Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

He shuts his eyes, taking a smoother breath. “I just fucked you in a bathroom.” He opens his eyes to the shake of my head.

“This might hurt you to know, but I don’t give a shit right now—I have fucked other men in bathrooms,” I say bluntly. “I’ve had sex on beaches, sports fields, bleachers, other places outside, and it was fun. Like what just happened was fun and healthy, and it’s all been done before by plenty of people. You’re not the first person to enjoy public sex, Maximoff.”

He thinks hard, and he lets go of my hand. He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’ve never questioned it like this before. Not once.”

I nod.

He breathes. “I can’t drive. I can’t swim. I can’t throw myself into work. And I love sex, but for the first time, I’m terrified that I could take it too far and I wouldn’t even notice.”

“I’d notice.” I brush his cheekbones with my thumb. “You trust me?”

His eyes toughen, not soften. “Of course.”

“If I see that you’re changing to a point where it looks bad, I’m going to tell you. We’re together. We fuck each other. Your doubts are always my concerns, and I’m here for you anytime, every time.”

Maximoff inhales. “I must’ve missed that page in the Boyfriend Manual.”

I look up at the ceiling in short thought, then back to him. “If manuals for this shit existed, we’d be on a much different edition by now.”

“The Son of a Sex Addict Manual.”

I let out a short laugh. “I was definitely thinking of a word that’s stronger than ‘boyfriend’, but sure, we can go with Son of a Sex Addict.”

The bulb burns out of a gold light fixture above us. Cutting into our banter, and then Maximoff tells me, “I need you to know that I don’t regret fucking you here.”

“Good.” I nod. Thank God.

“And I don’t want you to have sex with me and think in the back of your head that I’m an addict—”

“Man, that’s the last thing I’ll be thinking about while we’re fucking.” I zip up my leather jacket, and this time, his eyes are only on my eyes. “I’ll be enjoying myself. Like always. Hopefully you will too.”

22

MAXIMOFF HALE

Nights are the worst.

I stare up at the rafters, my mattress hard beneath my back. I can’t turn onto my side. Can’t curl up into a ball or shift for a better position. With my injury, I suffer on my back every damn night. If the pain ramps up, it usually takes me an hour to drift off.

Tonight, it’s different.

Legs aren’t intertwined with mine. My head doesn’t careen onto someone else’s shoulder. I don’t feel the presence of another body. It’s just me and my thoughts, and I can’t say it’s been an enjoyable experience.

Farrow is at the hospital, working a long shift, and I won’t see him until the afternoon. The clock glows an annoying 3:02 a.m., reminding me that I’ve been trying to fall asleep for three excruciating hours.

I’m not used to being in bed alone, and I crave for those days on the FanCon tour bus where I could easily crawl into Farrow’s bunk.

Three years.

That’s how long Farrow’s residency will last. Three years where I’ll have nights where he’s not around. And goddamn, I miss him. Talking to him. Having him annoy me until I’m a smiling idiot.

I also feel like a whiney bastard silently complaining about some nights where he’s gone. There are people dealing with worse separation over longer time periods and distances. And I don’t envy that. I don’t even like stomaching this.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Needing my brain to shut the fuck up. I reach over and grab my cell off the nightstand. No missed texts. No cousins or siblings messaged me since the last time I checked. They’re probably all asleep.

Pulling myself up, I lean more against the headboard. Floorboards and brick walls creak loudly inside the old townhouse. Tonight, heavy gusts of wind beat at the window, and my gray curtains sway back-and-forth. Tiny lights that are wrapped around the ceiling rafters start flickering.

Power might go out soon.

To restrain myself from texting Farrow, I scroll through my little sister’s tweets. She roasts me daily on Twitter. One time I was on a late-night talk show to promote a charity event and the host had me read Kinney’s tweets out loud.

And I was happy to.

I smile at some new ones.

@KinneyGothHale: Older brother has been talking about Aristotle for 30 min at breakfast.

She included a yawning sloth gif.

