Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

And the same job got done. I don’t need the radio or the gun or the title.

I pat his back in thanks before we separate.

“You sure?” Akara asks me, phone frozen in his hand. He holds the power to alert the rest of the Tri-Force. To turn my choice into a reality.

I listen to my gut that says push forward. “I’m sure.”

Akara hesitates, looking like he wants to change my mind, but after a pause and a once-over, he sees that I’m set. And he starts texting. “You’ll need to stay on Maximoff’s detail for one more week while we sort out a transfer.” He looks up. “Sound good?”

“Perfect.” I already knew the protocol. “I’ve packed most of my shit. I’ll be out of security’s townhouse before then.” It’ll be more official than it has been, but I’ll be living with Maximoff. And I’ve never “officially” lived with any of my past boyfriends before, so this is just as new for me.

Thatcher should be ecstatic that I’m no longer living one floor apart from him. I’m not expecting the guy to jump for joy. But a mocking clap seems in the realm of possibility.

But as our eyes lock, he appears the farthest thing from happy.

And I’m certain.

He’s going to make this difficult for me. Messy and fucking loud. “Thatcher—”

“You’ve had one foot in, one foot out from the start. I told you that months ago.” He tears off his latex gloves. “And I’ve known you’re committed only to yourself, but I didn’t realize how fucking selfish you are until right now.” His biting tone is dying to gnaw me apart.

I run my tongue over my molars. Seething inside out. At first, I want to just let him believe what he believes. My actions haven’t been able to convince him anything different. Not the marathon run in the dark Poconos mountains. Not every push-up, every sit-up, every time I listened when I would’ve rather disobeyed.

If he wants words, not actions, then I have those too.

“Wherever I am, I’m all there,” I say strongly. “I’ve always been committed to security, and the fucking millisecond that I felt drawn somewhere else, I chose to leave.” That’s the truth.

But Thatcher glares.

I glare, stepping further off the wall.

And he says, “That’s how you plan to spin this?”

My nose flares, hot-blooded anger craving to twist my face. There is nothing more I can give him than what I feel. He’s still choosing not to believe me. “I’m not warping shit,” I tell him. “If you don’t see it the way I see it, then fine. Leave it alone.”

Akara, Quinn, Oscar, and Donnelly all stand rigid. Watching. Tensed. But not surprised that we’re butting heads again.

Thatcher steps over a pile of mailers. Rolling the sleeves of his plaid flannel. Like he’s boiling as hot as me. He nears me and says, “Did you even consider Maximoff when you decided to quit on him?”

I glare unblinkingly.

He’s dead serious.

He truly believes that I don’t give a flying shit about Maximoff. I almost let out a pained laugh. Fuck, I’d do anything for him.

I’d even choose security for Maximoff, but here’s the thing: Maximoff would resent me. Every day, every minute, he’d hate me. We are so alike in that we want to give each other what we need. And he wouldn’t, for a second, let me stay in security out of chivalry.

“Wow,” I say flatly. “Did I even consider my boyfriend when I made a life-altering choice that would directly affect him?”

Of course I did. Of course I’ve struggled. Of course I’ve beat myself up at the terrible timing. But I’m the one who wakes up to those forest-greens that scream don’t coddle me, just love me.

Just love me.

Not this fucker.

“Your client, your boyfriend, just broke his collarbone,” Thatcher spits out, pointing at my chest. “He just had surgery and lost his job, and you chose this moment to quit on him—”

“Say that shit again and we’re going to have bigger problems,” I sneer.

“When one of us quits, we have to hire someone new,” he growls, unable to stop spewing more. “And these families have to learn to trust a stranger to protect them all over again.” His glare grows hotter in a single pause. “Your client, the guy you left behind, will get someone new in his life. You should be worried about that after what’s happened between you two.”

