Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

Take a breath.

“You’re just like your dad.” He smirks at me. “How’s Ryke Meadows doing, by the way?”

My fist stays at my side. Ryke isn’t my dad, but I’ve lost the urge or need to spit that truth. I don’t move. I don’t charge at him.

But I also can’t speak.

Farrow raises his brows at the guy. “Your opinions are fucking ugly. And we’re not here for that shit. You want a fight, go fight with the little fuckers you call friends.” He points at the booth.

The guy chokes on a breath. He opens his mouth to say something else, and then shuts it. His eyes dart to the left where my temp bodyguard finally nears.

Farrow turns to him first. “Call SFA and get a couple guys over here. We’ll be in the bathroom until you kick this shithead out.”

“I’m not leaving,” the heckler snorts.

I look to the temp bodyguard. “You have five minutes,” I tell him, my voice stilted and firm. I’m just on automatic at this point. Farrow clasps my hand and quickly leads me through the packed restaurant. Towards the men’s bathroom.

Everyone is looking. Filming us.

My eyes are on the bathroom door.

And then hot liquid suddenly splashes my face. “Fuck,” I curse, rubbing the…coffee off my burning cheek and temple. It’s all so damn abrupt that I have no time to think.

People gasp and shout, while others stand up from their chairs, cell phones pointed at me.

Farrow shoves someone back and yells a threat that rings in my ears. I press the bottom of my shirt to my face that’s on fucking fire. Goddammit.

I’m disoriented. Catching shocked expressions. Some people are weirdly smiling while they film this with their phones. I miss sight of the culprit. But all the people recording are getting great footage. Maybe they’re thinking about how much money they can sell it for. How many likes and retweets it’ll get.

I’m walling up.

I’m shutting down.

This is my first date.

“Maximoff,” Farrow says, hand falling back into mine.

I’m not angry. Just numb, and I fall in line with Farrow. Able to open the door to the single bathroom first, and I slip inside. One out-of-order toilet stall, one urinal, and sharpie and pen is scribbled along the chipped maroon walls.

Farrow locks the door behind us. We’re quiet. It’s calmer here.

I touch the stinging burn, and I glance at the mirror. Skin is bright, bright red along my cheekbone, beneath my eye, and beside my temple.

He snatches paper towels out of the dispenser.

“Welcome to my world,” I say dryly.

He glances back at me while he turns on the sink faucet. “I’ve been in your world, wolf scout.” He runs the paper towels beneath cold water, then wrings them out.

“But now you’re in it, in it,” I tell him.

His brows rise, turned to me. “You know I love your fucked-up world. Because you’re ‘in it, in it’.” He uses air-quotes and then presses the cold towel to my cheek and temple.

Our eyes caress for a second, and I breathe deeper. Better.

He shakes his head a couple times, his jaw tightening. “I should’ve been faster.” Meaning, he wishes he jumped out in front of me.

“I’m glad you weren’t.” Because in that alternate universe, he’d be the one with the stinging pain.

He holds my gaze and then frowns at the burn, lifting the soaked paper towel that soothes my skin. “If your new bodyguard is as bad as that one, it’s going to fucking kill me every time I leave you.”

“They won’t be that bad.” My hand glides up his back muscles, and I replay what happened. “About what that guy said—”

“I’m okay, wolf scout.” Farrow holds the wet paper towel to my face again. His perpetual confidence fortifies him and me together. Over and over and over. “You?”

“Yeah.” My hand reaches his neck, about to bring his mouth to mine—a knock pounds on the bathroom door. Our heads turn.

“I need to piss, dude! Hurry up!”

On top of that hollering, Farrow’s phone rings in his pocket. Without taking it out, he drops the call with one click.

And then he kisses me quickly. Like a peck. Not what I want, but he tells me, “Be patient.”

“I don’t know that word,” I say sarcastically.

“Because I’m smarter than you.” Farrow soaks up my irritation like a sponge.

I blink slowly. “Thank you for the bucket of lies. I needed those—” I cut myself off because his phone buzzes not once or twice. Repeatedly. Incessantly.

Notifications start pinging too.

We both frown.

