“I’m not playing.”
“You can’t not play,” Jane replies. “And you know I’m dreadfully serious when I use a double negative.”
Sulli bites into a donut and with a full mouth says, “Uncle Lo and my dad always have alternative rules for sober players.”
Janie perks up. “Take off an article of clothing every time someone screams.”
“Ce n'est pas une bonne idée,” I say in French so only Jane can understand. That’s not a good idea. Yeah, I came already today, and I can will-away an erection by sheer mental concentration. But not if I’m stripping beside Farrow. Look, there are some things that can’t be easily hidden.
My huge, rock-hard cock is one of them.
Everyone is staring at me but Farrow. He edges away from me, and then he leaves to the kitchen with his empty beer bottle.
Jane says, “Je n’ai pas d’autre idée que celle-ci.” I have no other idea but this one.
I glance at Sulli and remember her trepidation about the party failing. I don’t want to disappoint my cousin over a boner. I shut my eyes in a long blink. Trying to scrub away that last bizarre thought.
“Alright,” I say, eyes open. “Every other scream, I’ll take off an article of clothing but I stop before my underwear.” The room agrees, and Farrow returns with a new pale ale and one of Janie’s pastel blue blankets. He tosses the blanket to me and sinks back down.
Just as close as before. Shoulder-to-shoulder. His presence is a furnace, boiling me from head-to-toe. Don’t get caught. How’s that mantra? If I repeat it over and over, I should be able to avoid an erection. Definitely.
Don’t get fucking caught.
Janie presses play, and about ten minutes into the movie, Farrow calls out, “Akara, are you on the clock or do you just love Jane’s décor?” He must’ve been surveying the room.
An actress suddenly shrieks. Everyone drinks, and I pull my shirt off over my head and toss the thing aside. I lean back beside Farrow. He’s trying to suppress a smile.
That’s rare.
Jane keeps the conversation alive. “Akara, you love how I decorated this place?”
“I didn’t say that,” he says.
“My brother likes your decorations,” Quinn tells her. “He calls it Retro Granny Realness.”
Janie beams.
“I think it’s hella fucking cute,” Sulli tells her.
“Thank you, Sullivan,” Janie replies. “Will you be my new bodyguard?”
“Of course, I’ll protect you to the fucking death.”
“And follow me around everywhere I go?”
“Everywhere.”
“Heyheyhey,” Quinn cuts in, extending his arm towards Sulli. “Don’t take my job. It’s not for sale.”
Jane beams harder. Her last, retired bodyguard never voiced his enjoyment of being on her detail.
“Too bad you’re not in charge of transfers, Quinn,” Farrow tells him. “Only Akara can decide that.”
Sulli nudges Akara’s arm. “What’d you say, Kits? Put me on Jane’s detail?” Kits.
My cousin has a special nickname for her bodyguard. Off his last name Kitsuwon, but still, it’s a nickname. Farrow has a nickname for me. Two plus two equals…
Huh.
My mind needs to just stop for the night. I swear I’m going to reach a new circle of hell for paranoid souls.
Akara nods to Sulli. “When you can beat me in the ring, you can take Jane’s detail.” He sounds serious, but maybe he knows she’d never beat him. He was trained in Muay Thai since he was six.
Sulli crinkles her nose. “But I’m a lover not a fighter.”
His lips quirk. “Sorry, Sul. Gotta pass on you then. You’d make a shit bodyguard.”
Jane clutches her heart. “Say it isn’t so.”
“Drink,” Farrow calls out as the word sleep is said on-screen. The horror movie engrosses all of us for the next twenty minutes. I’ve seen everyone grab three refills.
Sulli is on her sixth beer.
Yeah, I’m counting.
And I have zero clothes left to shed. Down to my dark green boxer-briefs. The blanket was a tactical maneuver by Farrow in case I spring a boner. I’m fine. I stopped watching him swig his beer, and my brain and dick are cooperating with me for once.
Thankfully.
My phone pings a few times. I respond to my siblings. Most of whom are pissed they weren’t invited to Hallow Friends Eve.
Kinney is the most vexed.
You turd. You don’t even know what horror is – Kinney
We’ll do a Halloween movie night at mom and dad’s another time. Promise. I reply.
