Damaged Like Us (Like Us 1)

Farrow laughs. He tosses a fry in the basket and then eyes me, mostly.

My neck is on fire, and I keep rubbing my jaw.

Quinn scans the table for food. His stomach audibly grumbles. I slide the basket of fries away from Farrow and to Quinn. Farrow makes a face at me. Like I just passed his cellphone off to a stranger.

“Do you not know what sharing looks like?” I ask.

Farrow slides the fries back between me and him. “Quinn needs to learn how to order his own food.”

Quinn doesn’t let Farrow bother him. “Where’s the waitress?” he asks.

“Yes, please, coffee coffee,” Jane says. “One sugar, dollop of cream, and strapped to an IV.”

“You have to order at the bar,” I tell her.

“Merde.” Her head slumps on my shoulder. She’s exhausted from today’s putt-putt debacle.

“I’ll go for you.” Just as I’m about to stand, Quinn and Farrow motion for me to stay seated.

“I can go alone,” Quinn tells Farrow while I sit back down. “She’s my client.”

“Akara would want you to stay with her,” Farrow says.

Quinn considers this for half a second, and then we all look over at the six-foot bearded bartender who approaches. He stops and towers over the table. Nearer Janie than to me. He fingers his gnarled beard and appraises the length of her body.

Hovering on her chest.

I’m on edge. Anyone who appraises us like we’re cattle—I don’t trust. From experience, they’d rather hurt my family than make cute small talk.

Likewise, Quinn’s guard seems to rise tenfold. He angles his body towards Jane. Sitting straighter. More menacing. Like a boxer about to face off an opponent. If I didn’t know, it’d be hard to tell that he’s new to the team.

“Hi,” Jane starts, but the bartender cuts her off with, “You’re Jane Cobalt.”

“Yes.” Janie’s voice is stiffer than usual. “You wouldn’t happen to have coffee—”

“Your mom is hotter.”

I glower. “What the fuck did you just say?” I see blood red, and I’m already halfway out of my seat. Our bodyguards are right behind me. Where Farrow has an at ease demeanor, as if this is just another normal day, Quinn’s eyes widen and darken. Horrified.

Pissed.

He probably hasn’t gotten used to hearing the vitriol people sling at Janie.

I wish it was something you didn’t have to get used to.

The bartender doesn’t balk. “I said Rose Calloway is a hotter piece of ass than that chubby bitch.”

I charge forward, venom in the back of my throat, but chairs clatter, more than just me shooting up completely from their seats. I instinctively stand in front of Janie. In my peripheral, I notice her hand gripping her watermelon purse.

Where pepper spray and a pink switchblade lie.

I may’ve cut off Jane, but Farrow cuts off my path, his hand on my chest. He says something to me that I don’t hear. I stare past him, hawkeyed on the bartender who watches Jane’s reaction.

“Fuck you,” I sneer, trying to steal his attention away from Jane.

The bartender laughs at me and then says to her. “You can’t cry if it’s the truth.”

Jane isn’t crying. She sighs into an angry growl and tries to ignore him. “I ask for coffee, and instead receive an unsolicited opinion on my looks. Disastrously unequal and a complete nightmare—Moffy.” Fear spikes her voice, grabbing my wrist when I try to step towards the bartender.

Farrow and Quinn break our hands as they shift around us. The bartender opens his mouth to speak again, and I hear the beginnings of the word slut and Quinn growls, “Fuck off.”

Farrow raises a hand to him, and I hear him hiss, “Cool down. Just focus on getting her out of here.”

Quinn’s nose flares and he nods. Quickly, Quinn begins to lead my cousin safely out of the pub. I hear Jane protesting and shouting, “I leave no one behind!”

Farrow rests a strong hand on my shoulder. Trying to steer me towards the exit.

With one move, I tear out of his hold. I’m seething from the inside out. My skin is crawling. Our eyes meet for a heated second. Both of us are headstrong. And I’m not moving on his accord.

