“Take one picture with me, please?! I didn’t get one!” Hands are about to grab onto his shirt. I slip behind him and cut people off.
“Move,” I tell Maximoff.
He’s stopped to speak to them, and he’s hesitating. Because he would genuinely place giving a fan a picture above his safety. Knowing it’d make their day, their month, year, or eternal existence.
Lucky for him, I don’t give a shit.
I only care about his life.
“Maximoff,” I say through my teeth. “Move. Or I’ll drag you—” There we go.
He faces forward, our strides lengthy and hurried. “I could’ve taken one picture.”
“No, you couldn’t.” I fixate on two guys ahead of us. They beam their phone lights on Maximoff. He shields the brightness with his hand.
“Hey, that’s Maximoff!”
I step in front of him while we walk. “You can see him later,” I tell the guys casually, but their lights have already created a giant spotlight on Maximoff.
“Maximoff!!” too many people scream and they’re running towards him.
We’re still far from Ballroom E. “Three-o’clock, there’s a bathroom,” I say to Maximoff and lead him by the shoulder—someone grips his shirt.
I shove the person back, and the fabric rips.
And that’s when the sheer amount of people dawn on me. We may as well be at a concert venue, and he may as well be a singer stuck in the pit. Almost a hundred bodies swarm us.
All wanting close. All wanting to say they “touched” Maximoff Hale. All happening at one time.
In the dark.
I physically pry hands off his shirt, his biceps, and he pushes forward. When I tear off one more set of hands, he breaks through and sprints to the bathroom.
I’m right behind him.
I shut and lock the door. They bang and shout. No lights, still.
“Maximoff.” I redirect my phone light on his body for a split-second. He’s clutching the sink edge. Slightly hunched forward, abnormal for him.
I can’t focus on him yet. It’s killing me not to.
I click my mic and swing the light to the entire bathroom. I kick open stall doors. Empty, empty. “Farrow to Omega, we’re not making it to Ballroom E.” Empty, empty, empty, empty. This is a girl’s bathroom, about twelve stalls.
Empty, empty.
Outside, fans start chanting, “Maximoff! Maximoff! Maximoff Hale! Maximoff! Maximoff! Maximoff Hale!”
Empty, empty, empty. I click my mic. “We’re in a secured bathroom.” I run to Maximoff in two strides, and I shine my light on him. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes are tightened close, jaw clenched. And he swallows hard.
He’s in pain.
My stomach backflips. “Maximoff—”
“Where’s Jane, Sulli, Beckett—are they okay?” He opens his eyes, only severe worry in them.
I click my mic. “Farrow to Omega, where’s everyone?” I listen to their replies and examine his build, easily noticing the bone popped out of his shoulder socket.
“Farrow,” he prods for the answer.
“Sulli and Beckett are in Ballroom E, safe. Crowds cut off Jane, but Thatcher and Quinn took her outside. She’s safe in a cab.” I gesture him to turn towards me. “Let me see your shoulder.”
He says, “I’m fine.” He wants to be.
“You’re not fine.”
People must’ve grabbed his shoulder and held on, pulling back while he moved forward. I should’ve shoved them off faster.
He tries to move his left arm, and he bites down, pain cinching his brows. “Fuck,” he curses.
From behind him, I clutch his waist and slide my arm around him in affection. He almost leans into me, remembering who I am. Being honest here, he’s still a marble statue.
“Let me help you.” I shine a light on his shoulder.
“It’s just sore.”
“Your shoulder is dislocated.”
Maximoff breathes through his nose and then grasps the sink ledge again. “Is that your professional medical opinion?” he asks. “Just by looking?”
“MAXIMOFF! MAXIMOFF!” they grow louder outside.
“Yeah.” I stay behind him. “Also, you’re a stubborn smartass. Point this at your shoulder.” I pass him my phone.
He uses his good hand and directs the light. He watches me through the mirror.
“You can pop it in?”
“I can.” I gently place a hand on the back of his shoulder, another on his elbow. Bracing his forearm with mine. His pulse is racing.
