Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

Instead, I meet a stringent severe face, and the wind dies in my sails.

I turn to Sulli who stretches over the bar and snatches a cherry. “Why are you swimming backstroke?” I ask since she used the word qualify. She’s not competing anymore, so I’m confused.

“I need a goal,” Sulli tells me.

I go rigid. “What?”

Jane looks between us and pops an olive in a martini glass.

“Moffy—”

“You have a goal. The ultra,” I say toughly. “It’s been your goal for months, and that’s not fucking changing.” It’s not changing because of me.

Sulli bites the cherry off its stem. “The course can be fucking dangerous solo. It doesn’t feel like a good idea to do it alone, and my dad’s bad knee can’t handle the terrain—”

“Sulli, I’m running this marathon with you,” I say, adamant. Not backing down. “I’ve already started training.”

She coughs on a cherry. “What? You’re in a sling, Mof.”

Jane shakes her head at me like I’m a disaster to myself.

“I can do a lot in a sling.” I’ve spent most of my free time in a gym. My hamstrings and quads are sore from the nonstop leg days, but I’m strengthening every muscle until I can work on my right arm and shoulder. “And I ran a mile yesterday.”

Sulli looks horrified.

“Alright, it was a walk, not a run,” I clarify. “A PT was there so I wouldn’t kill myself.” I recognize that I need another person in the room to stop me from overexerting myself.

And I’m not proud of my lack of self-restraint.

Sulli contemplates this now. “You really think you can run a 250k?”

250 kilometers in 7 days. That’s 155 miles.

In Chile.

For Sulli.

“I promise I can.” I nod repeatedly.

Sulli hesitates before nodding back.

Jane slides over the dirty martini. “Here, Sulli,” she says. “I’ve named this drink You Can’t Say No To A Stubborn Maximoff.”

Sulli smiles. “Yeah, fucking feels that way.” She tilts her head to me and holds the martini. “You know you’re as hardheaded as my dad.” She cringes. “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean—” to compare me to him.

“It’s alright,” I say truthfully, and I catch Jack’s warm smile behind the camera.

I know how much I’m like Ryke Meadows, and I’ve been reaching a place where I can be proud of the similarities. I no longer feel like who I am is a knock against my dad. And I’ve realized something.

My dad raised me to be like Ryke. Because he loved his brother more than he loved himself.

That’s the hard truth. Because I just wish I could reach back in time and tell my dad that he’d have a son who loves him so goddamn much, and then maybe he’d realize that he’s worthy of being loved too.

Sulli sips the dirty martini.

“How is it?” I ask while Jane shakes another nonalcoholic one for me.

“Strong.” Sulli smacks her lips together. “But most drinks taste fucking strong to me.” She goes in for another sip.

“Good sign,” I tell Jane while Sulli gulps the liquor.

My best friend smiles brightly and procures a clean martini glass.

Sulli rotates slightly to Akara. “You want to drink, Kits? I can get a temp bodyguard for the night. You can go off-duty.”

Akara fixes his earpiece. “Not tonight, Sul. But I appreciate the offer.”

She faces the bar, lost in thought, and then she takes another sip.

Jane polishes a glass and makes a concerted effort to angle away from Thatcher. About this time, she’d be chatting to her bodyguard and tripping over her words like she normally does around him. I almost feel badly that she’s lost someone to talk to, even if he doesn’t say a lot back, but then I picture the welt on Farrow’s face.

And my sympathy dies.

Thatcher braves another glance at Janie, and his hand slides over his hard, scruffy jaw. The longer he looks at her, the more frazzled my best friend becomes.

She fumbles with a shaker. “Thatc—” Her voices dies in a croak, and she clears her throat. “That drink”—she motions to the polished glass—“is…empty. But just wait, Moffy, it’ll be dreadfully beautiful.”

“Je n'ai aucun doute,” I say. I have no doubt.

All I know is that Janie deserves the best, and Thatcher is one of the only names on my very short shit list. He’s not the fucking best.

He’s far from it.

On impulse, I glance at my wristwatch. Thirty minutes have passed, and Farrow still isn’t here.

I just hope he’s okay.

21

FARROW KEENE

“Farrow, look here! Look here!”

I’m not looking at these fuckers. Paparazzi try to be blood-sucking ticks, but for me, they’re more like gnats. Cameras swarm me and my parked motorcycle while I pull off my helmet.

“Look here!!”

“What’d you do at the hospital?!”

“How are you, Farrow?!”

Pissed.

That I’m not on time for this mixology thing. When I say I’m going to make it, I’ll make it. But shit, I don’t enjoy being held up. Especially when I could’ve been with Maximoff.

My favorite part of the day is returning to my tight-laced, strong-willed boyfriend, and traffic had been bad. But it’s not what made me an extra half hour late.

I run a hand through my messy hair and leave my new Yamaha on the curb, right outside the Philly bar.

“LOOK HERE!”

Still not looking, I make my way to the entrance of Killer Gatsby and send a quick text to Maximoff: here.

Before I push into the bar, the door starts cracking open. Maximoff wedges himself in the entrance, and the first thing I notice: his marbleized, impassive face.

Something happened.

My pulse spikes. And I immediately skim him, up and down, jumbled emotion slamming into me from all angles. He’s okay.

He’s okay. But something must be wrong with his family. I clutch his hand the same time he grabs for mine, and Maximoff pulls me inside.

I shut the cameras out behind us, and I frown at my surroundings. “Where is everyone?” Fringed lamps cast dim light on crystal bottles shelved behind an empty bar. All the tables are bare, but if I strain my ears, I can pick up muttering.

“In the back lounge area.” He brings me in that direction.

I stare hard at Maximoff. Concerned about him. He’s bottled up, but if this were a 9-1-1 severe crisis, he’d be running. He’s walking, so I’m guessing he’s settled this storm and I’m here for the aftermath. “Is it Jane?” I ask.

“Sulli.” His body is stringent. “I need you to check on her.”

“Okay.” I squeeze his hand. I’m here, wolf scout.

His chest tries to rise.

We turn a corner near an old record player. Gold and black beads drape an archway, and once we walk through, I hone in on an extremely passed out Sullivan Meadows.

On a dark-green buttoned couch, all six-feet of her athletic frame slumps lifelessly against Akara’s side. Her squared jaw starts sliding off his shoulder.

Akara pulls her closer and holds her waist to support her weight. Seriousness hardens his gaze, and he looks up at me like she needs your help. “She’s been out for the last fifteen minutes.”

“How much did she drink?” I let go of my boyfriend’s hand and rest a knee on the couch. Leaning over, I put my fingers to her carotid artery. Akara brushes Sulli’s thick hair off her neck for me.

“Not a lot,” Maximoff answers, his left hand clutching his slinged-elbow. An attempt at crossing his arms. I’d joke about how he’s inexperienced with alcohol, but time and place, and plus, he adds, “I think.”

I’m about to double-check with Akara.

“I’m calculating her blood-alcohol concentration level,” Jane chimes in, voice unnaturally high. She’s upset.

I turn my head and see

Jane seated on a Queen Anne velveteen chair. Right next to an unlit fireplace, she presses a pink calculator with guilt-ridden urgency. I ignore Thatcher who towers three feet away from Jane.

Jack Highland is on a chaise nearby. His camera is powered off and lens turned away from Sulli. Any footage of her passed out won’t be aired.

I focus on Sulli and talk to Jane. “I don’t need an exact BAC, Cobalt. Just tell me what drinks she had.”

Jane speaks so quickly in her breezy-as-hell voice that I can’t understand a fucking thing.