Charlie stands at the other end. I shake my head a few times. He carries poise like a unique possession only he owns. His tweets go viral in under seconds. His words are like cannonballs thrown into pools.
You’ve seen him on We Are Calloway. You’ve watched him as long as you’ve watched me.
Threads about Charlie being a miniature version of his father—genius IQ, egotistical, self-serving and pretentious—swim around the internet like truths, but they’re webbed from slanted perceptions.
You think you know Charlie Keating Cobalt.
But you have no fucking clue.
I know him as my cousin who turned twenty in September, just two months ago. Who skipped two grades and landed in mine. Who cheated off my science homework only because he could—not because he needed to.
As the eldest sons of two larger than life men, we both know what it’s like to be shadowed by someone else’s past. But for as many similarities as we share—for as many things that should bond us together—we’ve chosen to let them push us apart.
Fair warning: you fuck with him, it’s going to make me want to defend him. So don’t.
All in one swift move, he tugs back the chair, sits down, and kicks his black leather shoes onto the oak table. His yellow-green eyes cement on me. “What’d I miss?”
I temper my irritation and say easily, “What are you doing here, Charlie?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” He spreads out his arms. “I’m attending a board meeting.”
“You haven’t been to a board meeting since you were put on this board,” I remind him. I’m highly aware that fifteen other people separate me from my cousin. Fifteen people observe this interaction with keen interest that hoists my guards tenfold.
“There’s a first for everything.” Charlie waves me on, then leans an elbow on his chair. Propping his head up with a finger by his temple.
He’s pissed at me.
But this is Tuesday and the sky is blue. So everything is as it should be.
I speak to the other board members. “We’re done here anyway. I’ll see you all next week. Thanks for coming.”
They collect their things. Sending wary glances at Charlie before filing out.
When the room empties, Charlie’s feet fall to the floor. He makes no move to cross the boardroom. The long empty table divides us.
I cross my arms. “How long did it take you to plan that entrance?”
“That’s the problem with you,” Charlie says, “you think everything has to be coordinated and premeditated. When the honest truth is: I was driving by your office. I wanted to talk to you. I stopped by. No, I didn’t wait for the board meeting to be over because who the fuck cares.”
“I care,” I snap. “And that’s the problem with you. You can’t account for anyone’s feelings but your own.”
“Why should I?” he combats. “You dominate the role of over-protective brother and cousin. I have no fucks to give because you’ve taken all of them.”
“Are you really sitting there and blaming me for your own lack of empathy?” I say, dumbfounded.
“I’m making an observation,” he says. “And second, I do care. It’s why I’m here. You just can’t fathom a scenario where someone else cares more about this family than you.” He rolls forward to the edge of the table. “The world believes you have no ego, but you’ve done a bang-up job of choking it down. I’m not even sure you know it’s in there.” He waves a finger towards my body, my stomach. “Slowly but surely engorging.”
I blow out a breath, clench my teeth. A growl scratches my throat, one that I won’t let out.
Fighting with him leads nowhere good. Growing up, we were in plenty of fistfights, usually with his twin brother and Janie physically separating us.
We’re caustic together. No matter how much we try for a better relationship, we always drive down the same road. Sometimes I think he just likes being on the opposite side of me.
I uncross my arms. “Just tell me why you’re here. If this is about Jane—”
“It’s not. I respect my sister enough not to intervene in your friendship,” he says but has to add, “even if I think you can be a piece of shit.”
“Thank you for that,” I say dryly. “It’s not a nutritionally balanced day until you’ve called me a piece of shit.” I shut my tablet off as a notification pops up. “Why are you here?”
“The Camp-Away,” he says. “I never received my invite.”
You’ve got to be shitting me.
“I stopped sending you charity function invites a year ago,” I remind him. “You usually don’t show. On the occasion that you do grace us with your larger-than-life, peacocking presence—”
“Classy, peacocking.”
“—you never RSVP,” I say, but I’m not done. “In 365 days, you’ve never come to complain. So why now?”