Farrow digs back in his pocket and pulls out his phone. I stand beside him, and he flips the cell over.

Texts pop up, one after the other.

OMG FARROWWW – 993-555-4343

Fuck me good, baby – 876-555-2908

You and Maximoff are the cutest. Just wanted to tell you that. Xoxo – 404-555-3888

Hey asshole, Maximoff is a good guy. He deserves better. – 202-555-1010

Fuck you. He would have never cancelled the auction. You’re a horrible influence. I hope you die. – 342-555-9876

That auction was for CHARITY. You’re too jealous for him. He could do waaaay better. –161-555-2800

Maximoff should be with a cute soft boy that he can cuddle and love. Not you. – 675-555-4323

My stomach nosedives off a hundred-foot cliff. We exchange a cautious look, and then his phone rings with an unknown number.

“Don’t answer that,” I tell him.

“Wasn’t going to.” Farrow skims the screen. “Give me your phone.”

I pull my cell out of my pocket. At the same time, someone calls me. Caller ID: Oscar Oliveira.

Farrow takes my phone, and I listen fixatedly. Ready and prepared for damage control. Another DEFCON 1, here we fucking go.

My boyfriend presses the speakerphone button. “Oliveira.”

“It’s bad, Redford,” he says. “Your info has spread across the whole internet. Phone number. Childhood address. Names of your family: father, stepmom, stepsister, and ex-boyfriends.”

Farrow shuts his eyes before they roll in a giant arc.

“Your seventh-grade MySpace page,” Oscar continues, “the name of your pet guinea pig.” Scuttlebucket. The only pet Farrow ever had died when he was twelve. “Email address, any old usernames on social medias, a password to your bank account—”

“Where’s the security tech team?” I ask, and Farrow hands me my phone. He puts his own cell to his ear, calling the bank to freeze his accounts.

“Tech team is preventing a phone hack. But, Hale, this info is coming from other sources. Like Redford’s friend-of-friend-of-friend’s social media accounts spread over fucking years. Anytime he popped up in pictures or by name, people are connecting it together and finding more info about him. It’s snowballing.”

Farrow speaks hushed near the sink. Talking to the bank.

“He’s being doxxed,” I realize.

His private information is being leaked for public consumption. I’ve tried to prepare for this doomsday. I’ve told myself for years that it could happen to whoever I dated publicly.

And I won’t let anyone, especially doxxers, make me regret our decision to go public. But fuck those people who do this to human beings for shits and giggles.

I’ve never had complete privacy. So I’ve never experienced what Farrow is going through right now. I imagine it’s like you’re suddenly being disrobed in front of the whole world. And you can’t grab the robe back—and I hate that I can’t shield him. That I have no power to protect him.

All I can do is just be here.

It doesn’t feel like enough.

Oscar tells me that the security team is calling an emergency meeting. Even though Farrow doesn’t have a 24/7 bodyguard and he’s not one himself anymore, he’s still being protected by Alpha, Omega, and Epsilon.

&n

bsp; They’re treating him like family. And I don’t just mean a part of the Hales—I can’t take credit for this. I think it’s mostly because the security team loves him.

I hang up with Oscar.

“I need to piss!!” Knocking on the door.

“Fuck off!” I yell.

“…okay. Bye,” Farrow says before hanging up his call. He slips his phone in his pocket. He’s relaxed, but there’s a tinge of frustration and anger reddening his eyes that I can’t miss.

I just want to help.

Any way that I fucking can.

Farrow leans on the sink. “Looks like we’re not going to be fighting over who pays for this date.”

I near him. “They drained your money?”

“Two grand five minutes ago. Gone. The bank flagged the activity and froze all of my accounts.”

As soon as I’m in arm’s reach, we draw together. Instinctively, our hands roam and hold and grip. He whispers, “I don’t have any cash on me.”

I trace the wings on his neck. “I planned to pay anyway.”

He stares into me. “And I planned to ruin your plan.” His palm runs up back. Pushing me as close to his chest as possible with my sling.

I hug him tighter around the shoulders. His jaw skims against my jaw. His fingers massage the back of my head before clutching harder.

I don’t let go of him.

I can feel his chest collapse. I hold stronger.