Headstrong Like Us (Like Us 6)

I point the champagne bottle to Akara. “Let’s be honest here, Kitsuwon’s been on his phone more than me.”

His eyes are fixed to his cell. “Just trying to make sure the temps don’t make a stupid mistake while we’re over here.” We don’t acknowledge the fact that all of us have our radios on, even though we’re off-duty.

It’s been harder to let go when the temps aren’t well trained yet.

And mention of that just sets us on alert again. I steal my phone back from Oscar, and I snuff out my cigarette, while also scanning the nightclub. I’ve pictured Maximoff over at the other bar around forty-one times now. Make it forty-two.

Quinn shrugs. “Isn’t there an obvious solution? Let’s just go to their bar.”

“Can’t.” I hand him the champagne.

Donnelly holds a Zippo flame to his cigarette and adds, “He promised the groom they’d have separate bachelor parties.”

It wasn’t so much a promise as it was an agreement.

I also agreed to have fun. I am, but it’s harder with him not around. Can’t lie, I like Maximoff’s company. Love it, even.

Donnelly tosses me the pack of cigarettes. I smack it against my palm.

“Why isn’t Luna here?” Jack asks us. “I thought she was part of Farrow’s wedding party.”

“She wanted to be with her siblings,” I say easily. No problem with me. She’d probably have more fun with Maximoff since her closest friends are over there too.

Thatcher carefully pulls a Jenga piece. “It says, Maximoff.”

I light a cigarette. “I’m still wondering why I have to answer all these ones when he drew it.”

“Our rules,” they collectively say.

Arbitrary rules are bottom-rung rules, but I don’t mind playing into these. I motion for the question.

Akara passes the paper to Banks, and he reads off the sheet, “Did Maximoff Hale tell a joke to the paparazzi and ask, What do you call a woman with four legs? And he answered his own joke with, doggy style.”

“You motherfuckers.” I shake my head with a smile and slight cringe because Maximoff would be doubled-over mortified if he heard them bring up that viral video.

He told that joke when he was five-years-old to a passing cameraman, and he thought doggy style referred to a girl dog. He was just a little innocent kid.

“The Groom isn’t here,” Oscar grins. “He’s safe from the roast.”

For the game, I answer, “Yeah, he said that.”

“First one right!” Donnelly cheers.

Akara, Banks, Thatcher, and Jack all clap together, most smiling—the Moretti brothers pull off a serious brood too well—and Oscar shoves the champagne back in my chest.

“OSLIE! OSLIEEEE!” a fan screams so loud, we can hear them over the bass. Damn.

Oscar’s face sobers.

Oslie = Oscar and Charlie.

A pairing that doesn’t exist, but there’s a weird as fuck theory circulating the internet about SFO being fake. That we’re all pretending to be bodyguards and our clients are just our secret relationships. Sure, Thatcher and I are engaged to our clients and that did not help in deescalating this shit, but there are serious holes in this rumor.

It’d mean that Akara was dating Sulli when she was sixteen. Now even mentioning them hooking up to Akara will bring out a glare that makes you feel like you’re one-inch tall.

“OSLIEEEE!”

“Is that the favorite fake ship or what?” Donnelly asks.

Oscar frowns darkly. “Someone else can take that title. I don’t want it.”

Banks raises a shot glass. “I’m Team Kitsulli.”

Akara punctures him with a glare. There it is.

A crooked smile edges Banks’ mouth, and he pounds back the shot.

“Is Sulli still dating Will?” Jack wonders.

Akara glances back at Banks, but not with another glare. With a look that I honestly can’t read, and it’s not my business. I smoke and check my phone for new messages.

None.

“Yeah,” Akara tells Jack. “Will is still around.”

I’ve heard enough through comms about the Rooster, aka Will Rochester (Sulli’s boyfriend). And it’s easy to crack a guess that they’d like a different guy to date Sulli. I don’t have strong feelings about the issue, except that Maximoff doesn’t love the Rochester family.

From my vantage, Will Rochester is as interesting as beige wallpaper. But if he makes Sulli happy, who am I to judge?

Banks zones in on the pack of cigarettes I throw on the table. “Mother of God, I need to get drunk.” Standing to his feet, he walks to the other side of the VIP couch and seizes a bottle of vodka.

Thatcher follows his movements with his eyes like a protective big brother, even though he’s only six minutes older.

“Oscar’s turn.” Donnelly taps ash into the tray.

He pries out a block and reads, “Dare. The arrow is pointing to…”

Donnelly blows a middle-finger kiss.

“Fuck you,” Oscar says casually.

Donnelly contemplates a dare for Oscar, staring up at the strobe lights. “I dare you…to let the groom pierce your nose.”

Oscar sighs like Donnelly took a kill shot.