She sends a skull and cross bones emoji.
I don’t want them around alcohol yet. Not when I’m hanging out with men in their twenties. My sister is thirteen. She can stay thirteen.
And Luna—she’s walking a fragile line with our parents after the tongue piercing. I’m doing her a favor by not extending an invite.
Plus, if we invited Luna, we’d have to invite Jane’s two brothers, Eliot Cobalt and Tom Cobalt. Which would probably end with me calling the fire department or our on-call doctor.
So that’s pretty much why we made the “high school graduates only” invite stipulation.
“Sulli?” Her bodyguard’s concerned voice steals my attention. He leans over my cousin and cups her cheek. “Hold on…” He stands and easily hurdles the loveseat.
Sulli hugs her legs tighter to her chest, and then she rests her forehead to her kneecaps. She’s dizzy.
“Sulli,” I start, about to stand, but Akara returns with a new box of donuts.
“Eat this.” He hands Sulli a plain glazed donut. “You can kill your buzz with food.” He pries the beer out of her fingers.
“Thanks,” she mutters and lifts her head enough to grab the donut.
Jane strokes her black cat Lady Macbeth. “The first time I got drunk, I puked everywhere,” she tells Sulli. “Moffy held my hair.” She rests her cheek on my shoulder. I wrap my arm around hers.
“First time I got drunk, I passed out in my own piss,” Quinn says. “Don’t ask.”
Farrow sets aside his empty bottle. “And now I’m going to—”
An object shatters the curtained front-window. Followed by quick, violent pop pop pop pop…
Pop.
24
MAXIMOFF HALE
FIRECRACKERS.
Are you fucking kidding me—I launch to my feet while all three bodyguards bolt into action.
“Farrow!” Akara yells and points to the front door, then he captures his radio off a sleeping bag. “Akara to Alpha. Akara to Alpha.”
Farrow is already sprinting to the exit, and I’m not far behind with hot pinpointed eyes, seething inside-out. Someone broke my window with the intent to harm my family. Those could’ve been gunshots. It’s all I feel.
And I see red.
Farrow grabs the knob, but he suddenly whips around on me. He puts his hand to my bare chest, stopping me from reaching the door. Ire blisters his vigilant gaze in a way that I’ve never seen directed at me.
“Quinn, don’t near the window, there’s glass on the ground!” Akara yells. “Take the girls and Moffy upstairs to the bathroom and lock the door!”
My raging pulse hammers in the pit of my ears.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Farrow sneers at me. “You can’t follow me.” I spot the briefest flash of concern, of trepidation, before his gaze mortars hard and hot again.
I clench my teeth. I need to help. I have to fucking help. The intrinsic need bangs at my head, my ribcage, my heart, and I don’t know how to turn away.
I don’t know how to hide in a bathroom and wait.
“I see him!” Quinn suddenly yells. He charges towards us. Storming through Farrow and me to fling open the door, he runs urgently into the pitch-black night. Paparazzi who’ve been camping out on my street awaken like dormant fireflies and hornets.
Bright in the dark. And ready to sting.
&nbs
p; Quickly, Farrow warns me, “Don’t. Follow.” Then he bolts outside, tracing Quinn’s hurried footsteps. Farrow’s caustic voice scalds my fucking ears.
He’s trying to protect me. It’s as simple as that.
My hands stay balled in fists, but I turn to find Jane and Sulli, to keep them safe—
“CARPENTER!” Jane screams bloody-murder, the sound lancing my heart. Everything happens fast—she tears back downstairs and out of Sulli’s grasp.
“Jane!” Sulli yells, almost falling down the staircase after her, but Akara grabs Sulli by the waist. “KITS!”
“You have to stay here!” Akara shouts. “JANE!”
“MOFFY! CARPENTER!” Jane screams, alarmed tears already soaking her cheeks. I try to shut the door, keeping the cats inside, but she shrieks, “HE’S ALREADY OUTSIDE! HE’S OUTSIDE!”
Walrus, the other kitten darts past my ankles, and I reach to catch him, but he scampers into the night. I don’t waste time. I chase the fucking animal down.
Running outside.
