Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

He’s not upset about Charlie nagging him.

He’s physically hurting. More.

And more.

He’s even willing to lie flat and advertise his pain. Before the ice packs slip, I remove them from his body. His shoulders sink onto the soft mattress, and his head finds the pillow. Eyes closing.

I stroke his hair out of his face.

He shifts his head on my thigh. And he tries to roll more towards me but can’t with his bandaged shoulder—his left hand quakes, distressed tears wet the corners of his eyes.

That’s it.

I have to do something.

Spreading my legs, I pull Maximoff carefully between them, and I reach for the ice packs, placing one lightly on his chest, one below the red sling on his abdomen.

I already know it’s not enough to extinguish his discomfort. With his head on my lap, I wipe the wet corners of his eyes with my thumb.

More conversations ignite in the attic, some about the We Are Calloway docuseries and others about the auction. They’re all good about not drawing attention to Maximoff.

The fact that he’s this vulnerable, head on my lap, in front of them is the clearest sign that he’s not doing well.

Maximoff drops his shaking left hand from his face. And he grips my bent knee in a vice, combating that post-op pain. His cheekbones sharpen when he clenches his teeth—and he tries to bury his face into my thigh again.

Fuck, I have to do more. I have to. And I’ve been hesitating on one option because I don’t know how he’ll react.

I love safeguarding the good in Maximoff while also being the one to loosen his tight laces. It sounds contradictory, but to me, good isn’t straight-edged. Good is compassion and love for all people, for humanity. Good is a selfless kindness so unadulterated it stings your eyes.

If there’s anything I know, it’s that the offer I’m about to make won’t hurt his morality. It will just take away his pain.

And I need him to believe this too.

I comb his hair back one more time, and then I dip my head down to whisper against his ear. “Can I shotgun you?”

11

MAXIMOFF HALE

Can I shotgun you?

The hammering pain inside my bones dulls as my brain processes those four words.

Can I shotgun you?

It sounds sexual in my head. Maybe it’s the way Farrow said it, his voice quiet but rough but silky-smooth all at once.

Or maybe it’s because I have no goddamn idea what shotgun entails.

I know about “calling shotgun” in terms of a passenger seat in a car. And I’ve seen a guy puncture a hole in a can at college and shotgun a beer. Neither of which seem that relevant right now.

So I’m lost and too inexperienced to make complete sense of his question.

I swallow a ball in my throat. “With…?” I can’t even get any words out; a stabbing sensation detonates again and again. Fucking Christ.

Imagine a nonstop sledgehammer banging on your bones and insides—and you can’t cast the sledgehammer aside.

It just slams and crushes.

Ignoring this torment—it’s close to impossible.

I clutch Farrow’s knee in a death-grip. God, I’m nearing a point where I just want to pass out.

I need this to end.

I need this to end.

“Donnelly,” Farrow calls, and to distract myself, I try to focus on things that my brain loves. Like Farrow Keene’s precise movements. How he stretches his arm out and takes something from his friend.

I try to concentrate on his age.

Twenty-eight. Six years older than me. I breathe through my nose at a sharp pain. Brain, you annoyingly love that he’s older. Don’t act like you’re disinterested now.

Twenty-eight. He’s twenty-eight.

I shut my eyes for a longer second and open them slowly. Lying down between his legs with my head on his thigh, my view mostly consists of the ceiling rafters and Farrow.

My head is in his lap is a song that plays too softly on repeat. That track should be blaring and drowning out I_Feel_Like_I’m_Dying.mp3 and Fuck_This_Shitty_Feeling.mp3.

Farrow bends somewhat over me, blocking the rafters from view. Pieces of his white hair fall to his lashes. “This is a blunt,” he explains, pinching the blunt between two inked fingers. “Shotgunning is where you take a hit from me. You don’t need to hold the blunt. Okay?”

He’s asking for my permission.

