They look to me, to Farrow, back to me, and I tell them, “Welcome to my attic.”
“MAXIMOFFFFFF!” a drunk guy slurs. “SUCK MY COCK AFTER YOU SUCK FARROW KEENE’S!!”
No.
Beckett is giving the window a bigger what the fuck face.
Sulli cringes. “This is fucked up.”
Donnelly stands and shuffles between the air mattresses. Trying to reach the door.
“No.” Akara points at him, still texting. “No one do anything yet. Don’t turn on a lamp. They’ll be able to see the room light up from the street.”
Donnelly listens and stays put, and Thatcher towers at a stance, guarding the exit.
Oscar studies the window again. “We can tell these drunk fucks that this isn’t Maximoff’s room. Get Jane to call out to them—”
“No,” Thatcher interjects. “Then they’ll start harassing her.”
“I can do it,” Luna offers. “This can be my room.” My sister starts peeking beneath the curtain—
“Luna, don’t!” I yell, and before I try to slide off the bed, Janie is already pulling my sister away from the windowpanes.
Paparazzi wait on the street nightly. Camera lenses are constantly pointed at my window. And there is a 100% chance of hecklers with a shower of ridicule tonight.
I don’t want that for any of my family or SFO.
Quinn adjusts the curtains, the room fully obscured from the street.
Farrow eyes me and twists his silver rings.
“FARROW! MAXIMOFF!! WHO’S THE BOTTOM?!”
I glower. Blood boiling.
Oscar quickly heads over to Jack and Akara, speaking hushed to both of them.
I’m putting Farrow in this fucked-up situation. If he weren’t in a public relationship with me, no one would shout that on a goddamn city street.
“WHO TAKES IT IN THE ASS?!”
Are you fucking kidding me?
I’m about to stand, but Farrow draws me back on the bed.
Swiftly, he turns sideways and tents his legs over mine. Caging me. “Don’t let that shit bother you,” he says easily, and in his peripheral, he’s watching SFO figure out a plan. “Because my natural instinct is to defend you, wolf scout, and I know yours is to defend me, but we’re a target together and we have to take some of these hits.” He stares deeper into me.
Some of these hits.
Not all of them.
We both have our limits. But these hecklers shouldn’t be a breaking point. This is easy in comparison to what else could be thrown at Farrow.
My chest rises.
People have always tried to hurt who I love. My parents, my sisters, my brother, all of my fucking family. Attacks from online, from on the street.
And now the world knows that I love Farrow.
You know that I’m in love.
For real.
All I want is to protect him, and all he wants is to protect me. It’s been our motto since the damn start. But Farrow is used to people mocking me, hating me, shitting on me. I’m not used to seeing him beneath a burning spotlight that leaves scars.
“This isn’t easy,” I admit.
“I know,” he says like he’s met this irritation, this frustration and anger time and time again while we’ve been together in private. When he’s not allowed to bear his fists to protect me.
Just take the hit.
I tilt my head back, my sore muscles begging me to relax.
“RIDE HIS DICK!!”
Farrow raises and lowers his brows in a teasing wave.
I lick my lips, heating up in a better way. “Never happening.”
He cocks his head and whispers, “It’s definitely already happened.”
“Has it?” I feign confusion.
He rolls his eyes into a short laugh—and then he notices the same thing as me. “Cobalt, what the hell are you doing?”
My best friend straps a sequined purse across her grannie jammies. She has a switchblade and pepper spray in there, and we watch her quickly fit on fuzzy cat slippers.
“Janie,” I call out, already figuring out why she’s angry. “We can post an Instagram video. You don’t need to confront them on the fucking street.”
Jane ties her hair in a low pony. “There is a bold line, Moffy, and these fools have crossed it.”
“They’re drunk fools,” I remind Jane. “They’re here to incite one of us. This is what they fucking want.” I’ve said all of this a million times to myself. Right before I land a fist into a heckler’s jaw. Sometimes these facts feel meaningless, but we have to repeat them for each other. For ourselves.
Or else we’ll all go out of our goddamn minds.
Charlie and Beckett watch their sister carefully, but they don’t stand up and join Jane.
She unzips her purse and procures her pepper spray canister while marching to the door, guarded by Thatcher.
Jane reaches him and lifts her chin since he’s a whole foot taller. “Excuse me, Thatcher, but there are people I need to have words with on my best friend’s behalf. Move aside.”
Yeah, alright, I’m smiling.
Thatcher never budges. “I can’t, Jane.”
“PUT YOUR DICK IN HIM!!”
Farrow suddenly reaches for the bedside drawer.
For a condom?
No.
There’s absolutely no way he’s grabbing a condom.
Jane clears her throat. “Mr. Moretti,” she tries again, “I need to go break a few dicks. Can you please step aside?” Her angry face crinkles her nose.
“No—”
“MAXIMOFF HALE IS GONNA FUCK A PORN STAR!!”
The attic goes silent. No one is speaking.
Farrow’s jaw tics. That one got to him.
I go rigid.
The auction news has probably made headlines, and I just haven’t checked the internet yet. I’ve been unaware of how the whole world perceives my relationship with Farrow. Purposefully.
But now I think about the porn star.
I think about what people must be saying online, whether they’re calling my relationship with Farrow a fucking sham or not monogamous or maybe they just think I’m cheating.
I don’t know.
And now I need to know. So I can defend my boyfriend with a tweet, an Instagram video, and an airplane banner over the Pacific Ocean.
While Jack, Oscar, and Akara near the window—most likely with a plan that doesn’t involve the last resort: call the cops for noise disturbance—I search for my phone under the covers.
“What are you doing?” Farrow asks.
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I find my phone tangled in the sheets. “Looking at the internet—”
Farrow seizes my phone. “We’ll look together. Downstairs.” He climbs off the bed, standing. And as he combs his hair back for a third time, I realize he has something serious to tell me.
In private.
I stand, the pain in my collarbone thumping more consistently than a half hour ago. Farrow rounds the bed, careful of the air mattresses, and Oscar wrenches the window open.
Jack sticks his head out with Akara.
“Maximoff isn’t here!” Jack shouts. “Production is setting up for the show! You all need to leave!”
“Or we’ll be calling the police for noise disturbance!” Akara threatens.
“AKARA KITSUWON!” a drunk girl shouts. “PROTECT MEEE!!”
Akara yells one more threat and then leaves the window. Annoyance lines his forehead. I can’t imagine how frustrating the lack of anonymity must be for SFO.
As Jack closes the curtains, they all discuss waiting to see if the heckling worsens or dies down.
I cut in front of Farrow before he reaches the door. Just so I can tell Thatcher, “We’re just going to the kitchen. I need more ice.”
Thatcher nods, no argument, and let’s us pass.
12
MAXIMOFF HALE
We’re in the kitchen pantry. I’d say that I led us here, but I clearly trailed behind Farrow, broken collarbone and all. I’m slower, but right now, I’m not as frustrated about it and he’s not teasing me since we’re dealing with heavier things. Waist-deep in quicksand.
I swear we can’t catch a break.
Farrow tugs the string to the ceiling light bulb. A warm glow casts on cluttered wooden shelves, stocked with cereal boxes, protein bars, candy, and crackers.
We both agreed on this spot. The pantry is the quietest place in the townhouse. Farrow and I have fucked against these shelves more than once. Rough enough that as I pounded into him, soup cans fell to the floorboards. No one upstairs heard, and with the door locked now, our voices shouldn’t echo up the staircase.
So it’s climax-proof.