Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

“I do have them.” Ace stares unblinkingly at me.

He’s bluffing. “Do you even understand the legal ramifications of you admitting that right now?” I ask, dumbfounded. “I’ll bury you.”

The Hales have dug graves for weaker transgressions than what he’s confessing. My dad, my grandfather, have ruined countless men.

I can ruin him.

But I’m not sure that’d erase this slithering feeling that tries to worm its way inside of me.

“I didn’t take the photos myself,” Ace clarifies. “A drone did.”

A drone. I didn’t see one in the air. Neither did Farrow, who’s vigilant about these things. We missed it, and we’re usually careful. We think of everything, but the one time where we both wanted to feel free…

It was a risk.

I think we both knew it was.

Ace unbuttons his suit jacket, hot and uncomfortable. “But I have the photos.”

“Then show us them,” Farrow says coldly.

Ace takes out his phone and pops up a picture.

I see Farrow kissing me on the sundeck, his ass completely exposed, but I’m covered, pressed against his body. Ace swipes up. The next photo is just of me. Walking towards the pool.

It’s full frontal.

Farrow decks Ace in the face with skilled, enraged force, a massive amount of power going into that single blow. And I hear a sickening crack in his cheekbone, and the porn star hits the stone porch.

My pulse jackhammers—I was about to swing at Ace, but Farrow beat me to it and now that it’s done, all I want to do is get this goddamn camera crew out of here.

“Leave,” I growl at them while Ace stays on the ground, moaning in pain.

A hipster-looking guy with a handlebar mustache holds out his hand. “Wait, we only want to leak a couple of these photos with your permission. We can even pick the tame ones for you.”

“What?” I breathe hard, confused as fuck.

Farrow grips the edge of the door. Seconds from smashing it in their face.

“You both get to be in the press,” he explains. “It’ll increase your social media following, and in exchange, you’ll drop some hints on an Instagram Live or two about Sensual Flixxxs. How it’s your favorite website. It’s good marketing and a win-win for all of us.”

What the hell…

“Get the fuck out,” Farrow says through gritted teeth, “or you’ll join your friend on the fucking ground—”

“We could film a chaste kissing scene,” he adds quickly, taking a step back. Afraid of Farrow. “No sex or penetration. We’ve got the crew here. We could do it right now. We’ll pay you twenty million.” His gaze swerves to Farrow at the talk of money. Like he knows that’d be his incentive.

Fuck him.

Fuck this.

Farrow lets go of the door, about to throw another knockout punch. But I put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from starting a drag-out fight with five men. Doing what he’d do for me.

And then an SUV slams to a stop onto the pebbled path. We both go still.

“It’s not a bad offer,” the hipster tells us, but we’re looking behind him. “Other celebrities would have taken it.”

“Redford!” Oscar yells from the car. His curly hair blows in the wind. He’s the only guy here from SFO. Bruno and the rest from SFA file in and close around the camera crew.

“Confiscate their phones,” Farrow tells security before the words leave my mouth, and I watch six bodyguards all descend upon the trespassers to protect us.

“We’re leaving,” Ace chokes out, picking himself up. His hand to his face. “We’re leaving.”

“You’re not leaving,” Farrow sneers. “I already gave you that chance. Now you’re going to stay until we’ve—they’ve combed through your equipment.”

“And then we’re pressing charges,” I say, my voice stilted.

I don’t know what I feel. Grateful that the full frontal is of me and not him. I know I feel that.

Farrow kicks the door closed, and it shuts with a loud thud. I back up a few feet, and as soon as he turns towards me, we latch onto one another. Our arms slide around each other’s shoulders.

Chest to chest, we tighten the embrace, and his heavy pulse thumps against mine. We’re okay.

His hand warms my neck. “Maximoff,” he breathes.

He stops there.

Because he knows.

Like I do.

There’s such a small chance that those photos won’t be leaked. I don’t know who else has them, and if they were smart, they would have already sent the pictures to their bosses. Once a photo is taken, the line between a leak and privacy is so damn thin.