@KinneyGothHale: Also Moffy’s boyfriend and me are the only ones who can make fun of him. You try, you die.

I love that my youngest sister likes Farrow. But I slow down on another tweet.

@KinneyGothHale: 1st Rainbow Brigade outing in the works. What should we do?

She added a poll for fans to vote, but she included the same three options: bowling, bowling, and bowling.

Kinney already texted me, our cousin Tom Cobalt, and then Oscar and Farrow the details about the meet-up. She picked a date in June. LGBT Pride Month.

I think about how my little sister will be deathly furious if Farrow is late. And I told him, “If you can’t make it, don’t let Kinney scare you.”

He chewed his gum with a rising smile. “Man, I’m not afraid of your thirteen-year-old sister. Especially because she thinks she can commune with dead people,” he said. “I promise I’ll make it.”

That image of his amused smile is cemented to my cerebral cortex.

Fuck it.

I text him. He already told me that if he’s busy, he’ll just ignore me. So I’m not really worried about disturbing him.

Quickly, I type and send: thinking Of u

I purposefully fuck-up the grammar to piss him off a bit. Wind wails, and power suddenly cuts, my clock goes blank. Room darkened, I instinctively reach for my end table—my right arm fights against the sling, fuck me.

I bite down, and I’ve had it with this thing.

I reach behind me and tear off the Velcro that attaches the sling to my abdomen. And I pull the strap off my head. Slowly, I free my imprisoned right arm, and I throw the red sling onto the floor.

Then I gradually lift my right arm off my thigh. The higher I go, the more pain shoots into my collarbone and batters my shoulder.

I drop my arm back and try again.

Better. Or maybe I’m just smothering the pain with determination. I don’t know.

Whatever the case, I reach for the end table again with my bad arm. Purposefully this time to stretch the muscle.

I breathe a measured breath through my nose and slide the drawer open. Grabbing a flashlight. And my switchblade for extra precaution.

Leaning back, I pick up my phone.

No new text.

I breathe out and click into some articles that Uncle Ryke sent me. All for stretch rehab on my collarbone. I’m not supposed to try any of these until eight weeks post-surgery. It hasn’t even been four weeks yet, but maybe one workout won’t be that strenuous…

A lube ad on the sidebar distracts me, and I immediately imagine Farrow. Buck-ass naked, pirate ships, skulls, and sparrows inked all over his six-foot-three body.

He’s standing at the end of my bed. Grinning because he knows he’s aggravatingly sexy.

My veins pulse, skin hot to the touch. I rest my head back. And I try to stop myself from fantasizing by unscrewing the flashlight with two hands. Dumping out the batteries and refitting them in.

These past few weeks, sex has infiltrated my mind like hot-and-bothered battalions. I’ve always had fantasies. Always drifted. And it’s never affected my job or relationships.

But I’m more concerned that it will now that I have all this free time.

My phone pings. I desert the broken apart flashlight and click into the text.

In your thoughts, what position am I in? – Farrow

I almost rock back. Goddamn, I did not expect that response. We’ve sexted before, and I gauge the healthiness of it now. Seems enormously normal.

It’s not disrupting my life. And he initiated it. All pros at the moment. So I type and retype a sentence before settling on this:

Under me. On top of me. All over me.

I send the text, and something thwacks my window. I point my cellphone’s light at the window since I dismembered the real flashlight. My curtains blow softly, and I strain my ears.

No street hecklers tonight.

Huh.

There are no trees near my window. So it couldn’t have been a branch. I remember that I checked the front door after Janie and Luna went to bed. It’s locked. They’re safe.

My phone buzzes.

Sounds vague. Needs more adjectives. – Farrow

I groan in frustration. Sexual and just plain annoyance. I type two words fast:

Fuck me.

Sent.

My mind tries to crawl into my spank bank and pluck out images of Farrow sliding his dick between my lips—another text comes through.

Smartass. – Farrow

I don’t overthink for once and just text:

You’re putting your cock in my mouth. I can taste you beneath my tongue.