“This is your biggest event of the year,” he tells me. “I’m sincerely hurt that you wouldn’t even text me about it.”
“You don’t text back!” I’m nearing the edge of a cliff that I want to push him off of. But I can’t. He’s family. “Pop up our text conversation right fucking now. There’s a row of about fifty texts you’ve never responded to.” I gesture from my chest to his. His to mine. “This is a two-way street.”
Charlie doesn’t deny that fact. “Am I invited or not?”
“No,” I say firmly. “You’re not invited because if I make the announcement to the press and you don’t show, then that’s on the philanthropy.”
“Then don’t make the announcement.”
“I don’t want surprise guests.”
Charlie lets out a vexed breath. “You just don’t want me there. And you can’t admit it, like a coward.” He stands.
I stand.
Someone raps the door. We quiet when it swings open, and Farrow stops himself from entering fully. He sees Charlie.
He sees me.
Farrow says to me, “Do you need me to come back later—”
“No. I’m almost done.” I watch Farrow slip inside and shut the door behind him. He leans his shoulders against the wood.
My focus returns to Charlie. “You’re unreliable and erratic. You’re not invited. And I’m not joking around, Charlie. If you show up unannounced, I’ll get security to escort you out.” I doubt I’d actually follow through with the threat, but I need to make my point clear.
Charlie doesn’t blink. “You’d use our security against me? There are only five bodyguards in Omega. One is at the door, and what would you tell them? Treat Charlie like the enemy.”
“No. You’re not my enemy. You’re my family, and the amount of energy I’ve spent trying to include you in the past could row a goddamn fleet of Viking ships—but you refused to jump on board. You wanted to do your own thing, and I get it. Go do your own thing. Stop fucking with mine.”
Charlie sits partially on the edge of the table, hand in his pocket. He turns his head to my bodyguard. “Tell me you see how big of a self-righteous asshole he is.”
Standing leisurely but on guard, Farrow says coldly, “I see how big of a prick you are.”
Charlie arches a single brow. “We both could be right.”
“Unlikely.”
“Then you’re a self-righteous asshole too.” Charlie stands. “Looks like you’re a perfect match for each other.”
I go rigid, even though he’s just referring to my bodyguard-client relationship. At that final note, Charlie exits—and I’m left hoping and praying that he’ll leave the Camp-Away alone.
31
MAXIMOFF HALE
FARROW INSPECTS my childhood bedroom like it’s a relic in a museum. He wanders to the wooden dresser and picks up The Fourth Degree action figures. His brown eyes swing to the black-painted walls, X-Men chalk drawings, and all the Batman posters.
He’s the first person outside of my family that I’ve ever let into my world this deep. And it’s not a fucking fantasy. I’ve dreamed up Farrow Redford Keene in thi
s bedroom a thousand damn times. And usually he’s only on the bed.
You know—I prefer my reality. Where he’s a hell of a lot more than a good fuck.
I grab a wet bone off my orange rug. Tossing the thing on Gotham’s dog bed. Farrow whistles at the racks and racks of comic books and graphic novels that tower to the ceiling.
He runs his fingers down the spines.
I lean on my desk, arms crossed. “What does your old bedroom look like?”
“Messier than yours.” Farrow flips through a hefty graphic novel called Duncan the Wonder Dog by Adam Hines. One of my favorites. “Nirvana, Blink 182 posters tacked up, school books only, an expensive surround system, and a boxing bag.” He rotates the novel vertical as the panels flip. “In short, I was cooler than you.”
I force an irritated smile. “It’s like you want to be kicked out of my bedroom or something.”
His mouth stretches. “Or something.” He returns the graphic novel to its original spot and continues to meander around.
I can’t stop watching him. It takes a great deal of effort to check my canvas watch. “We can’t stay up here long. My parents should be home with Luna’s cake any minute.”
November 30th marks Luna Hale’s eighteenth birthday. Time fucking flies—I remember when she was just a baby and we’d tap each other’s noses and say beep beep.
