Damaged Like Us (Like Us Series Book 1)

by Krista Ritchie

  Only one table away from Maximoff. He has a throng of people squished close. Likewise, Sulli’s table is swarmed with people who want to hear stories about the Olympics.

  Akara, Donnelly, and Oscar all surround her protectively.

  Our earlier coms conversation stays with me.

  Oscar: how could an ant be on his neck?

  Akara: he may’ve been leaning on a tree.

  Donnelly: or someone put it there.

  Quinn: no way.

  Me: I would’ve seen it happen.

  I’m not subscribing to that conspiracy theory. No one collected fire ants just to put them on Maximoff and watch him choke to death. And even if I somehow missed a dipshit who tried to intentionally or unintentionally kill him, the person failed.

  And they’ll lose an arm if they try again.

  Jane blows on her spoonful of chili. “Another one is coming,” she tells me, and sure enough, a twenty-something brunette sits down in front of me.

  This is the seventh girl that’s confronted me just at lunch. During longer events, this happens frequently to the most attractive bodyguards. And let’s be honest, Omega is full of sexy fuckers.

  Eyes start wandering and people start noticing the guys that they can’t have. The ones who are quiet in the corner with ripped muscles and a scowl. It’s gotten a lot of security laid.

  I’ve been hit on by a few men, many more women, and my answer rarely changes: hell no.

  The girl waves to Jane like she’s on the other side of the room and not right next to me. About 95% of her focus centers on me, and she begins, “My name’s Tara. So my tent-mate left today, and it’s just me tonight. You should stop by, check it out. I’ll show you my tattoos—”

  “I’m gay,” I say, pausing to bite into a red apple.

  She blushes. “You could’ve just told me you’re not interested.”

  “I’m not interested,” I say, “and I’m gay.”

  She quickly stands and zips back to her table.

  Jane gives me a curious look.

  “What?”

  “You’re more popular than me.”

  “If I were that popular, I wouldn’t be security. I’d need security.” And Tara won’t remember my face by tomorrow.

  Jane says a French word that I assume means true. Then I follow her gaze to Maximoff.

  He hasn’t been able to touch his lunch. I already grabbed him a to-go bag. And every time he goes for his hot sub sandwich, another person approaches to throw their arms around him. Most to say that they’re happy he’s okay. Others to share their story with him.

  He listens.

  He’s good at that.

  Some girls and guys cry as they talk, and he puts a consoling hand on their back. He focuses harder. He leans closer. Gives them encouragement and praise.

  Like right now, one girl rubs her watering eyes. No older than twenty. She holds her cellphone tight. “It seems silly, but every time you post on Instagram or if I see you in the news or if a new episode of We Are Calloway comes out, it just makes me happy. You’ve always been my favorite. I’ve watched you since I was little. And I feel like we’ve grown up together, in this weird way.”

  “It’s not weird,” he tells her.

  Tears fill her eyes, emotions gather, and where some guys may be uncomfortable, Maximoff reaches out and places a hand on her shoulder.

  She continues, “I just want you to know that you’ve helped me through some dark times, and what you do here, for all of us—it means something.”

  “Can I give you a hug?” he asks her, his eyes reddening.

  She smiles and wipes her tears. “Yes.”

  He pulls her into his arms, and she hugs back.

  She’s one of hundreds, but I know Maximoff will remember the moment. Her name. Everything. These interactions remind me how people find comfort in all kinds of places, with all kinds of people.

  Jane’s expression can only be described as sheer pride. “They love him,” she says fondly. “As they should.” She eats a spoonful of chili.

  I bite into my red apple. I can’t stop thinking about the camp-goers and all the shit they’ve said about Jane. Even about Sulli.

  The women in these famous families have a much harder time gaining favor from the public. It makes no sense to me.

  Think about it: the “fans” claim to love Maximoff to the ultimate core. Yet, they still hate Jane. If they loved him at all, they’d realize how much he’d despise anyone who spewed malice towards his best friend.

  All day, my mind has been blaring protect Jane Cobalt.

  And if anyone asked me at the start, if I had an opportunity to sit beside Maximoff or to sit next to Jane in a camp mess hall—which would I choose.