I can only hope that my lawyers will be fast enough to file cease and desists. That they’ll obtain the photos before it snowballs out of control.

And the last thing I think, I can’t propose today. Somehow, that hurts the most.

32

MAXIMOFF HALE

Being with family should have taken the edge off what happened at the villa, but last night we boarded the mega yacht in the Med; and with twenty-seven family members on the ship, I’m feeling the heat of almost everyone’s whispers and silent sympathy.

It’s heavy.

And not what I wanted to bring onto a family vacation. On the main deck, sleek white cushions and couches cluster around a five-foot deep pool. Cooling off in the waters, I perch my elbows out of the pool on a towel.

My thumb marks the place in a paperback: Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, but I train my eyes straight ahead. Where an overhang shades a circular table with fourteen plush chairs, and right behind that seating area, sliding glass doors lead to the main saloon.

SFO had a debate on the pronunciation of saloon, but Oscar shut it down quickly and let everyone know it’s pronounced “salon.”

I have a good view inside that saloon, and I see Farrow side-by-side with Dr. Rowin Hart. Both treat severe sunburns. Red fiery blisters are puckered on Winona’s shoulders and arms. Ben looks worse, fire-engine red legs swollen like logs. Both of them used some kind of knockoff organic sunscreen, and it didn’t do its job.

Rowin cleans a popped blister, and Farrow has been trying to keep Ben’s fever down. I watch as Rowin says something to my boyfriend.

But I’m out of earshot.

I notice Farrow rolling his eyes and replying back. He snaps off his gloves.

You don’t know how much I dislike Rowin Hart. I wouldn’t put him in the Voldemort category, but my aversion towards Farrow’s ex-boyfriend has been a rising tide. Especially now that Farrow is officially on the med team with Rowin.

These feelings I feel—it’s not jealousy.

It’s fear.

Rowin isn’t pining after my boyfriend. It’s clear that he despises Farrow, and I see that raw, emotional pain flare up in Rowin’s eyes every time he converses with him. It puts me on edge. On guard.

After all the shit Farrow and I have gone through, I can’t let his ex hurt him. Physically, verbally, all of the fucking above.

“Happy Birthday, Moffy.” My uncle’s smooth voice tears my glare away from Rowin.

Connor towers above me in navy swim trunks, his poise and stature god-like. My dad jokes about how Uncle Connor is immortal since he only looks better with age.

“Thanks,” I say to him.

Today is July 13th, and I’m now twenty-three-years-old. If I contemplate that too hard, I’ll fall into some sort of philosophical stupor. So I try not to.

And I think there must be something else my uncle wants. Connor could’ve just yelled happy birthday across the yacht deck like half my family already did. Which has been a good distraction. Seriously. Every time I start thinking about all the outside bullshit, someone else howls happy birthday, Moffy! and tears me back to real life. To right here. Right now.

Connor squats so we’re more eye-level. “The lawyers just called me,” he says. “They’ve stopped most of the pictures from leaking. All that exi

sts is the one photo, and that’ll be it.” His deep blue eyes soften with soothing powers. “I’m so sorry.”

The one photo.

It was my full frontal. But in the one that’s been circulating, my crotch was blurred, and as far as I know, no one has been able to find the uncensored image.

I should be happy that the world hasn’t seen my dick. But really, I hate that a money-hungry company has tarnished one of the best weeks of my life.

So no, I’m not really happy.

But I also recognize I’m talking to a man that had much worse happen to him. “Thanks for the help,” I tell my uncle. “I guess I should be glad it wasn’t worse.”

“A violation of privacy is a violation,” Uncle Connor says. “It doesn’t matter the severity. It’s okay to be upset, even in front of me.”

When he was in his twenties, sex videos of him and his soon-to-be wife were illegally recorded and released. And Christ, I just can’t imagine that type of invasion. If Farrow and I had been filmed and that leaked, I’d be devastated. It’s why our families are uneasy around porn companies.

“I’m not upset, I’m pissed,” I tell Connor. “Like really goddamn pissed.” I run a hand through my wet hair. “But I don’t want to talk about it. I just…want to forget it.”