Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

ard to put his oatmeal on an end table. “That Instagram account that I showed you back at the lake house.” He seizes my gaze. “It turned out to be a real threat.”

I shake my head. “No, there’s no way.”

“We traced the IP address to Philly. The entire security team is treating the user as a high risk to your safety.”

I stare off, processing this fact with little to no emotion. “Who is it?” I open Instagram on my cellphone.

Farrow hangs his arm on his bent knee. “We’re still trying to identify them.” He’s quiet. “I’m not supposed to share any of this with you, but I know you’d rather be aware.”

I nod a few times. Even before we got together, he always kept me in the loop. Even at the cost of disobeying the security team. “Thanks,” I say. “You know I won’t share with anyone but Janie.” I’m not about to scare my younger cousins.

I click into the @maximoffdeadhale account.

Farrow watches me, our silence more uneasy. I thought that tension would disappear.

“You don’t need to worry,” I tell him. “I’m not afraid of stalkers.”

“I didn’t think you were.” He combs a hand through his white hair. “There’s more.”

I frown at him before looking at the account. 52 photos. Most recent one shows me lying bloodied on a neon Cleveland sign, their Photoshop skills top-notch.

My first and only thought: I’m happy it’s me and not Farrow, not Jane, not my siblings, not my family, not anyone I love.

And I think about that. How I’m staring at dozens of pics where I’m dying or already dead and the only thing I feel is gratitude. Happy that the user didn’t choose to mock-kill someone else.

Farrow adjusts his earpiece, gaze drifting like another bodyguard is speaking. When his attention returns to me, he says, “It’s likely the account belongs to someone you personally know. Someone who hates you. Someone you’ve intentionally or unintentionally pissed off, and since I’m closest to you, I need to narrow down a list.”

I think back. Who did I piss off? “Most of my fistfights with hecklers made the news, so those names are somewhere online. That should help.” I stare faraway. “I can’t think of anyone else who’d want me dead besides anonymous trolls.”

Farrow slowly edges into the next question. “What about any of your hookups?”

Blood just drains out of my head. I’m not an idiot. I rapidly connect all the pieces and fully comprehend his reservations.

He needs to search my old NDAs for possible suspects.

And by search, I mean discover the names and number of people I’ve fucked.

I start shutting down. Brick upon brick upon brick. I climb off the bed and grab a pair of boxer-briefs.

He stands. “Maximoff—”

“I’ll go through my NDAs,” I say confidently, pulling my underwear to my waist. “I’ll give you the names of anyone that I think could be capable of creating an account like that.”

His jaw tics. “That’s not how this works. I’m your bodyguard. I protect you, Maximoff. You can’t do this yourself—”

“Why not?” I shake my head, my neck stiff and hot. “I’ve met these people. You haven’t. I can filter out the ones who would never—”

“How the fuck do you know they’d never hurt you?” he snaps, not backing down. “You were only with these people for one night. How much do you even know about them?”

I cast a glare at the wall. Not much.

“Omega wants to research all of your NDAs, and I agree—”

“No,” I say out of impulse and step back from him. Two feet. Three and four. Hands up. “You don’t need to know the faces of every person I’ve ever slept with.”

Farrow laughs out a pained smile. “Man, you think this is easy for me? I don’t want to rifle in your past when I know it hurts you for me to be there.”

“Then don’t.” I gesture to his chest. “Give the job to me or if not me, then Akara—”

“I’m your fucking bodyguard.” His narrowed gaze drives deeper into me. “Not Akara. Not anyone else. And as your bodyguard and your boyfriend, I want to protect you. It’s my job to take care of your NDAs, your safety, and if you don’t let me help you, then I’m hurting you by being a worse bodyguard than what you need.”

I set my hands on my head, almost out of breath. Like I just swam a 400-meter IM without coming up for air. I just stop. I breathe, and I try my best to understand him. Because I don’t want to fuck with his job.

My mind reels, and I just say what hits me. “I want to not care about the fucking NDAs, the faces, the names,” I tell him. “I get it. If our positions were reversed, I’d hope you’d value your life over something trivial. And that you’d let me sift through papers about your one-night stands and let me help…” I cringe at the thought of anyone stepping into a sex life that I kept private from the world.

From you.

How do I open a door that I padlocked, chained, and bolted shut? “Fuck,” I breathe, glaring at the ceiling.

“It’s not trivial,” Farrow says, swiveling the knob to his radio.

“What do you mean?”

“What you feel, what’s important to you—it’s not trivial,” he clarifies and sits half on the desk, casually stuffing his hands in his black pants pockets.