These indoor cats are her babies, and we live in the city. Where cars constantly speed by. If one dies—she’ll be gutted. It’s all I think.
All I know.
I fucking run. Onto the sidewalk, towards the street parking. I see Walrus scampering beneath a parked car.
And then I’m swarmed by paparazzi. Cameras in every fucking direction.
“CARPENTER!” Jane calls out, panicked. She’s outside? My head swerves, squinting in the harsh flashes. I can hardly see in front of me.
“JANE!” I shout and then shove paparazzi to work my way towards where I think Jane went. I spot her wobbling and tripping over her bare feet but determinedly chasing after another calico kitten. She’s drunk.
She’s fucking drunk.
I forgot.
I’m the only sober one here.
“I got him! I got him, Maximoff!” a cameraman yells at me and then suddenly hands me Walrus. I have no time to express my full relief or gratitude. I nod once to him, and then set my entire damn attention on reaching Jane.
“Let him through!” paparazzi start yelling at one another. “Let him through!”
“JANE!” I shout. I push through bodies. I push through voices that yell questions. I push through groping hands.
“CARPENTER!” she wails bloody-murder. I’m barely able to see the kitten. Bounding into the goddamn road. And Jane runs right after him.
I body-slam my way through the fucking paparazzi. Being accidently clocked in the cheek by a hefty camera. I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
My feet hit the cement road, and with Walrus in one hand, I wrap my arm around Jane’s waist the same time that she has a death-clutch on her tiny calico kitten. Headlights blare at us, coming fast down our street. I rapidly steer her towards the sidewalk, and we reach the curb just in time, the car speeding past.
Jane is shaking and slightly limping. She must’ve fallen.
I try to discern where we are—I think we’re twelve or fifteen houses down from ours. I guide my best friend towards our townhouse.
“Maximoff! Why are you in your underwear at eight at night?!” is the only question that snaps my attention. Reminding me that I’m nearly fucking naked on chilly October 30th.
Great.
Cameras flash in fierce frenzy, and I just fixate on getting Jane home. Getting us home.
“Moffy,” Jane says, voice firm and wide-eyes on Carpenter and only Carpenter. “He almost…he…did you…?”
“He’s alright. He’s okay.” I don’t think she even realizes Walrus escaped too. Or that he’s in my arms. She’s blurry-eyed wasted, fighting to keep her heavy-lids open. I glance down. Blood seeps through the fabric of her flannel pants, both kneecaps bloodied.
My jaw locks. “Come on, Jane.” I try to quicken our pace. Where there’s this much commotion, there may be hecklers not long after. Although, a heckler with firecrackers started all of this—maybe he has friends coming for a round two.
Maybe he wasn’t a lone wolf.
Maybe they’re planning to hide in our house.
Goddammit.
Walrus squirms in my left arm. Digging his claws into my bare chest and trying to crawl up my shoulder. I yank him back down, not caring about the scratches.
Paparazzi push into my face when I wrap my right arm around Jane’s shoulders. I have to let go of her just to shove them out.
“Back up!” I yell, not joking around.
A lot do shuffle backwards. And then some don’t give a shit about us.
Swaying drunkenly, Jane almost falls again, her legs wobbling.
“Janie. Hold him.” I give her Walrus too.
Recognition parts her lips. That two cats ran outside. “Merde.” We have to hope that none of the others sprinted out before Walrus and Carpenter.
Jane holds her kittens in a fiercely protective grip.
Quickly, I pick Jane up. Wrapping my arm beneath her legs, the other supporting her back. Cradling my best friend—the paparazzi go wild.
“RIGHT HERE, MAXIMOFF, JANE!! LOOK HERE!”
Fuck off.
I can move three times as fast. Jane tucks her head into my chest because of the lights. Cameras only flash hotter, more incessant.
And then…the paparazzi begin creating a path. Separating enough for a body to fit through. But not for us. For the towering six-foot-seven Italian-American bodyguard that bulldozes towards Jane and me.
I squint, my vision impaired from the constant flashes, but I distinguish the longish, scruffy hair, unshaven jaw and stern brown eyes of Thatcher Moretti, the lead of Security Force Epsilon.
With his massive height and strong build, he creates a barrier between us and the media. Making it ten times easier to push through the masses.
