I smile at how blasé she says that.
Farrow tells her, “Threat noted.”
She rinses her face and pats her cheeks dry with a towel. “Which one of you made the first move anyway?”
“Me,” Farrow and I say in unison.
He laughs.
I scowl. “I’m one-hundred percent positive I kissed you first.”
Farrow leans even more casually, his relaxed posture so damn sexy. “I’m also one-hundred percent positive I was the one who told you how I felt first.”
“Move is an action. I took the first action,” I rebut.
“If that’s what you want to believe, I’m not going to stop you.” His brown eyes sweep me from head to toe, and the steam in my shower feels hotter all of a sudden. I had sex with a childhood crush.
Five years older than me.
My bodyguard.
Blood pools south, and my cock almost rouses. Aching to be gripped. Which just means I’ve mentally sidelined the repercussions and accepted the full-blown attraction.
Do I crave a repeat of last night? So damn much. I stare off in a split-moment, picturing last night. His tattooed hand sliding up my chest. Holding my jaw, his other hand squeezing my—I blink and blink rapidly, catching myself in a trance.
Farrow stares at me with a knowing look.
“I can leave if you need me to,” Jane says.
My head whips to her. “No, this is your house. Nothing’s changed for you and me.” I can’t kick Janie out of the fucking bathroom. It’s her bathroom too.
Jane contemplates this for a short second. Then her blue eyes land on my bodyguard. “Do you care if I’m here?”
“No,” Farrow says quickly, the only correct answer in my mind. “Do you care if I’m here?”
“No,” she says just as fast.
“Okay.” Farrow nods. “Then we’re cool.”
She nods firmer.
I’m highly aware that they feel pressure to get along. And that pressure is coming from me. But for this to work, all three of us have to coexist.
20
FARROW KEENE
“WORK WITH ME HERE, FARROW,” Akara says over my phone that I placed in the cup holder of the Audi. Set to speaker while Maximoff speeds about twenty-five over to a gentleman & lady’s charity golf tournament. “All of your daily logs are empty after 7:00 p.m.”
Maximoff shoots me a narrowed look.
I mouth, it’s okay. I’d touch him, his hand or his shoulder, but I keep a close eye on two silver SUVs that ride our bumper. I’m not sure if they have far-range camera lenses, but if one even briefly catches us in a slight embrace, we’re done.
I like him too much to risk everything now just to hold hands, especially when I can grip his cock later tonight.
“I just don’t see the issue,” I tell Akara. “When I was on Lily’s security detail, I always left gaps in the daily logs. If Alpha’s not used to that by now, then that’s their fucking problem. Not yours.”
My “maverick” tendencies make sneaking around with Maximoff easier. Where did your client go from 7:00 p.m. to midnight? Blank.
No one’s business but ours.
“Forget Alpha,” Akara growls, switching between “boss” and “friend” too well. “This is me talking to you right now, and I’m telling you that I have two bodyguards on my Force not filling out their logs. Did I not specifically remind you that Quinn would pick up your habits?”
An annoyed noise sticks to my throat. I didn’t notice he was copying me. I don’t actively check everyone else’s logs. It’s a waste of time. “Man, it could be a good thing,” I say, fixing my earpiece as muffled sound filters through. “He’s learning from one of the best.”
“One of you is enough,” Akara says definitively. “We can’t have two on the team.”
“Let me talk to Quinn.”
“No,” Akara says. “Start filling out your logs. I don’t care if you write one or two sentences, just show Quinn that it’s a requirement. And hey, if you’re still relenting, look down. Read your ankle.”
I roll my eyes. I got a small script tattoo when I was twenty-one. Akara was with me. The ink on my ankle says: live by your actions. “Aye, aye captain.”
He hangs up first.
Maximoff switches lanes and checks over his shoulder. “Now what’s the plan? Fake a log entry? Flee the coast, fly to outerspace?” He barely looks my way; the two paparazzi SUVs have multiplied into four. “Maybe we can build a colony on Mars,” he says, sarcastic. “Eat nothing but potatoes for the rest of our lives.”