As requested by Luna: no big birthday parties, no surprise family guests. Just a small dinner with immediate family, and later her best friends Eliot and Tom Cobalt will come over for a sleepover.
Farrow is here because my little sister has bad taste and has invited him to her birthdays since she was nine. Despite how much he aggravated me, Luna always liked him. Here he was, a pierced and tattooed guy who contrasted his blue-blooded clean-cut family. When you’re different from the pack, it takes more guts to be yourself.
Luna is drawn to people who experience that.
“I have a watch too, wolf scout,” Farrow says. “I see the time.” He sinks down on my small twin-sized bed. Comforter is a Spider-Man print. His brows pinch together.
“What?”
“This is one of the most uncomfortable beds I’ve ever sat on.” He rocks his ass on the mattress. “Fuck, it’s hard.” He leans back on his hands. “Is this why you’re so stiff all the time?”
The sexual innuendos stroke my cock. “My brother probably switched out his shitty mattress with mine when I moved out.” I flex my muscles and straighten up. Eyeing his lip piercing for a brief second—then his hair.
His hair is black.
He dyed the strands the other day, and I descend into this image of him—pretty much consumed. It’s not just that he appears older, or that his intimidation cranks to a higher newfound degree. He’s attractive with any hair color, any piercing, even minus all the tattoos or add them all together.
Honestly, it’s because the first time I ever saw this guy—he didn’t have white hair. Or blue. When I first met Farrow, his hair was jet-black. Like right now.
Today.
Farrow kicks a pillow aside and props his shoulders against my headboard. I imagine joining him, and he’ll pin me to the bed, then I roll him over, his stomach to the mattress.
Gripping his waist, tugging down his black pants enough to expose his perfect round ass, my mouth trails along his neck. And descends to the spot between his muscular shoulders—
“Maximoff.” His deep voice pitches me from a fantasy.
I lift my eyes.
He smiles.
“What?” I combat.
Farrow bends a knee. “Are you thinking about the philosophical meaning of the world or are you thinking about fucking me in the ass?”
Christ. I lick my lips, wanting my mouth against his mouth. Badly. I near the bed. “I wasn’t inside you yet.”
“Yet,” he repeats, his gaze sweeping my body in a boiling wave. He gestures me closer, until he stretches over and catches my wrist. He wrenches me onto the bed with him.
I’m on top of Farrow, my hands on either side of his head, but he hooks his legs around my waist and swiftly reverses me like I’m an MMA opponent. My head hits the pillow. He’s on top.
Farrow brings his mouth near mine. “You may dominate in the pool, but when it comes to submission moves and grappling, I’ll always have you beat.”
I breathe heavily. Chest rising and falling beneath him. One night, I asked Farrow to show me a submission move. True to his nature, he didn’t go easy. Not even on his boyfriend. I had to tap out of the chokehold in less than twenty seconds.
Farrow straddles my waist and sits up to reach into his leather jacket pocket. I’m about to say we can’t fuck here, but I stop myself when no condom appears.
He holds a black box.
The same black box I once gave him. The asshole merit badge is stitched to the back of his leather jacket. So I know he’s not returning my gift.
Farrow discards the box behind his back and clutches the object in a closed fist. He leans closer to me. In an affectionate, deep breath, he whispers, “Hold out your left wrist.”
He’s put a fucking spell on me. I never hesitate. I raise my wrist, our eyes melting against each other. Farrow opens his tattooed hand. Revealing a gray paracord bracelet, which can be unwound into rope for survival.
We watched Mad Max: Fury Road the other night, and I mentioned how the paracord bracelet on Tom Hardy’s wrist was cool.
That feeling, one that I’ve only felt with him returns like a tidal wave. Welling powerfully inside my chest, and also weightless—light enough that I could fly.
His fingers buckle the bracelet around me. “Just so you understand, you’re much hotter than Tom Hardy.”
I laugh, my eyes burning with emotion.
Farrow drinks in my reaction, his chest collapsing in a strong breath. “Didn’t I tell you?” he whispers, his gaze nearly glassing. “It’s the little things.”