I hear what he’s insinuating. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I know Maximoff is impressionable.” He cups a hand around his fist. Like he knows what he’s about to say will set me the fuck off. “If he fell for someone like you, he’d have no problem falling for his new bodyguard—”

I explode forward to hit him; I’m going to fucking slam my fist in his fucking face—and then Oscar wrenches me back, my feet smashing boxes. And he means well by restraining me.

But the other guys don’t catch Thatcher in enough time. I jerk in Oscar’s grip as a reflex, seeing the pair of knuckles, and my friend lets go too late—Thatcher’s fist slams into my cheek.

My head whips, the stinging pain familiar from all the blows I’ve taken in a ring.

Yells pierce the air. Oscar shoves Thatcher backwards, and Donnelly tries to jump the six-foot-seven guy. But Akara stops another fight from breaking out.

I don’t move.

I’m staring at the floorboards, my self-restraint greater than my rage, and I look to the door that connects the two townhouses. And I’m confident about where I want to be and where I need to go.

Tuning out SFO, I head to the adjoining door to find Maximoff.

It opens before I even grab the knob. And my boyfriend fills the doorway. He looks at the welt on my face, and then his eyes basically murder Thatcher a hundred different ways.

Maximoff almost charges.

“Wolf scout,” I say, quickly putting a hand on his waist. Guiding him into his townhouse. I kick the door closed behind me, my smile almost rising. Maximoff trying to protect me has definitely become one of my all-time favorite things.

His thick hair is disheveled like he just sprung out of bed, and his drawstring pants ride low like he just raced down the staircase. He must’ve heard the shouting.

He holds my hip and glowers at the door like he’s cursing Thatcher for eternal damnation. He really wants to go back in there and fight on my behalf.

I can’t stop staring at him. Feeling how much he cares about me, his hand rises to my cheek. Hovering over the welt.

I clutch his hand in mind and lower them to our sides.

“He fucking hit you,” he says.

I nod a few times. “I love that you want to stick up for me. But among other things, your dominant arm is bound to your chest.”

Maximoff glances at his red sling, then looks right at me. “I’m stronger than you with just one arm.”

I laugh.

Shit, I can’t believe I’m laughing after that shit show. But he brings me this effortless joy, and I cling onto that for dear fucking life.

“He took you quitting that badly?” he asks.

“I’ll catch you up in the car.” And before he asks, I tell him, “We’re going to my old neighborhood. And I’m going to talk to my father.”

Right now. There’s not a better time than the present. Because there will never be a good time.

Maximoff doesn’t question the abruptness. As soon as I start to lead him to the garage, he’s pace-for-pace in step with me. Hand-in-hand.

Like a soldier prepared for love and war.

16

FARROW KEENE

Door is unlocked. I’ll be in the sunroom. – Dad

No face-to-face verbal contact in almost four years and that was his reply. I only messaged him that I wanted to talk in person and that I was on my way to his house with Maximoff. I can’t even be surprised by my father’s lack of enthusiasm. It’s not like I texted: I’m returning to medicine. You’re welcome.

I’m treating this interaction like a meeting

with a college professor. That’s all it really is.

Maximoff knows this too.

It’s why he didn’t ask to change clothes to impress my father. He’s shirtless, still in the same drawstring pants that hang low on his muscular waist.

His ass looks great. But he wouldn’t catch me checking him out, even if I waved a hand in front of his face.

Because as soon as we enter the foyer and hallway, he soaks up our surroundings. Like he’s placing my younger self everywhere.

I watch him with a growing smile. He’s lost in the décor of Italian painters and overflowing vases of wildflowers. He looks up at the vaulted glass ceiling and down at the marble floors beneath his scuffed Timberlands.

Where his family home is warm and inviting, mine is a poster child for blue-blooded pretentiousness.

Maximoff glances at the dining room’s table set for twelve. “Did your house look like this when you grew up here?”

I toss my head from side-to-side. “Somewhat. Less paintings. Rachel is an art collector,” I remind him in case he forgot. He knows my stepmom moved in around the time when I went to college.

We turn a corner into an open living room, cigar bar, and upscale kitchen. I put a piece of gum in my mouth.