Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

If he thinks being on the team grants him access to flirt with the girls in these families—he’s out of his fucking mind.

He’s a bodyguard to a minor.

Not the over-eighteen girls, and their bodyguards will rip him the fuck apart. The only reason I’m not in his face right now is because I don’t trust myself not to punch him.

Irritation cinches his brows. “I’m part of the team. Or did you forget that?”

I stare him dead in the eye. Loudly, I say, “She’s my girlfriend , or did you fucking forget that?” People whisper and look over at us. Publicly, we’re together.

A smile tugs her cheeks. It fades fast as Tony laughs under his breath.

He stuffs his hands in his aviator jacket. “Right, right.” He has a shit-eating grin, and only audible to me, he lowers his head and says, “I see you took your balls out of her purse.”

I shake my head. “You’re a fucking scustamad’.” You’re a fucking stupid person. I raise the volume of comms, more intel coming through about outside.

Farrow puts out his cigarette and pockets the pack. He whispers in Maximoff’s ear.

Jane leans more into my side, and I wrap my arm around her waist. She tells Tony, “We’re actually about to return to our cards. The game should start soon.”

“Just stopping by to say hi.” Tony cocks his head. “Moretti knows how it is.” He glances over at Michelina, then to me. “You know whenever I think of this place, I always picture that time your brother got into a fistfight with Jay Amaro and knocked over the bingo balls. Gave an old woman a literal heart attack. Paramedics came.” He lets out a laugh. “Fuck, that was a long time ago.”

My ribs constrict, thinking about that memory. Knives cutting a single breath. Just one.

I exhale through my nose, and the weight is gone. Fifteen years in the past.

“Banks was in a fight?” Jane asks, like she can’t picture him swinging first.

Tony shakes his head. “Not Banks. Their other brother, Skylar.”

My eyes tighten.

Skylar.

Sky.

I’ve been trying to tell her about him, and I couldn’t figure out when. I’m gearing my ass up for the middle of fucking hell.

I should’ve just let it out in the costume shop earlier. Before Charlie’s phone call cut us off. Or in the car afterwards. It’s on me.

A million times, I missed the chance. I fucked it, and now Tony dropped this before I could.

Jane tips her head, thinking rapidly. Her brows bunched. Maximoff and Farrow exchange confusion.

Mostly, I watch her. “Jane—”

“None of you knew about Skylar?” Tony realizes, looking between the three of them. He lets out a light laugh.

“That’s funny?” I ask, voice strict.

He laughs more. “It’s not not funny.”

“Vaffangul’.” Fuck you. I grip my knee to keep from standing. Do not harm another bodyguard. Do not fight while on-duty. Protect your client.

Protect her.

He motions to Jane. “She’s your girlfriend and you didn’t tell her about your own brother—”

I shoot to my feet. Towering over him. Staring down. Blood rushes in my ears. Rage annihilating my senses. Until I’m hyper-focused on this shitbag.

My anger.

His face.

He spreads his arms, goading me to hit him. “I just did you a fucking favor. It’s not my fault you couldn’t man-up and say what needs to be sa—”

I have Tony by the collar. I’m five seconds from slamming his entire body into the fucking ground. Farrow is quick.

He’s already climbed over the table onto my side. He wedges himself between us and rotates to Tony. “Man, I’m sick of listening to you. Walk the fuck away.”

I pull back and I get my mind right almost instantly. Sensing her close.

I turn.

She’s standing. I assess her in one sweep. Chunky heels, a ruffled purple tutu, and a frilly blouse—she has her hand in her purse. Where her pepper spray and switchblade are contained, ready to defend me. She lets go when our eyes meet. “Thatcher.”

Nothing else matters to me right now but this girl. “Jane,” I say strongly. I come closer, my hand on her lower back. I soften my gaze on her. “You good?”

“Yes, are you?”

I nod. “Can you be Oscar Mike in five?” We need to move out.

I notice the bingo caller headed over to us. We’ve disturbed the whole event, and beyond that, Maximoff is a hothead and if Tony tries to fuck with Farrow, which I’m pretty positive he will try—Maximoff is going to throw a fist.

