Damaged Like Us (Like Us Series Book 1)

by Krista Ritchie

  “You have friends?” he shoots back, sarcastic.

  “Moffy!” Her mouth drops. “You’re a Hufflepuff. Be nice.”

  Maximoff wraps his arm around his mom. “Farrow is my exception, Mom, and he hasn’t even been sorted—”

  “Your mom sorted me last year.” Her love for Harry Potter runs deep.

  Lily nods firmly. “He’s Gryffindor.”

  I blow a mocking kiss to Maximoff.

  He licks his lips, trying to layer on a grimace, but he fails. Lily observes us for another second, then she asks again, “Do you know anyone that maybe would like to date Moffy, maybe?”

  Maximoff groans and sighs heavily. “We’ve talked about this.”

  She’s always wanted him to stop having one-night stands. Her past is riddled with casual sex partners, and as a sex addict, she fears a destructive path for her son. Just based on her own experiences.

  Before I can speak, Lo wipes his hands with a dishtowel and asks me, “How old are your friends?”

  I hang on the fringe of most “friendship circles” that I accumulated in college. I always preferred the other guys from Studio 9, but in this hypothetical scenario where he isn’t my boyfriend—I know more than a few people who’d be willing to date the hottest celebrity in town.

  I want to say, he’s mine.

  He’s mine, and I’m not sharing him with any fucking man or woman. I grit my teeth once and play along, “Around my age, twenty-seven.”

  “No,” Lo says flat-out. “That’s too old.”

  My jaw tics. “It’s only a five-year gap—”

  “And my brother married a young girl with a seven-year age-gap—it comes with too many complications. Gotta nip that before it starts.” He points at Maximoff. “Heed the advice, bud.”

  He wants easy for his son.

  I make his everyday easier, but if we were together in front of his family and in the public, I’d be one of the most complicated choices of his life.

  But I remember I’m with a steadfast, unshakable guy. Maximoff stares right at me with resilience and finality that says, I want you.

  Only you.

  33

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  AFTER DINNER AND BIRTHDAY CAKE, my dad asks to talk in private with me. We’re on the back patio. I flick on the pool lights so we’re not swamped in darkness.

  I take a seat on the nearest patio chair, and he sits on the edge of a lounge chair.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  My dad has this severe-cut face. All sharp lines. No soft features. When he’s serious or contemplative, he’s even more uninviting.

  I’ve never feared him.

  Even now, as his jaw sharpens and he pours his intense focus through me.

  “I haven’t brought this up in a year,” he begins, “because I thought you needed time to sort through things yourself. But we have to talk about your hair.”

  Fuck.

  I run my hand through the light-brown strands. “It’s getting long, yeah,” I say, sarcasm thick. Dreading where this conversation may lead.

  “Maximoff,” my dad says, truly serious when he uses my full name. “Just explain to me what’s going on. Where’s your head at?”

  I like that my dad does that. Asks me before going down a cavernous path assuming shit. He gives me the chance to explain my side. And I don’t waste it.

  Squeezing a water bottle in my tight hand, I say, “I don’t want to look like Uncle Ryke. I’m so…fucking sick of people comparing me to him.” I swallow a pit in my throat. “It’s every other day, Dad. If I don’t fight like him, then I’m wearing green underwear. It’s just complete bullshit at this point.” I uncap my water. “And before you say, the rumors will never go away, I get that. I’m not trying to convince anyone you’re my dad. I have DNA evidence. That’s not what this is about.”

  He frowns deeply. “Then what is this about?”

  My chest hurts, just having to stare him in the eye and utter these words. But it’s been a year, and it’s time to say them.

  “It’s about people knowing that I love you,” I say strongly. “That you’re a good dad. That you raised me, and I’d be proud to be like you. But the more I look like him and act like him, the more they dissociate me from you.”

  Why can’t my successes be associated with the Hale family? Is it so fucking hard for the media to believe that addicts can raise a good man? A good son?

  My dad shakes his head repeatedly. Like I see the world from such a skewed lens.

