.
I tilt my head, watching him stare off into space. I wave my hand at Maximoff. “Did I lose you?”
He moves my hand away, mentally present, and then he reaches out. “Pass me your phone. I’ll put my number in your contacts.”
“Or you could just hand me yours.”
“No.”
I roll my eyes at the firm no, but I decide to just comply and give him my cell for now. It’s not an argument I need to win. “What about after your work ends?”
He types his number on my cell and hands it back. “Dinner plans are up in the air. I’ll let you know if I’m going to a restaurant.”
“Are you in for the night after dinner?”
Before answering, Maximoff pulls his damp shirt off his head and balls the fabric in a fist.
My brows hike at his sculpted body, broad swimmer shoulders, and lean torso that gleams with sweat. Photograph-worthy, a money-shot for paparazzi. Certain clients want money-shots “blocked” from cameramen. Some post money-shots on Instagram so they’re worthless for paparazzi to sell. Others don’t care.
His Rule #67: don’t worry about money-shots. It’s not important.
I eye the curvature of his long arms. “Is the gym a constant pit stop? Because your mom was a certified couch potato.” I used to spend my tiny free time at Studio 9 or passed-out asleep.
Maximoff rubs his damp forehead with his bicep. “The pool.”
“Just the pool?”
“Yep.”
I scratch my throat where my tattooed swords lie. “I can count eight places on your body that say you’re full of shit.” I casually point at his abs.
Maximoff scrutinizes me. “You look unimpressed.”
He’s used to people outwardly fawning. I begin to smile. “Because mine are better, wolf scout.”
He huffs, then glares and motions to me. “Take off your shirt and we’ll find out.”
I pop my gum. “I love a dare.” I pull my V-neck off my head and then toss my shirt on the mattress.
His gaze sweeps the black ink on my chest, ribs and abs—almost everywhere. My fair skin is a mosaic of skulls, crossbones, swords, rough swelling water and sailing ships. Colorful sparrows and swallows intersperse the gray scale pirate imagery.
I follow his eyes as they descend. All the way to the hem of my black pants.
Normally I’d think he was checking me out, but Maximoff has more ethical boundaries than a football field stacked on top of a tennis court stacked on top of a hockey rink. I bet he’d drive a sword through his heart before he broke his morality.
“Mine are better,” he retorts.
“We’re going to need an unbiased judge.”
Moffy glances at the door. “Janie isn’t home yet.”
“I said unbiased.”
“Find someone who doesn’t know me, and then we’ll talk.” He’s aware that’s impossible. Then he asks, “Is my list still in your back pocket?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll want to take it out and write this down.”
His list was thorough, but he definitely left out significant details concerning sex. I didn’t even see any mention of NDA’s on the paper, but he has to have those if he wants to fuck strangers and not have his underwear stolen.
I say, “I can memorize whatever you have to tell me.” I’ve already memorized his 132 rules in the car, and I briefly skimmed the eight pages. Steady hands, sharp mind—I graduated top of my class at medical school, which enraged half the faculty. I didn’t “look” the part. I heard “take out your piercings” and “cover your tattoos” daily.
And they nearly shit themselves when I got neck and hand tattoos my second year. Still, I graduated in the top one-percent.
Maximoff doesn’t prod me to grab a piece of paper. He barrels ahead. “At some point,” he says, “not tonight because I’m still digesting this new arrangement—”
“Relationship,” I correct, and his shoulders instantly lock. It definitely annoys the fuck out of him that we’re attached somehow.
He steps over my comment. “Soon I’ll go out to a nightclub, and I’ll find someone to fuck. It’s just about sex, NSA”—no strings attached—“a one-night stand, and I need you to remember this next part.”
“What?”
“You can’t tell me no.”
My nose flares, and my eyes roll in the slowest wave. “You can’t be serious?” His glare says he is. “Moffy—”
“Maximoff,” he corrects, which makes me shake my head and almost roll my eyes for the thousandth time. Everyone in his family and security uses his nickname. No one but the media and public stick solely to calling him Maximoff. I assume he’s lumping me in with tabloids to try and piss me off.
He motions to me. “For a guy who has such a great memory, you forget to call me by my full name a hell of a lot.”
“Maximoff,” I say with extra flair, and he flips me off with both hands. I barrel ahead with the real issue. “All security would tell you no if they sensed someone with ill-intent wanting to sleep with you. And I’d tell you be smarter than that.”
He’s a billionaire celebrity. Half the population either wants his money, fame, or dick. Most of the time, all three, and some are willing to cross lines for it. Someone could drug him. I could overhear shit-talk that he doesn’t hear.
The list is endless.
He considers my words for barely half a second. “You have to trust my instincts like Declan did.”
My gum is stale in my mouth. “I’ll trust your instincts until they fail you. How about that?”
“Fine. Because they won’t fail me.” He heads to the door and leaves my room.
5
MAXIMOFF HALE
ONE HAND ON THE WHE
EL, I drive towards a grocery store. I raise my phone to my lips with the other and speak into a notes app. “Laundry detergent, eggs, dish soap—”
“Lawndo egg soup,” the automated voice reads back.
Are you fucking kidding me? I glare at my phone.
Farrow’s amusement is palpable in the passenger seat. “Brake.”
“Dammit.” I slam on my brakes before I bulldoze into a white sedan. Two days of Farrow as my bodyguard and I’m already feeling the effects.
Scatterbrained.
Rattled.
Sexually tensed up.
I haven’t had sex in 48 hours. I masturbated in the shower this morning, and I tried so goddamn hard not to imagine him. Hot water pelted my squared shoulders, my head dipped forward while warmth doused my brown hair. My left hand was closed into a white-knuckled fist against the tiled wall. My right hand stroked my throbbing cock that stood at hard attention.
Begging for a release.
One fantasy plays on a loop, no matter how much I say off. Turn off. Farrow enters the shower right behind me. Fog steams the glass doors. Layering the stifling heat.
His commanding, assertive presence pushes up against my muscular back. Then his strong arm extends around my build, and his large palm encases my white-knuckled hand on the tiled wall.
He holds tight. Water cascading over the sharp planes and valleys of his muscles. My gaze travels along his inked skin. His soft lips skim the base of my neck. To my ear.
Where he whispers in the deepest, most gravelly voice he owns.
“Maximoff.” Farrow snaps his fingers at my face—shit.
I yank myself out of a fantasy. Coming to the present where I’m driving. Where I’m gripping my phone way too tightly in one hand. Where Farrow is staring at me like I’ve just flown to an unknown dimension. How did I even fall into that shower scene again?
I was just trying to remind myself to forget it. Forever.
Farrow opens his mouth, and before he asks where I mentally departed, I beat him to the punch.
“I was thinking about Janie.” What the fuck is wrong with me? Jane, really? I restrain the urge to cringe. She may be my best friend, but she’s also my cousin. Swiftly, I add, “You know, I’m on my way to see her.” At the grocery. That part is true. We do almost everything together.
Damaged Like Us (Like Us Series Book 1) Page 4