  I’d never believe them if they said Jane.

  And here I am.

  Keeping her company. Just because I fucking feel like it.

  “They could love you one day too, Jane,” I say, turning my apple for another spot to bite. She has her fair share of fans online, but not very many seem to be here.

  “I don’t need their love.” Jane stirs her chili and then meets my gaze.

  We both overhear those five bastards nearby. They congregate at a table to the left of ours. Still dressed in yellow shirts from the capture the flag game. Still obnoxiously fixated on Jane.

  “Do you see what she’s wearing? God, it’s ugly.”

  I take a larger, more vexed bite of apple.

  Jane has on leopard pants, a frilly shirt and some sort of teal faux fur collar. And who cares what the fuck she’s wearing? Jane reaches for her water, never blinking.

  “Isn’t her mom a fashion designer? That’s just fucking sad, man.”

  I chew roughly and layer on a glare, about at my max. Ready to confront some bastards. Oscar’s “talk” to them obviously did shit.

  “It’s all for attention.”

  Jane never flinches.

  Maximoff does. Overhearing that last part as their voices escalate. His forest-greens turn to hot pinpoints.

  That’s it. Fingers to my mic, I tell the security team, “Don’t follow me.” I stand up, half-bitten apple in hand, and I turn my radio’s volume to a soft chatter I can ignore.

  My feet carry me to the table of five twenty-year-old bastards. I know their names by heart, but honestly, I’m not using them anymore. To me, they’re just bastards and dipshits.

  As soon as I tower above their table, they go absolutely quiet. Their gazes latch onto my plethora of tattoos and my T-shirt that says SECURITY.

  “Let’s talk outside,” I tell all of them.

  “We’re not doing anything wrong,” one tells me.

  “I didn’t say you were,” I say calmly, biting my apple. I can’t raise my voice. I can’t raise my fists. I intimidate without inciting chaos. “Let’s just go outside and have a chat. It won’t take long.” I nod towards the exit.

  Just like that, they all agree.

  For a few minutes, I lecture them about the importance of being kind and considerate. You know, the bare minimum of human decency.

  They nod a lot. Whether they’re really listening to me has yet to be determined.

  “Sure,” the blond bastard tells me, “but I think it’s shitty for you to pull us aside and single us out. We paid to be here. You’re taking up our time that could’ve been spent sitting five-feet from Jane Cobalt.” He does a poor job of hiding his smile.

  And his friends burst into grins.

  I grit down, and off my piercing glare, they immediately stop. “Let me make this very fucking clear,” I say. “She doesn’t owe you a thing. Not her time. Not the air between your body and hers. You paid to be in a raffle. For charity. If you choose to overstep, security will throw you the fuck out. But see, I don’t want that to happen.”

  I pause while they hang onto my words.

  And I forge past my despise, just to tell them, “You guys seem cool.” As cool as a fucking idiot. “So the last thing I want is for you to miss out on t
hese last couple days. Be respectful. Tone it down.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. We get it,” one says. “We’ll try to be nicer or whatever.”

  Or whatever. Honestly.

  Another one nods to me. “Thanks, man.”

  “No problem.” Fuck, I just made friends with these dipshits.

  As soon as they all leave, soft static pricks my ear. I turn up the radio.

  “Did he hit them?” Oscar’s voice.

  “Nah, they’re walking away,” Donnelly replies.

  “Hey, guys.” I click my mic. “I’ve made new friends.”

  “Nice work,” Akara tells me, genuine.

  “You boys taking notes?” I ask them.

  “Next time someone should be with you though,” Akara adds. “That could’ve been five on one.”

  I could’ve taken all five of them.

  “Take that note down, Farrow,” Donnelly pipes in.

  I roll my eyes and then watch those five bastards strut down the hill to the lake. I wish I could’ve just kicked them out of the camp. The publicity nightmare of sending someone home would destroy the purpose of the charity event.

  So they have to stay.

  37

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  FARROW UNLOCKS our tent after the bonfire gathering ends. No moon out tonight, day two. I point a flashlight at the entrance and watch the way his fingers fiddle with the key and padlock. And the zipper.