“You’re referencing a movie I’ve never seen. Aren’t you?”
The corner of his mouth rises. But not for long. Real concerns lie beneath his dry wit, and I’m not letting them fester.
“I’ll be vague in my log,” I explain, chatter growing louder in my right ear. I pull the earpiece out and increase the radio’s volume. “It’s very far from a grim, dark reality, so stop packing your survival kits and just trust me.”
He’s used to tapping into “damage control” mode. But he needs to breathe and not jump the gun here. We’re just at the start of a marathon of secrecy.
Maximoff tries to turn his head to me, but he has to fixate on the paparazzi’s vehicles that swarm him. “You know that I trust you more than I’d trust anyone else. We’ve been on the same page about all of this: the no texting, no emails, even being careful with street cameras…and that’s meant—it’s meant a lot to me.”
My chest inflates as my mouth pulls in a wide smile. “I’m glad you feel safe with me.”
He makes a face. “Is that what I said?”
“In so many words, yeah.”
He can’t restrain his own smile, but then his lips downturn fast. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, and we go quiet as a blue sedan whips into the nearby lane. I spot the camera before the window even rolls down.
Maximoff accelerates.
I rotate and observe the SUV on our ass. From their front windshield, they point cameras at the Audi’s rear window. I silently count four…five, six and now seven vehicles on the road. For the sole purpose of obtaining money-shots of Maximoff Hale.
“Get off 95.”
“Not yet.” Maximoff cuts off the blue sedan and weaves skillfully in and out of the scattered freeway traffic. Frenzied excitement blares through my earpiece’s speaker, filling our concentrated silence.
“Cobalt Empire all together,” Oscar says.
“Dream team,” Donnelly sing-songs.
“The band is about to start,” Heidi, Eliot Cobalt’s bodyguard whispers into the mic. She’s on Epsilon, but Heidi is the only female bodyguard in the whole team. In her early fifties, she’s been with the Cobalts since Jane was born.
Maximoff switches lanes again, and he must feel somewhat comfortable because he asks, “Wish you were there?”
My brows spike. “Do you mean with the ‘Cobalt Empire’ or watching Tom Cobalt and his band perform live publicly for the first time?”
“Either.”
I keep surveillance of the speeding paparazzi SUVs. And I remember when Maximoff’s seventeen-year-old cousin put together a three-person punk band when he was fourteen. Tom is the lead singer.
“I wasn’t one of the bodyguards who saw Tom learn to play guitar. I didn’t see him choose a band name or give my input.” I roll my eyes because Oscar of all security members suggested the name The Carraways, a play off his middle name Tom Carraway Cobalt.
Tom chose The Carraways.
“And I didn’t watch his rehearsals or listen to him rework songs.” I crane my neck over my shoulder. I hate that SUV on our ass. “Seeing him live at a small venue doesn’t mean that much to me.”
“Three, two,” Donnelly whispers, “…one.”
Tom’s deep, passionate voice and the fury of guitar, drums, and bass seep through the mic-line. I bet all nine Cobalt bodyguards are pressing their mic buttons so the rest of the security team can listen.
Maximof
f smiles throughout the emo-punk song. “Tom.” He shakes his head and then finds a moment to glance at me. “He was only ten when I finally told everyone that I liked girls and guys, and I didn’t think it’d matter to him. But I stood in front of my family at Christmas, presents half-unwrapped, with goddamn Jack Frost playing in the background—and when everyone started hugging me and smiling, I looked over and Tom was crying.”
His eyes reddened, Adam’s apple bobbing.
My chest is taut with emotion. “He was happy.”
“So goddamn happy.” Maximoff blinks back water that wells. “Tom knew he was gay…for as long as I can remember, and I’m five years older than him. And when I knelt in front of him and hugged him—I felt guilty.” He cringes. “For not telling him sooner. I pretty much knew I was attracted to guys by thirteen. That’s two years where I could’ve told him.”