He’s the client here.

His life. Her life.

That’s what we’re protecting.

Jane adjusts her purse over her shoulder. “I’m ready now.”

Tony sizes Farrow up. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Epsilon—”

“Farrow,” I call. “We’re shoving off.” I click my radio, not taking one of my hands off her. “Thatcher to security, Jane and Maximoff are Oscar Mike in five.”

Farrow steps back over the table and drops down next to Maximoff, taking his hand.

I take hers.

Clearheaded.

Focused.

There is hell outside. Which we have to push through.

37

THATCHER MORETTI

“Does it hurt badly?” Jane asks me after we’ve returned to the townhouse from the bingo hall.

We sit on a weight bench in the quiet garage. Pressed up against the brick wall and facing her parked Volkswagen.

I watch her eyes trace the deep, long cut along my bicep. Clean and stitched just moments ago. My bloodied flannel and T-shirt are balled up and trashed in a bin next to a red toolkit.

Jane turns more towards me. “I can see if we have stronger pain medication or ice, perhaps?”

I rest my shoulders on the brick. My gaze not leaving Jane, watching her concern travel across my body. “I’m good, honey.” Farrow numbed the cut well. He just went back into the townhouse with his trauma bag. Maximoff beside him.

Calm after the storm.

The crowds were aggressive for no good reason. Something I’ve encountered countless times as a bodyguard, and I like the rush of it. The impending nature of this hellfire, the sudden blast and challenge as we confront it and try to diverge from it. How my senses snap into focus, and the stakes are always high.

We escorted Jane and Maximoff safely to their vehicles. They protested because they saw us being dragged back and tried to help. But I literally picked Jane up, and I’ve never seen Farrow shove Maximoff that hard into the car.

Their lives come first.

I prefer that chaos a thousand leagues over my confrontation with Tony. I failed there. Lost my temper for a split-second, and that’s all it takes.

One second and a bad night becomes the worst of your life.

Jane lifts her eyes up to me. “I can’t believe you both got hurt.”

I’m not that affected by it. “It’s not bad. Minor injuries to security are normal.”

She’s only just now seeing them because she’s gotten closer to the team. To me. It’s impossible not to get knocked around on this job.

Especially when hostile crowds start breaking bottles. Some leather-jacket-wearing fuckbag tried to smash a beer bottle over Farrow’s head, and I blocked the blow with my arm and restrained the threat.

Farrow got cut on the knee with glass. He was able to bandage his own wound in the car.

Jane gives her whole attention to me. “Do you feel like you’re being targeted more, in terms of crowds? Now that you and Farrow are more publicly recognizable?”

I unclip my radio off my waistband. “It’s hard to say.” Hecklers will sometimes pick fights with security to get to the client. So I can’t tell if they’re coming at me because I’m publicly Jane’s boyfriend or because I’m just the man in their way.

I describe this to Jane, and she nods in understa

nding. “Are you going off-duty?” She sees me taking out my earpiece.

“I am.” I twist the cord around the radio. “Unless you want to go out—”

“No,” she says quickly. “No, I’m staying in for the rest of the night.” Her eyes light up in realization. “I forgot I have a bottle of Dalmore stashed away somewhere in here—though, don’t feel pressured to drink whiskey with me.” She raises her hands. “I was only thinking that, possibly, with your…cut, it’d help take the edge off.” She clears her throat, soaking up my hard gaze.

I study her shallow breath, and I almost reach out and touch her hand that lies flat on the weight bench. Near mine. Heat washes over my chest. Like we’re in a steaming sauna somewhere remote and alone.

We’re in a fucking garage.

Where one door leads to security’s townhouse, the other to hers. And Akara, Quinn, Sulli, and Luna are already home tonight.

I can’t pretend that we’re in her bedroom with a locked door. In privacy.

She wafts her blouse. “I’m not asking you to drink with me as a fake boyfriend and girlfriend…because clearly, we’re not in public, you see.”

My brows knit. What we are together in private, in public, in every other setting, is starting to confuse the hell out of me. And we have to be in agreement.