Wild Like Us (Like Us 8)

I love living life on my toes. So quicksand of any type is a fucking fear—being pulled so deep under that I can’t crawl out and move.

Thatcher has trouble smiling on a normal occasion, so drawing one from him now is next to impossible. He’s keyed to a Protect Banks function.

He lets out an angered breath. “Just reconsider where you’re going. It’s not too late to change course. You only kissed once. The deeper you get, the worse it’ll be coming back up for air. I promise you that.” His gaze subtly shifts to Jane.

He’s thinking about her.

But there wasn’t another man waiting in the wings for Jane. His biggest competition was himself. Thatcher Alessio Moretti vs. His Duty.

I’m in a different gladiator match. Unsurprisingly. Thatcher and I take shots at life from different angles, different distances and speeds. Our battles were never gonna be the same.

It’s not too late to change course.

I bob my head a few times. His eyes on my eyes as I tell him, “I’m not going backwards.”

His pained glare hits the night sky.

I’m setting myself up for misery. “I’ll take whatever time I have with her,” I tell him. “Whether it’s a week, two weeks—hell, it could be a year or three. Maybe it’ll be the best three years of my life.”

All I know is that I’d rather crawl hands-and-knees towards a future where Sulli exists than hit reverse and never know what it’s like to be with her.

Either I’m masochistic or an even bigger dumbass, but I’m willing to be both.

“Can you think longer about this?” Thatcher pleads. “Take a day or two.”

He leads with his brain.

I lead with my heart.

After a breath, I nod stiffly, but thing is, I already made my choice. “Got it.”

Thatcher lets out a long sigh, knowing I’m taking his advice and tossing it into the dumpster beside us. Our attention veers over to the sound of crunching gravel. Jane has left SFO behind with the parked rental cars and strolls over to us.

“Don’t tell her—don’t tell anyone,” I whisper quickly to Thatcher.

He brushes a tensed hand over his mouth. His gaze on his fiancée.

“Thatcher.”

“Okay.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, drops his hand. “Okay.” He nods more than once.

“Thank you.” The words barely get out before Jane reaches us.

“Well, you two don’t look suspicious at all,” Jane notes, digging through her pumpkin-shaped purse that hangs on the crook of her elbow. “Just two men lurking in the shadows of a one-star motel.”

I weave my arms. “Practicing for Halloween early. Figured we could be ghosts.”

Her brow rises. Christ, Jane has a way of staring through you. Like my intentions are tattooed from my forehead to my ass-cheeks. “Can you take care of this for me?” She suddenly turns and asks Thatcher, passing him a slip of paper from her purse. The digression almost puts me in a cold sweat.

Thatcher eyes the paper.

“What is it?” I ask.

Jane speaks fast. “The car service that your family is adamant I use for the wedding. I want to hire drivers to pick up guests from Philly to the venue in Newtown Square.”

The castle-like venue is a stone-built, historic mansion only a half-hour from Philly. When I first saw pictures, I told Thatcher, “It’s perfect, Cinderella.”

He shoved my arm but actually smiled.

But I haven’t heard about the car service drama yet. “It’s Uncle Dino’s business,” I say to Jane. “He’s family, so they want you to hire family.”

“But he won’t answer the phone,” Jane says strongly. “It’s driving me mad.” She looks more stressed than usual.

Dealing with our family can have that effect. Love ‘em, but all together, we’re like a stampede of stallions. Rambunctious, too chaotic and too stubborn.

Thatcher notices her tension. “I have this, honey. Anything related to my family, let me handle.”

She sighs. “I was hoping to stay more in contact with wedding details so they felt like I was including them. Especially after how upset your grandparents are with me.”

“Us,” he corrects.

Jane nods. “Us.”

The last big family meltdown happened when our grandparents on our dad’s side heard Thatcher and Jane aren’t marrying in a Catholic church.

I’m partly grateful I’m not heading for matrimony like Thatcher. I already have literal migraines every other fucking day. I’d rather not add in a figurative one.

“You’re already doing enough,” Thatcher assures her. He comes up behind her and wraps an arm around her collar, then places a kiss on her temple.

Her freckled cheeks pull in a smile, then she leans against his chest and holds onto his forearm at her breastbone.

It makes me smile because I’ve wanted someone for my brother. Someone he loves more than me. So maybe if I die first, it won’t hurt him so badly.

Thatcher stares harder in my eyes, and I know he’d want the same for me. But I also know he’d call me a stunad for thinking our bond could be contested. What we share is just different.