I extend my arm over the back of his seat, acting like I’m using the seat to check behind us. I just want to be closer to Maximoff. “It’s admirable how much you care,” I say, “but he’s lucky he has you at all.” Warmly, I add, “Your compassion is showing.”
He tries to hold my gaze, but he can’t. Not with the paparazzi threatening to run him off the road. “Do you like compassionate guys?”
“I like you,” I say without a beat.
He licks his lips, neck reddening. He liked that. I lean back, keeping my arm on the seat.
Maximoff glances at me. “When did you come out to your dad?”
“I was eleven,” I tell him easily, “and my father asked me if there were any girls I liked at school. I said there were boys.” I almost laugh at the memory. “I can still see the shock on his face, especially as I confidently said I’m gay, but after the initial surprise died down, he just started asking me about my crush. I came out at school around the same time.”
He listens carefully. “I remember you said something about how you weren’t that confused about it.”
That was a brief conversation we had years ago when he was sixteen. Both of us at a Fourth of July party his family hosted. I’m surprised he remembered.
“Yeah,” I say. “I could tell for sure when I was nine. I was at a mall, and I was attracted to the male underwear models in the poster ads. Eighteen years later, and I still have great taste.” I raise my brows at him.
Maximoff smiles. “Did you just call me hot?”
“I was definitely complimenting myself there.”
He’s about to flip me off, but the traffic steals his attention. And then The Carraways’ first song ends and chatter returns.
“I’ve been reborn,” Donnelly says.
“Hold me,” another bodyguard chimes in.
“Pass the tissues.”
“He fucking did it.”
“Damn, look how good he was,” Quinn adds.
“Our kid is all grown up,” Oscar says, choked up. “Shit.”
Maximoff has widened eyes, a bit stunned at all of their reactions.
“You didn’t realize,” I say, “your achievements are basically ours.” Our lives are dedicated to these families, and when they succeed, there will always be a part of us that feels like we succeeded too.
He accelerates again. “Since you’re not on a Cobalt’s detail, what’s your equivalent of this moment?”
I think for a short second. “The time when Luna learned to drive a car.”
Maximoff nods in realization. “My mom taught my sister, so that means…”
“I was in the car, too.” I notice the blue sedan the same time as Maximoff. He tenses, and we’re silent. I turn off the radio so he can concentrate.
The sedan flanks our left side, and two white SUVs are on our right, one on the bumper. Maximoff is a rigid board. Constantly eyeing his rearview mirror.
“Did you know,” he says, “that my dad banned me from teaching Luna how to drive?”
“Yeah, and I agreed. Case in point.” I stretch towards him and read the speedometer. “One-hundred-and-ten.” I hang onto his seat and lay on his horn.
The sedan eases back, but the SUVs only squeeze closer.
“You should get off 95 now.”
He tries to veer towards an exit, but paparazzi purposefully trap him. “Sit back, Farrow.”
Not even a second later, all of the SUVs and sedans and every paparazzi vehicle disperses in a mad dash. Abruptly freeing us.
“Fuck,” he growls, knowing the cause.
Blue and red lights flicker in our rear. We’re being pulled over by police.
21
MAXIMOFF HALE
WHEN I FINISH a hearing at the local courthouse, I slip on a pair of Ray Bans out of necessity. Farrow is already wearing dark aviators, and in unison, side-by-side, we push through the double doors.
Camera flashes blast in quick succession.
Reporters from prime-time news stations bounce near me. Microphones at the ready. Their questions ringing shrilly in my ears. Farrow extends his arm and bars the reporters from getting in my face.
I move forward.
No hesitating. No lingering. No wallowing or complaining. What’s done is fucking done, and it’s not the first time I pled my case to the court. Not the first time I said, “I take responsibility for speeding, but what’s being done about the paparazzi?” They’re rarely fined.
The court always replies, “Regardless of the paparazzi, you have the means to pay for a personal driver. There’s no excuse for endangering the lives of other people.”
I get that.