Because he’s a good guy. He’ll tell you he’s not, but he is.

I think for half a second and then nod with my chin. Giving into my body’s pleas. I’m not as afraid of weed like I am Vicodin or Oxy.

And it helps that I trust Farrow with my body. I’d never fucking agree to this without him.

“Okay,” Farrow repeats in relief, and he collects a lighter that’s thrown on my bed. I can’t tell from who.

But I just watch Farrow. Every damn movement. How he puts the blunt confidently between his lips. How he cups his hand around it while he strikes the lighter.

How his eyes lock on mine.

You wouldn’t even believe how much this helps. Just observing Farrow. Because for a fleeting second, I forget I’m in pain, and I’ll take that second, even brief. Christ, I’ll take anything.

A flame eats the paper as he inhales. Blunt now lit, he blows smoke up at the twinkling rafters. After that, he spins the blunt backwards, the burning end facing his lips.

I’m confused about how this works.

“Suck in the smoke, wolf scout,” Farrow tells me. “That’s all you need to do.” With two fingers, he places the blunt between his teeth, burning end in his mouth, the other side sticks out—and he leans over me again.

Lowering his head down.

Down.

Until the paper is an inch from my lips. Our mouths are lined up like an upside-down kiss.

His large hand sheathes my jaw. Protectively. Comfortingly. His other palm rests on top of my hand that death-grips his knee.

Farrow has told me how cinematic we are together, and I realize that I didn’t fully get it. Not until now.

Not until this blissful, out-of-body moment crawls to slow-motion and our intimacy intoxicates me. Dizzies me. Fills me to the brim. And I haven’t even inhaled a thing yet.

I could freeze-frame this second for eternity. But it plays out.

With the burning embers in his mouth, Farrow exhales. Smoke billows from the unlit end, and I breathe in. A silky line of smoke trickles down my throat.

I cough. Fuck.

He lets go of my jaw to take the blunt out of his mouth. Assessing me, and I try to relax and adjust to the new sensation. Smoke plumes around us, the smell more pungent than cigarette

s, and Farrow draws back down for another hit.

He blows out, and I suck in smoke again. Trying not to cough this time.

My muscles unbind, and with a few more inhales, my hand loosens on his knee. I’m not spinning like the edible made me feel.

Probably since pain is my current state. Slowly, my joints ease like oil drips into every rusted crevice, and the torment begins to dull. Pushed to the background.

“One more time,” Farrow says to me, his husky voice too damn sexy. My brain starts tuning into the Farrow 69.1 radio station, volume on blast.

For once, thank you, brain.

Farrow is careful not to burn himself, like he’s done this a billion times, and he lowers his head again.

Now I gain enough energy to move my hand off his knee. I clasp the back of his head, gripping his bleach-white hair between fingers.

When I inhale the smoke, I see his lips curve upward.

He plucks the blunt out of his mouth, leaning back against the headboard, and he eyes me deeply. “Did you like that?” he asks.

I breathe better. “Not more than you,” I say, gritting down as I use one hand to sit up. The cool ice packs fall off my chest and thud onto the bed.

My first move is to go to grab them…with the wrong hand—goddammit. Pain infiltrates, and I try to remind my subconscious that my right hand is firmly bound in a sling for a fucking reason.

In a good distraction, Farrow breaks his legs open a bit wider, and I slide back until my spine meets his chest. His arm curves around my bare waist. At nearly the same height, our broad shoulders frame, almost parallel.

Before I ask for the blunt, he’s already passing me it. Knowing that I’d want to try on my own. I take a normal drag myself, and my throat burns. But I force myself not to cough.

I pass it back.

Farrow takes another drag too, and then he reaches out and hands the blunt to Donnelly.

I’m now unconscionably, totally, colossally aware of the eleven-person audience. Most of them pretend to be interested in Cape Cod chips or the mound of pillows on sleeping bags. But their eyes dart over to us and land on me.