Infamous Like Us (Like Us 10)

He tenses. “Guys—”

“I got it,” I interject, not wanting him to dig a deeper hole. “We were talking about the parents.” I try to backtrack. “If we have to leave behind our client, temps will shift onto them once we put in the call on comms.”

Olympics have become “help the most threatened” kind of security.

There’ve been events where we’ve all had each other’s backs. Everyone agreed this is the best tactic because it’ll ensure a fortified barrier against a threat.

Akara switches scenarios. We rehash hecklers targeting the oldest five (Jane, Maximoff, Charlie, Beckett, Sullivan) to hecklers targeting Baby Ripley to fans encroaching our clients’ space in the stadium. And after we fly through those, Akara announces another, “Pregnancy Emergency.”

Farrow combs a hand through his bleach-white hair. “With Jane or Millie Kay?”

“Millie Kay. You start off.”

He chews gum slowly. “She’ll be around me and Maximoff. I don’t see her leaving our side. It’s not like she knows any of you fuckers that well, besides Thatcher.”

I lift a shoulder. True.

Every time I’ve run into Millie Kay Miller at the penthouse, she’s on her way out or in. Barely says a fuckin’ word. Like she’s intimidated or starstruck by half of us. What I know: she’s twenty-four, born in Iowa, and currently the surrogate carrying Maximoff & Farrow’s child.

Their baby is due one month after my brother’s baby.

“In the case that Millie Kay needs medical assistance,” Akara says, “there’ll be a complete rotation in bodyguards to make sure she gets out of the stadium as fast as possible.” I listen as Akara dives into details and then transitions into Jane’s pregnancy.

Pregnant emergencies are something I hate we have to consider. Hell, I’ve prayed to about seven different saints to avoid that situation. But if one does come up, we have a plan.

The door opens.

Hello, Cinderella.

Thatcher enters with a chocolate smoothie and a Styrofoam to-go container. Look, I don’t like when people compare us, and fuck me when I do it to myself. But I’m the one that loses everything.

I know my brother didn’t lose his way to Sulli’s room.

“What’s up?” Akara asks him, zeroing in on the food. “Is Sulli okay?” He touches his mic, about to radio the temp guard, but Thatcher gives him a stiff, hearty nod.

So Akara slowly drops his hand.

For a blip of a second, Thatcher looks to me, and I swear something is torn up in his gaze. My best guess: my brother is having a fuckin’ tug-of-war in his head.

I just hope it’s not about me or Akara or Sulli.

“You miss us, Thatch?” Donnelly slips off his reading glasses.

“I’d bet five on yes,” Oscar adds. “He made a pit stop just to say hi.”

Farrow rolls his eyes. “He hasn’t said anything yet.”

“So you want to put five on no, Redford?”

I jump in, “Thatcher?” My frown deepens. Is this about his wife? “Is Janie okay?”

“Yeah.” He nods, just as stiffly as before. One tensed breath later, he places the smoothie and to-go carton in front of me. “You take these to Sulli and Luna.”

Confusion eats at me, but a strange urgency pushes me harder. I stand up, shoving my chair in, and whisper, “Why couldn’t you do it?” He said Sulli is fine.

No.

He nodded to Akara.

Is that the same thing?

Unholy shit, my mind is whirling at five jarring speeds.

Wouldn’t he think it’d be more important for me to be in this meeting? That’s why he went to take their lunch orders in the first place. During the event, he’ll be in the stands on Jane’s detail and I’ll be on the ground protecting the Olympian where more scenarios for failure exist.

He’s cagey as fuck as he bends towards my ear. Whispering, he says, “You need to go talk to your girlfriend.”

I cast a glance at Akara.

He mouths, what is it?

I shake my head, unsure, but I fist Thatcher’s shirt and drag him over to the wall. Drag is a harsh word for what I do, considering his big, coordinated feet do a good job of following my movement.

“Banks.”

“Thatcher,” I snap, drawing us further away from the Yale boys and Gabe and unfortunately Akara.

Get this right: I’m not about to rush out without Akara, my metamour—not when Thatcher’s giving me absolute shit to go off of. I love my brother like something deep. And beneath his serious features, I can tell he’s cut up over…

Over what?

“It can wait?” I ask him.

“No. It can’t.” He rakes a hand through his hair.

“What’s going on?”

Thatcher would’ve used comms and radioed in an emergency. Christ, he would’ve never left my girlfriend if she were in trouble. He’d throw himself in front of a speeding train for Sulli. And I know that’s been hard for her to believe—considering he’s not warm and fuzzy—but he’d die for her without thought.

I know if I’m the six-seven teddy bear to Sulli, he’s the fucking grizzly.