Farrow warns beneath his breath, “Don’t jump out in front of me.” He rotates, protectively shielding me from the bartender. Using his body as a barrier between me and that bastard.

Bodyguards are required to deescalate aggressive situations. Calm them. Stop them.

Not fuel or even win fights.

In case you aren’t already aware: I make that difficult.

I should leave right now. I should forget the bartender’s crude gaze. And malicious intent. I should. And Janie won’t leave until I do. Even if Quinn drags her out, she’ll dig her feet into hardwood or pavement and claw herself towards me.

I want her somewhere safe. Far away from here.

So I open my wallet and toss money on the table. Unable to leave without paying. Even if I’m paying a fucking douchebag.

“And you’re Maximoff Hale,” the bartender says. Don’t engage, my parents always tells me. Ignore the hecklers, they say. They’re trying to incite you, they remind me.

They want to fight you.

No shit.

I can handle overwhelmed, overzealous fans. I can handle competitive paparazzi. I can handle the tears and the autographs and the selfies. I can even handle tonight. The fucked-up part of fame.

The sick hatred. Chipping bit by bit at our humanity.

You want to know what the few other people in the pub are doing? They’re filming. With their cellphones. Like I’m the star of a fucked-up drama. And the title is This Is My Life.

Welcome. Take a seat.

I put my wallet in my jean’s pocket.

“How does it feel,” the bartender starts up again, “knowing a thousand-plus dicks have been inside your mom? She must’ve been stretched out when she had you. Bet you just fell out of her vagina.” He laughs right at my face.

I have tunnel vision. I see red. I see the bartender.

I see how devastated my mom would be if she heard someone say this shit to me. She’d cry herself to sleep—and you know what that does to me? It makes me want to fucking scream and throw my knuckles at a face. And by a face, I mean his fucking face.

I charge.

Farrow restrains me, gripping my fist in his palm, and forcing my hand to my side. He walks me backwards. “Look at me, Maximoff.”

I’m glaring beyond Farrow. At the bartender.

His lips are against my ear. “He’s not worth your attention.”

I’ve said all those words before: be the bigger person. Walk away. You’re feeding into their bullshit. Violence solves nothing. You’re the CEO of a nonprofit. Stop.

Stop.

Breathe.

Leave.

I let about fifteen feet divide me and the bartender. Backing up. Backing away, all the while he’s talking shit. “What about your sister,” he laughs mockingly. “Luna Hale—another wet slut. Bet she puts out twice as much as your mom. Is she a little sex addict too?”

I taste acid on my tongue, but words burn the back of my throat. Dying inside of me.

And Farrow can’t provoke the bartender. If these insults eat at him, he can’t show me either. I’m in a thundering boat of one.

Trying to steer myself towards the door. I almost get there.

And then he says, “I hope she locks her doors at night.”

I go rigid.

Motionless and still faced towards him. “What’d you say?”

He laughs. “I hope she keeps her doors locked. You know how many men would break through just to taste her—”

I lose it. Tearing out of Farrow’s hold, I take a few lengthy strides. And I swing. The instant my knuckles crack the bridge of his nose, Farrow cuts off my path and then he thrusts back three men who spring up from the barstools.

Blood gushes out of the man’s nostrils, and he s

houts the word, sue.

“Go ahead and fucking sue me.” I turn around with rage in my eyes, leaving the mess I burst behind. I forget that Farrow isn’t Declan. My old bodyguard would’ve stayed to cool down the pub. Instead, Farrow sprints and reaches my side.

Step-for-step with me, and I glance at him. His hard gaze holds a raw understanding that says you’re not alone. And as we face forward, his hand falls to my wrist, then my palm—he’s holding my hand for a strong but brief moment.

No one has ever held my hand like that.

He lets go, and we both push through the pub doors. Walking side-by-side towards my Audi parked on the city street. Philly lit up at night.

Paparazzi are here.

I glance at my phone that says:

I saw you leave. I’m in the car, driving home. I’m safe. Text me as soon as you are. – Janie

I text quickly: I’m on my way home.