  “Moffy, I can’t think of anything worse for you than you being more like me,” he says clearly, plainly, unmistakably. A cold dagger pierces my gut. “The fact that you’re more like Ryke is my greatest achievement as a father.”

  My nose flares. I grip my water bottle harder. Trying to restrain emotion that threatens to rock me. I don’t agree with him. I can’t agree, but he’s sitting here telling me that I turned out okay. Maybe that’s a compliment, but I just see my dad tearing himself down to build me up.

  “I want to be more like you,” I say. “You’re a great person. The fact that you and the media can’t see it is a goddamn problem.” All they see is a recovering alcoholic. They wait for him to fail. They’re shocked and surprised when he succeeds. It’s fucking aggravating.

  “You didn’t know me at my worst,” he reminds me. “The media did. And I’ve lived with myself too long to be disillusioned that the bad parts of me have just magically gone away. They exist inside of me, and it’s a daily battle that I’m glad you don’t share.”

  I pinch my burning eyes.

  “So will you stop with this?” he asks.

  I drop my hand and breathe in flaming determination. “It’s not about what you think. It’s never been about what you think.” It’s about everyone else. He may see himself as a villain, but I won’t add to the demonization of Loren Hale.

  It’s my job to showcase the narrative where he’s the hero. Where I’m the son that idolizes him, and I need everyone to see that.

  His jaw cuts like a blade. His glare just as brutal. “No. No goddamn way are you changing who you are because you think the world needs to love me.”

  “I’m not changing who I am,” I combat. “It’s just hair. It’s just a fucking color that I’m not wearing.”

  “Then why aren’t you doing the ultra?” he refutes. “Give me another reason that you’d miss out on an experience like that. Go for it. I’m waiting.”

  Fuck.

  Off my shock, he says, “Yeah, Ryke called me the other day. He said Sulli told him you’re having second thoughts. All because my brother ran an ultra-marathon before. Moffy, do you see what’s happening here?”

  I set my intense gaze on the star-blanketed night, and I make a decision right here. “I’ll do the ultra.”

  “And you’ll stop dyeing your hair,” he adds. His unspoken words: you’ll let this go completely. Can I let go and do nothing? Can I live with myself?

  I lower my gaze to my dad. “I have to keep trying.”

  He just stares at me and says, “One day you’re going to look back and realize why you were wrong. You’re going to understand. One day.”

  34

  FARROW KEENE

  “WHAT THE FUCK,” Maximoff mutters as he inspects a box of hair dye and then he rereads the back label.

  We’re in my bathroom, same hellishly small size as his, but no decorations exist. See, both townhouses are currently empty. No Jane or Quinn around while they spend the night in Manhattan, visiting her twin brothers. So we have free reign of my place for today and most of tomorrow.

  “Missing something?” I ask while I’m at the sink. I fit a #2 blade into my hair clippers.

  “Gloves.” He rummages in a plastic bag of shit he just bought at the drugstore. That outing took three hours, extra security, and my knee in a fucker’s groin.

  When we exited the store, a middle-aged photographer tried to grab Maximoff by the crotch. Tried being the key word.

  The ma
n ended up bent over in pain.

  Maximoff may be used to hands all over him in massive crowds like a packed concert—people tugging at his shirt, his waist, even pulling at his hair and neck—but no way in fucking hell am I letting anyone cup his ass or grab his dick.

  “More disposable ones are under the sink,” I tell him and set the bladed clippers on the edge. Our eyes lock in a hot beat. And he hones in on my abs, my shirt off and tucked in my back pocket.

  He licks his lips. “I can get them.” Maximoff nears, then kneels and digs through the cabinet. His shoulder brushes my leg.

  “You look good on your knees,” I say.

  “Even better than you,” he rebuts.

  My lips lift. “That’s not what you said last night when you came in my mouth.”

  Maximoff shoots me a half-hearted glare. I’m going to be honest here: he’s basically smiling. Gloves in hand, he straightens up—and his chest accidentally bumps into mine.

  Stubbornly, we don’t move.