My stomach overturns. Wanting him to just calm. Relax. But he’s hurt, and I know I’m at fault.
“MAXIMOFF! MAXIMOFF HALE!”
“I have to tell you something,” I say seriously.
“If you’re trying to distract me, it’s not going to work—”
“I kissed a crew member.”
“What—”
I click his shoulder back into place, and he lets out a long groan. “Fuuuck,” he curses, and one breath later, he’s glaring at me.
My brows lift. “I was kidding.”
He breathes stronger but shakes his head. “You couldn’t joke about literally anything else?”
“Nothing else would’ve worked.”
He exhales. “And you’re a fucking asshole.” His arm curves around my shoulders.
“That too.” I clutch the back of his neck, the light dancing around us as we shift. “I’m sorry—”
“Not your damn fault,” he says, voice firm, and he subtly eyes me for any injuries. Seeing that I’m okay. “My old bodyguard would’ve done worse.”
Yet, I should’ve done better. “You’ll need to ice the shoulder, and you should call my father to look at it if the pain gets worse.”
His brows furrow. “You just looked at it.”
“Ligaments protect the shoulder joint, and four tendons are connected to your rotator cuff. If you tore any of those, you may need surgery. My father is more experienced. He’ll know.”
It surprises me when I think, I wish I knew more than Edward Nathaniel Keene.
My father has been wishing that too.
17
MAXIMOFF HALE
Cleveland FanCon is cancelled from hotel power outage.
Even on route to the next tour stop—Chicago, here we come—the news headline gnaws at me. The hotel confirmed that the power blew, and technicians couldn’t fix the issue for at least 24-hours.
Security called the FanCon a wash. Ending the event early—it’s an irremovable knife in my chest.
No promised Q&A. Majority of fans never met us. Some spent a lot of money just traveling to Cleveland.
And we fucked them over.
I tried to resolve the problem. I made calls, talked to the crew, and I could’ve shifted the event to another conference room in a nearby hotel.
Akara and Thatcher refused. We haven’t done prep for a different hotel, they said. It’s not possible.
I’m supposed to move on and forget Cleveland’s mishap. Think of this like trial-and-error, Akara told me. The Chicago FanCon will be better.
I can’t just forget. These errors I make hurt people—and I’m not okay with that.
“You need to brainstorm,” Farrow tells me while he crunches his abs in a sit-up.
We’re in the second lounge with Janie, a U-shaped couch back here. Pretty quiet since half the bus is asleep in their bunks.
Farrow isn’t working out on the ground. He’s lengthwise on the gray couch. I sit so damn close that his bent knees steeple my legs. My hand has been sliding down his thigh, and my other forearm rests on his kneecap while I cup my phone.
My childhood crush doing sit-ups right up against me—that should without a doubt be the best damn distraction from bad press. Sweat glistens his inked skin, pirate tattoos peek from his black Adidas V-neck, and a piece of white hair keeps falling to his brown lashes. Causing his fingers to constantly push the strands back.
Jes
us, it’s unnatural how hot he is. And how fucking attracted I am to him. And still, my mind derails and circumnavigates to Cleveland. To a colossal fuck-up.
He lifts his body in a crunch. His face a centimeter from my face, and he eyes my phone. The screen is popped up on a news article that I’ve read a billion times.
The H.M.C. FanCon tour in Cleveland was a massive technical disaster with no backup plan. Maximoff Hale was unprepared to handle an event of this magnitude. If this is any indication of how he runs H.M.C. Philanthropies, it’s clear he’s too young, unprofessional, and inexperienced to be the CEO of a corporate company.
Farrow skims the words in point-two seconds and then chucks my phone behind his head. It hits a pillow and thuds on the floor.
“Thanks,” I say dryly.
“Fuck them,” he tells me with raised brows. “Calling you young and unprofessional is a cheap shot, and those journalists will take it every time.” He lowers his back and rises in another sit-up. “That’s the truth. I’m not blowing smoke because I’m dating and fucking you.”
He lowers again, casual and cool. Acting like he reported a simple weather forecast.
Fuck me. I feel my smile try to take shape.