Thatcher clicks his mic on the collar of his black button-down. “I have them. Clear the street.” He spots Walrus wiggling in Jane’s motherly grip. Thatcher grabs the kitten and tucks Walrus protectively under his arm. Like a furry football.
By the time we reach the front stoop of my townhouse, white lights dance in my eyes. I can count on my hands the number of times I’ve personally used the front door.
Three.
Three fucking times.
Because this insanity happens.
As soon as the door shuts behind me, I register the sheer amount of people in my townhouse. All familiar faces from Alpha. They tape our window and sweep up glass. Speaking into mics, scouring the rest of my home for intruders.
I rest Jane on the loveseat, still pushed against the archway.
And Quinn rushes past towards the staircase. Quinn? “Quinn, where’s Farrow?” I call out. He doesn’t stop. So I chase after him, to the base of the stairs. “Quinn!”
He pauses to glance back, his nose bloodied.
What.
Happened.
Quinn opens his mouth, but Thatcher tells him, “Go, Quinn.”
No. Fuck that. “Where’s Farrow?!” I yell, not fucking around.
Quinn’s jaw muscle tics, but he rushes upstairs. I shake my head, pissed. I rotate on Thatcher, but he towers near Jane while she slowly rifles through a first-aid kit. For her bloodied knees.
Thatcher barks orders, “I need eyes on all the cats!” He already places the calico kittens in their leopard-print carrier. Securing them. “We have Walrus and Carpenter. Where are Ophelia, Lady Macbeth, and Toodles?”
Jane blinks drunkenly at him. “You know their names?”
I glare at Thatcher. “Where the fuck is Farrow?”
Nothing.
No acknowledgement of my question. In the grand scheme of security, it’s unimportant for me to be aware of my own bodyguard’s whereabouts. I’m supposed to sit and let the extra security protect us. I’m not supposed to care about them.
Not even if they get hurt.
It’s their job.
I spot Price by the broken window, the Alpha lead chats to a younger security member. My phone vibrates angrily o
n the rumpled sleeping bags. All of my family must be freaked.
My mom…
I have to call her.
Thatcher doesn’t even answer Jane’s question. The most strict, no-nonsense guy on the team. I swear, I liked that about him, but now I’m fucking irritated.
Thatcher holds his mic. “Jane, do you have any strays in the house?” She struggles with the gauze packet, and I go to help. He cuts me off and takes my place. Kneeling at the loveseat, he tears open the gauze.
I need to do something, but security loves to impede me from doing anything productive.
I could scream I’m so frustrated right now. I rub my face.
Where’s Farrow?
Where’s Farrow?!
Where’s my… I stare fixatedly at the closed front door.
“No strays,” Jane tells him, trying her hardest not to slur. “I did adopt another yesterday. Licorice. He’s a four-year-old…gray, long-haired. Blue eyes.”
Thatcher speaks into his mic. “There’s a sixth cat—Licorice. Gray.” He presses the gauze to her knees, and Jane rips open a Band-Aid with her teeth. Thatcher tells my best friend, “Lady Macbeth, Toodles, and Ophelia are accounted for.”
Jane nods, barely relaxing.
The door opens, and my chest rises, thinking it’s Farrow. But it’s not.
It’s not him. It’s Luna’s bodyguard.
Fuck this.
I charge over to the Alpha lead. My gait is strong and determined. I’ve never shied from any of these men. Not for a damn breath. Not for a second. And they’re going to answer me now.
“Price.” My firm voice yanks his attention from the younger security member. “I need to know where Farrow is. Now.”
“You should sit—”
“No. You fucking tell me where my bodyguard is. This isn’t up for discussion.”
Price clicks his mic. “Price to security, someone give me an update on Farrow.” Right. Farrow never grabbed his radio before he ran outside. Price can’t contact him directly.
He stares faraway. “Price to security,” he repeats. “Someone give me an update on Farrow.”
I cross my arms over my chest. The wait killing me. I turn slightly and spot Akara descending the staircase.
I frown, expecting Sulli to be right behind him. The last image I have—he was with her. I was sure he was with her. “Akara!” I call out. “Where’s Sulli?”
Damaged Like Us (Like Us Series Book 1) Page 21