  His irritation and slow-growing smile surface with a look that says, you’re the one in my way.

  I’m definitely starting to love this whole lack of space thing. I reach up and slide my fingers through his thick hair. “So you want to match your roots then?”

  Maximoff stares off a little bit as my fingers skate along his scalp. He really likes that. His body shifts closer, waist knocking into mine.

  I rake my hand through his hair again. “It’s not too late to go blue.”

  “What?” He blinks out of his stupor. Where’d you go?

  He didn’t hear me.

  “Blue hair, wolf scout,” I repeat, massaging his head.

  His brows knit. “I like your black hair.”

  I almost laugh. I’d pay to see what he’s picturing when he tunes out his surroundings. “Okay, but I didn’t mean blue hair for me. I meant for you.”

  “No way.” He turns, just to grab his box of dye, but my hands drop off him. “That’s something you can shelve in the never fucking happening category.”

  I lean my side on the sink. “Isn’t that the category where you placed me driving?” I give him a look. “Seems like a flexible category.”

  He flips me off. “It’s not.”

  I watch him open the box and start to mix hair dye in a plastic bowl. Maximoff always dyes his hair himself, so the whole process isn’t new for him.

  We share the mirror and the tight space in front of the sink. I plug in the bladed clippers.

  Next to me, he tugs off his shirt. Damn, those abs. Maximoff throws his gray crew-neck aside.

  And he suddenly asks, “You think I’m a prude?”

  Maximoff. “That wasn’t even on my mind.” I remember what Kinney called him two days ago. “But I see it’s been eating at yours.”

  He rubs lotion on his forehead near his hairline. Just so the dye won’t stain his skin. “I’m just thinking about how I didn’t get a piercing with my siblings, and I’m thinking about what that means. And maybe it says I don’t love them enough to get one.”

  “Or it says that you’re not easily peer pressured, not even by your siblings.” I stare at him through the mirror. “You refused a piercing, knowing you didn’t want one—that’s hot.”

  He’s smiling. And trying not to. He puts on his gloves.

  I push back the top, long black strands of my hair. I’m only lightly trimming the sides. “Anyway,” I say, “I don’t think you’re a prude. But you’re definitely another ‘p’ word.” I run the blade above my ear.

  “It better be philanthropic.” Maximoff spreads dye in his hair like shampoo. In the mirror, he watches my hands more than he watches himself.

  My smile widens. “Pure.”

  He blinks into a glare. “I forgot that you don’t know the definition of purity.”

  I run my blade over the same spot. “You can have a lot of sex and still be pure.” I’ll always see him as being genuinely good-hearted. “And if anyone disagrees with me, I don’t give a flying shit.”

  His throat bobs like my words just fisted his cock. He tenses, and then slicks his hair back with dark brown dye. “You know why I’m going back to my natural color?”

  “I can crack a guess, but no, I don’t know for sure.” I didn’t want to pressure him to tell me. I figured he’d open up when he was ready.

  Our gazes meet through the mirror. “It felt right,” he says strongly. “I didn’t mind dyeing my hair lighter or wearing more red instead of green, but all it was doing was adding conflict in my family. So it felt right to go back.” He combs more dye through his hair. “I’ll find another way to show the world I’m proud of my dad. Just not this anymore.”

  I trim the other side of my head. I’ve always believed he’s damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t, and all he can do is trust his gut instinct. He once asked what I thought, and I just said, “I’d go with the option where you’re not fighting with yourself.”

  Maximoff knows who he is better than most people know themselves. If something felt wrong, he’d be the first to recognize that. And I’m happy he didn’t hesitate.

  “You know I’ll stand beside whatever you do,” I say with a smile, tilting my head to run the blade further back. “Unless it’s bullshit. Then I’ll call you out and you’ll stand beside me.”

  “What a turn of events,” Maximoff says, no sarcasm present, “the rebel wants someone next to him.”

  “Yeah. I want your smartass.” I hold his gaze. I’ve never spent this much time with anyone. Not even my last client. Not an ex or a friend, and if there were extra hours in the day, I’d choose to spend them with this guy.