It’s why I hardly argue. Before I climb into the passenger seat of my Audi, I catch the tail-end of a reporter speaking to a camera.
“This will be the fourth time the court has suspended Maximoff Hale’s license for excessive speeding. And his license will remain suspended for twelve months.”
I can’t drive for a year.
Farrow slides into the driver’s seat, shuts the door, and puts the key in the ignition. For the first time with Farrow as my bodyguard, I’m not behind the steering wheel.
I crack my knuckles and watch him adjust the side mirrors. “You’re loving this.”
His smile widens into James Franco territory, and he revs the car, peeling out of the courthouse. Driving with one hand only, but he ditches the paparazzi after a sharp turn down a narrow street. Navigating his way around Philly with ease and precision.
My cock throbs—no. If I could speak to my dick, I’d say you’re not allowed to be attracted to Farrow driving my car. That’s my car. Mine. He’s only allowed behind it for…
I wince. A whole agonizing year.
Farrow studies my expression in a quick glance. “Realizing I’m a better driver than you?”
“Realizing doomsday just happened.” I crack my knuckles again and shift in the seat. Sitting straighter. Partly to avoid a hard-on. Mostly to stop stressing about not having my feet on the gas pedal or brake. No longer the captain of my ship.
“You call everything doomsday,” Farrow says, his gaze flitting to me more often.
“No I don’t.”
“Toaster broke last week, you said doomsday. You ran out of hangers, you said doomsday. It was raining, you said—”
“Thank you for that short summary.” I have no idea what to do with myself in the passenger seat. I lean forward. I lean back. Rake my hands through my thick hair, stretch my arms over my chest—
“Just take a breath, Maximoff. I’m not going to run you off the road. I enjoy your blow jobs too much.”
I break into a smile. How is he making me smile right now? I inhale and lean further back, ignoring the incessant vibrating messages on my phone. I turn my head to him.
Our eyes caress.
Farrow reaches out with his right hand, but he can’t physically touch me. Just on the slim chance that anyone in a passing car sees and snaps a picture. Sometimes I wonder if he’s silently disappointed by the lack of PDA. For me, it’s all the same. I’m not missing what I never had.
But being overly cautious
is what’ll make this last.
Farrow commits to a safe action. He grips the back of my seat. “I bet I can distract you all the way home.” His voice falls to an even huskier octave. “Without touching you. Hell, I bet I can make you hard without talking dirty.”
“You must like to lose bets often.”
Grinning, Farrow rotates the wheel with one hand. Turning onto another street. “Who and what did you fantasize about when you were a teenager?”
Fuck. I adjust in my seat, my cock constricted against my jeans. Fuck me.
“Hard already?” He lifts his aviators to his head, pushing back his white hair. His mannerisms, the way the corner of his mouth quirks—fucking grips my dick.
“Agitated, mostly.”
“I can tell. It’s that little grimace-smile thing.” Farrow laughs as I flip him off, and he adds, “Come on, Maximoff. What’d you jerk off to?”
“Tell me your favorite gay porn categories, and maybe I’ll answer.”
“Maybe you’ll answer,” he says, brows raised. “Okay…my favorite gay porn…” he trails off in thought. “I like big dick and rough sex.” He flicks on his blinker to take a left turn. “Have you watched any porn before?”
“Only a few times.” I can see how my mom was addicted to porn, and that’s partly why I think I stopped logging onto porn sites after the third session. “What’d you rub one out to as a teenager?”
“The Olympic male swim team,” he says and off my knotted brows, he laughs, “I’m fucking with you. I didn’t have anyone in mind specifically.” Farrow evades paparazzi in the distance by driving onto a side street. His next glance is knowing. “Not like you.”
He knows my fantasy is him.
Bluntly, Farrow emphasizes, “You can say me.”
I give him a look. “How are you not freaked out?”
“Because I wasn’t the one with the crush.”
My face contorts in a series of emotions, landing on a cringe. “I could’ve sworn the bet was to make me hard, not want to push you out of the car.”
Damaged Like Us (Like Us Series Book 1) Page 17