This is what I missed in my life, and I can’t imagine never discovering this feeling. Never having him. I clutch the back of his head, my mouth nudging his open. We kiss deeply, intensely—enough to raise my back off the mattress and my chest to meet his.
We part so I can whisper, “Pretty sure you called it stupid, ordinary shit. Not the little things.”
He laughs against my mouth. “It’s all the fucking same.”
“MOFFY!” my brother screams from down the hall.
Fuck.
Farrow quickly climbs off me, and we’re both on our feet. The second time Xander screams my name, his voice sounds less panicked. More demanding, like get your ass over here.
“I’m being summoned,” I tell Farrow on the way out into the long hallway. His stride matches mine. I stop in front of my brother’s room. A sign hangs on the ajar door and says in Elfish: turn back you fools.
I hear more than just my brother’s voice. All three of my siblings are inside.
Before we enter, Farrow asks, “Do you want me to wait downstairs—”
“No,” I cut him off. “I want you to be here.” I pause. “Unless you don’t want to—”
Farrow kicks the door open wider in response. We go in together, the room a mess of fantasy trade paperbacks, video games, oversized beanbags, and a six-foot-four armored knight stands next to his four-poster bed.
I zero in on Luna waving a piercing gun at our brother. She wears a crop top that says Space Babe and black joggers.
Xander towers above her, already six-feet at fourteen. “I said I would do it, I didn’t say you could do it for me.”
“Come on, Xander, I’m an expert now.”
“What? You got a fucking infection in your tongue.” Disbelief coats his words. He swings his head and sees me and Farrow watching. “Good. You two—tell her to back away with the weapon.”
“Give it.” Farrow approaches, and Luna willingly hands him the piercing gun. “Happy Birthday,” he tells Luna and then inspects the actual device.
“What are you doing?” I ask Luna and motion w
ith two hands to the piercing gun. “And Happy Birthday too.”
“Thankyouthankyou.” She nods to us both and then picks a star sticker off her round cheek. “And I’m celebrating my eighteenth year on this planet.” She places the sticker on her eyelid. “Xander and Kinney said they’d get piercings as a birthday present to me.”
Kinney lies on Xander’s bed, flipping through the television channels. She shrugs. “Seemed easier than going to the mall to buy a present.”
You know Kinney Hale as the Princess of Goth and all things supernatural. A lot of you worship the fuck out of her, and you hope to one day be the recipient of her insults and death glares. You’ve even made video compilations of her epic eye rolls and “no bitch” face. And you wish you were part of her girl squad that includes Winona Meadows, Audrey Cobalt, and Vada Abbey.
I know her as my thirteen-year-old, tough-as-nails little sister who has a soft side that she only allows family to see. And I love the hell out of her.
Fair warning: I used to change this one’s diapers and feed her peas that she’d throw at me. You fuck with Kinney, I’ll slit your throat and then she’ll shove you to the bottom of a volcano.
Luna eyes the piercing gun in Farrow’s hands, then turns to Xander. “You’re still going to get your ear pierced, right?”
“Yeah.” Xander sits on the edge of his bed. “But Moffy’s going to do it. Not you.”
Farrow tilts his head at my brother. “How is he any better than Luna?”
“Five years older than her,” I defend myself.
“Tell me one body part you’ve ever pierced, wolf scout.”
“Burn,” Kinney says, still flipping TV channels.
“None.”
Xander rakes a hand through his bed-head hair. “Moffy is the best at everything.”
Farrow laughs hard.
“Shut the fuck up,” I tell Farrow, trying not to smile as I near him and Luna.
“I’m serious,” Xander says to Farrow, causing his laughter to fade. “Moffy’s never been below average at anything. Every time he tries something new, he’s practically a pro on the first try.”
“It’s magic,” Luna says certainly.
“He’s a demon,” Kinney says. “One of the ugly ones that live in toad holes.”
Damaged Like Us (Like Us Series Book 1) Page 26