Damaged Like Us (Like Us 1)

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.