  Fuck, I’m hooked.

  Maximoff holsters his fuck me eyes. Just to slick his hair back one last time. He snaps off his gloves, and after tossing them in the trash, he sets a ten-minute timer on his phone. “Need help?” he asks me.

  No, wolf scout. I can easily cut my hair myself, but no one has ever asked to help me either. Hell, it’s more than cute.

  “Here.” I pass him the clippers, and Maximoff comes up behind me, all confidence. I look at him through the mirror. “Cut from the back of my neck upward, no higher than my ear.”

  “Got it.”

  I clutch the edge of the sink. Standing in a slight lunge, head dipped, so he can reach my neck without extending his arms high.

  Maximoff grips my shoulder to keep me steady. Then he runs the blade across my neck. He’s doing better than a good or decent job. I’d seriously believe he’s trimmed my hair a thousand times before. I remember what his brother said. How Maximoff is a pro at everything on his first try.

  Okay, it’s somewhat true.

  His forest-greens flit to me in the mirror. Yeah, I’m letting you help me. It’s turning him on.

  I stretch my arm behind me and grab his ass, and then he steps nearer, his dick up against my ass. My breath cuts short, fuck—I can feel him hardening.

  My muscles sear, veins pulsating. “Someone’s excited.”

  “Barely,” he rebuts.

  I roll my eyes. “I know what your ‘barely’ hard cock feels like, wolf scout, and that’s not it.”

  He tries to glower, but he has serious kiss me, fuck me, cuddle me eyes right now.

  I grit down, my dick rousing.

  I watch him turn off the clippers, finished, and I brush pieces of hair off my shoulders and into the sink basin. I check out the back of my hair that he trimmed. Yeah, he can do that again.

  Maximoff puts away the clippers. “Good?”

  “Eh, barely.”

  He shoots me two middle fingers and straightens up. Nearing me. I lean my shoulders on the wall and give him a slow once-over. He still needs to wash out his hair dye.

  Fuck, I can’t stop looking at him.

  My nickname for Maximoff fits him better than he realizes. He’s aggressive, short-tempered and insanely protective of his pack. Like a wolf. Then he’s resourceful, resilient, reliant and responsible. Able to survive any situation.


  Those two words embody Maximoff Hale more than any other. And for as long as I’m alive, he’ll be wolf scout to me.

  He places a hand on the wall. Beside my shoulder. I unbutton his jeans, and his other hand already dives down the front of my black pants, stroking me—fuck, a groan scratches my throat.

  I watch his gaze drift for the slightest second, then focuses more clearly on me.

  I rub his very-far-from-barely hard cock. “What were you just thinking?”

  He licks his lips. “That I fucking love how you smell.”

  This is the first I’ve heard this from him. “What’s the scent?”

  His muscles flex, as I change grip. He curses beneath his breath before he says, “Mint…fresh water and man.”

  I could push up against him, but the timer beeps and cuts us off. We retract our hands, trying to ignore the unresolved tension for right now. Within maybe a minute or two, he’s buck-naked in the shower, rinsing out the hair dye.

  While I wait for him, I grab a Celebrity Crush magazine out of the drugstore bag. He bought the tabloid to see if they mentioned the Charity Camp-Away that begins in five days.

  I rest against the sink and flip through the glossy pages.

  Showering, Maximoff rakes his hands through his dark brown hair, watching me while water douses him.

  I look up at him and flip another page. “Something you want to say?”

  “It’s fucking weird seeing you with a tabloid.”

  He doesn’t realize how often I have to search social media and tabloid comments for potential “chaos” and threats.

  I turn one more page.

  And I land on a Like Us article. I scan the giant photograph of Luna, Xander, and Kinney, the Hale siblings congregated at a booth inside Superheroes & Scones. A fan must’ve taken the photo.

  The Like Us articles have been printed in this magazine for years, and they’re relatively harmless. The subtitle is always the same: the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts—they’re like us! They read books. They love movies. They go shopping!