  Try having your bodyguard a few feet from you all day and seeing him in his element: intimidating the hell out of assholes, medically savvy, badass and smart as fuck. Now try not picturing his cock a million times.

  Yeah, that’s hard. Pun intended.

  Now try not being able to touch him. To flash fuck me eyes. To clutch the back of his neck and plunge my tongue against his tongue.

  I could growl I’m so pent-up. I want him.

  All day I’ve wanted him, and I haven’t been able to embrace him.

  I’m not about to jump him like he’s my sex toy. He may be exhausted. So as we both crawl into the tent, I try to hang onto other things.

  Like how this is the last night of the Camp-Away, and there’s been no broken bones. Not too many tears—most of them were happy. And no Charlie. It’s been pretty damn good, even with the first day ant-allergy attack.

  As far as danger goes, it’s been safer than I think the entire security team predicted. After breakfast tomorrow, everyone will start packing up, last goodbyes exchanged, and we’ll all go home.

  I stretch my legs out on my orange sleeping bag, and Farrow padlocks the tent from the inside. As much as I love camping, I’m not a fan of these extra precautions. I’m so used to feeling freer in the wilderness. With this many people around and their cellphone cameras—it’s practically the antithesis of why I camp.

  I peel my shirt off my head. The December chill nipping my bare skin. Farrow edges back beside me, eyeing me from his peripheral while he slowly removes his earpiece and twists the cord around his radio. He places his holstered gun beneath his camping pillow.

  I shut off the flashlights. No more shadows dancing along the tent.

  And we’re isolated from camp-goers—private but not that private. More security is outside. “You know,” I whisper, “I’ve never fucked in a tent.”

  We haven’t done anything yet because of my allergic reaction. My blood pressure has been out of whack, but I’m fine now.

  His brows rise, and he pulls his black V-neck over his head. “Couldn’t convince someone to have a one-night stand in a tent?”

  “No.” My eyes graze the inked dagger on his abs, just barely visible in the darkness. “I just didn’t like the idea of only a thin sheet of canvas separating me from my bodyguard while I was fucking.” Usually there’s at least a wall.

  “Understandable.” Farrow watches me as I watch his fingers. He unbuttons his pants, unzips, and he kicks them off. His heady gaze sweeps me in a slow-burning once-over. And his tight black boxer-briefs suction to his muscles, ass, and his long, thick erection.

  Christ.

  Blood pumps harder, everywhere. Until I’m one thundering pulse.

  I grab his shoulder, and he already rolls on top of me. Legs interlacing, our mouth crushing together, I clench his hair between starved fingers.

  He wrestles with my pants, yanking them off my waist, down my muscular legs. Off me completely.

  Yes, fuck yes.

  I drop my voice to another whisper. “How far did you say the bodyguards were?” Some should be standing outside all night.

  As he lowers to meet my mouth again, he grinds his hard cock against mine. Fuck me. “I told them to give you at least a hundred yards.”

  Almost a football field.

  “Seriously?” I whisper, my excitement and desire pooling hotter. My right hand ascends his carved muscles, and I thumb the barbell on his nipple.

  His lips quirk. “Yeah, but I didn’t do it so we could fuck.” He rests his forearms on either side of my shoulders, and I lie beneath his weight that scorches me head-to-toe. “I did it so you could sleep.”

  I lick my stinging lips. Seeing that sleep is not on the agenda right now.

  Farrow clutches my jaw, his mouth teasingly close as he breathes, “Try not to make a sound.”

  Fuck me. I swallow a groan, and as my cock begs for pressure, he runs his hand down my abs, and lower, he grips my length, then balls.

  “Fuck,” I breathe, waist arching up into him. Fuck me, man. I usually flip us at this point, but the weight of his build on me feels fucking good.

  I yank off his boxer-briefs while he sheds mine. Buck-naked. We move more frenzied, my mouth against his mouth, his strong hand running across the back of my neck, everything sensitive. Lit up, and I stifle a groan in my throat.