I can’t unglue my feet from the middle of the room. “I’m not ashamed of my number, but if you learn about all of this—I don’t want it to affect our relationship.”

“It won’t,” he says strongly. “I promise you, Maximoff. I don’t give a flying shit about your number or who you’ve fucked. I’ve never judged anyone for being promiscuous.” He shrugs. “It’s a personal choice, and that’s your business, not mine.”

“Exactly.”

He rolls his eyes and stands off the desk. “Unless this psychotic dickhole is someone you enraged after fucking them, then it becomes my business.”

“I’m not an asshole,” I say, my chest tight. “I’d like to believe I treated all of my one-night stands with respect.”

“I know.” His voice is almost a whisper.

I crack my knuckles. “I always thought about how every hookup had to sign NDAs and jump through hoops to sleep with me. To protect me.” I look up at Farrow. “And I always thought who’s protecting them? And I knew, I fucking knew, that it was my job to protect the people I had sex with. I had to care or else it felt like my life meant more than theirs because I’m famous. And that’s just bullshit.”

Farrow stares deeply. “And now I just want to protect the fuck out of you ten times more.”

I lick my lips, knowing that I need to let go of control. I need help, and I need him. If I create a roadblock, then I’ll lose Farrow as my bodyguard. He’d probably quit his job before he failed me—and maybe he’s been struggling with that idea.

Maybe he still will. But I have to make it easier on him.

So I say, “I’m okay with that.”

Farrow closes the distance between us before I unfreeze. I hold the back of his neck, and he clasps my jaw, his hand affectionate and forceful. I hear our heavy breaths.

His brown eyes melt against my forest-green, and he says, “I’m really, really in love with you, and whatever happens, keeping you safe is my priority.”

“Same here.”

He begins to smile. “You’re going to keep me safe?”

“Yeah.” I nod heartily. “No one’s fucking with you.”

“They’re not fucking with me because I’m not the famous one,” he says. “And unfortunately for you, it’s my job to jump in front a bullet that’s aimed for your head.”

I grimace. “Thanks for reminding me.” We eye each other’s lips, a half-second from kissing, and then my phone rings. I pull away. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Farrow leaves my side to pick up his oatmeal, finally eating.

I take the call. “Hey?”

“Moffy, can you come into the gift store downstairs?” Sulli whispers softly. “Please? Fuc

k, this is so hard.”

I already start grabbing a clean pair of jeans and a crew-neck shirt. “I’ll be right there.”

15

FARROW KEENE

I rest my ass partially on a table of folded Cavaliers shirts. “Why the phone call?” I ask Akara and Donnelly. We hang out at the gift shop’s entrance.

Our clients talk towards the back. Near a rack of keychains and souvenir mugs. And in my peripheral, I clearly see Beckett eating Wendy’s fries, Maximoff unwrapping his chicken biscuit, and Sulli speaking too quietly to hear.

Akara wears a backwards baseball cap and bounces a rubber ball. “She said she’s having a hard time picking out a souvenir for her little sister.”

My brows ratchet up. Because that’s not a reason she’d call Maximoff. I eat a spoonful of oatmeal, and Donnelly listens while he tries on winter beanies.

“What’s she actually doing?” I ask Akara.

“Looking for a birthday present for me and pretending like I don’t know what’s up.” He observes them out of the corner of his eye. “She opened the curtains in the room this morning and saw someone outside carrying a Sullivan the Sasquatch sign. Probably heading to the convention.”

I let out a long whistle. Dipshits thinking they’re clever are the least clever.

“She’s freaking,” Donnelly pipes in, tugging a Mohawk beanie over his chestnut hair.

“She’s not freaking.” Akara catches the ball. “She’s just feeling out the water, and she’s used to having Maximoff beside her in new situations. Which is why she called him.”

That sounds more accurate. He’s the moral support for 99% of his family. Minus Charlie.

I’d say that Sulli did fine at the Camp-Away event, but the FanCon isn’t that comparable. Only three-hundred fans attended the Camp-Away and she took breaks in her cabin for solitude.

The philanthropy sold a thousand tickets for the Cleveland FanCon, and that’s just one tour stop of many. Here, all the famous ones are obligated to shake hands, hug strangers, and take pictures for hours with little to no rest.

Not my thing, but that’s why no one’s paying for my selfies.

Donnelly subtly eyes them while facing us too. “Those mugs are bugging Beckett.” I can’t detect Beckett’s annoyance. But not a second later, he realigns the mugs in a neat row.