  Our bodies dig into each other, skin against skin. Intense friction heating us. The cold air no longer bites at me, but his teeth nip my shoulder. My mouth opens, but I cage the raspy sound.

  Then I reach down and stroke him, his muscles tensing up against me. Jesus. His gravelly noise dies as he grits his teeth.

  He jacks me off and rubs his thumb over the tip. My shoulders dig deep into the sleeping bag, my head wanting to arch back. Fuck me.

  Fuckmefuckmefuckme—I flex, stopping myself from ejaculating. Not happening yet. I place a hand on his chest, and he lets go. I stretch my arm out. Patting his sleeping bag for his small duffel.

  Farrow leans over and finds it. He has the lube and condoms in a flash. Setting them beside us, he kisses my jaw, sucks my neck—my breath heavies.

  I squeeze his bare ass, and fuck, my toes curl as he rakes his teeth across the frame of my shoulder. His warm breath blistering my skin. I’m so worked up—I could easily come. But I want this to last way longer.

  “Farrow,” I breathe.

  He studies my features, even without much light. I think he’s honing in on our position. I’ve let him stay on top for a while, and I’m making no move to switch us yet.

  Farrow runs his fingers affectionately through my hair, and his lips touch my ear. “Do you want me inside of you tonight?”

  His rough but erotic voice fists my erection.

  “Hmm,” a groan rumbles my throat, and my muscles contract beneath his strong build.

  His nose flares, his own scorching arousal hitting him hard. “Maximoff,” he whispers, his hand slowly slides towards my ass.

  Instantly, I catch his wrist. Stopping him. I stiffen in a different way. Like someone inside my body yelled fire in a crowded room.

  “It’s okay,” he breathes, our eyes locked.

  “You know I trust you. It’s just…” I lick my lips. “I can’t jump into that spontaneously. I want it, but…” The next part I’m about to say, I haven’t told him yet. Being vulnerable is like shattering concrete on top of layers and layers of hard metal.

  I lower my voice to a more hushed whisper. He’s so close that he can hear me say, “The two times I’ve tried, I was eighteen, and I got inside
my head. And it…well, it fucking hurt, and I didn’t let it last long.”

  He cups my jaw. “Did he finger you first?”

  “No.”

  Farrow swallows hard, his features skewing towards pissed. “Why wouldn’t he…?” He shakes his head. “No, don’t answer.” He blows out a breath. “Fuck, I care about you, man.” He kisses my temple, then my lips, an I’m never going to hurt you pressed powerfully against my mouth.

  When we break, we’re quiet for a beat.

  Farrow breathes, “It’s not just a trust thing then. You’re nervous?”

  “A little bit.”

  “A little bit,” he repeats like I’m underscoring the truth.

  “A lot,” I correct.

  “We’ll plan nights for it. It’ll be a process to work you up. Because you don’t relax easily.”

  “I don’t?” I say sarcastically. To have even his fingers inside of me, I need to be not nervous, not tensed, not afraid—and that could take hours or days or weeks.

  I want to try. With him. Only him.

  I eye his lips and his piercing. “Do you want it?”

  His brows rise like I can’t see what’s right in front of me. “Do I want to thrust my cock inside of you?”

  My breath goes shallow. “Yeah, do you want to fuck me?”

  His mouth brushes my ear. “Hard and badly.”

  I buck up, our pelvises grinding together.

  A noise catches in Farrow’s throat. He speaks quietly but rapidly, “This can go two ways tonight. One: I stay on top like this, and I’ll put your cock inside of me.” He’s a fucking power bottom. The guy pushes his ass against my dick almost every time we screw. So he’d have no problem doing the grunt work.

  “Or you take me how you’ve fantasized me taking you.”

  That. My cock responds to that. His flexed muscles do too. I answer by pushing his chest up off mine. I’m aggressive in bed.

  And every time I manhandle him, he lets out a breathy curse. An erotic fuck and damn. I kneel beside him and tear open a condom. Sheathing my erection fast.

  His breath quickens, stroking his cock while watching me.

  Fuck me.

  We’re both boiling at the delay. I reposition him. Shoving him down on all fours, his knees on the sleeping bags. Hands on the pillows.