Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

I turn on him, eyes hot. He didn’t just say that to the public. “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

My mom discussed all the times she got lost in her head on We Are Calloway. Fantasizing about sex. He knows this.

And if Charlie is implying—

“Luna has a vivid imagination. She’s been daydreaming about aliens and other planets since she was little,” Charlie says innocently, as though he never intended anything else. “Why? What did you think I meant?”

More phones are elevated. Recording. Pointed like pistols, but nothing can hurt me. Not online. Not in the tabloids. After what I went through with Jane, I’m fucking bulletproof.

Charlie stares flatly, but behind his eyes all I see is come at me.

So I do.

“At least being an egotistical asshole doesn’t run in my family,” I say, and as soon as the hot-tempered words leave my lips, I regret them.

Low whispers escalate like a rumbling storm.

“I think that one skipped over me and landed on you, actually.” Charlie flings back.

Jesus Christ. I scan the ballroom quickly, and I find Farrow in the back. Leaning against the closed conference room double-doors. Arms loosely crossed. Aviators on inside.

He makes a hand motion that I think is supposed to mean calm down.

And he also blows an actual bubblegum bubble.

His nonchalance helps me, somehow. I breathe. No one needs to tell me that my short fuse is fucking horrible. I know. When I’m around Charlie, I feel like he strikes the match. But I light the bomb and always detonate myself.

“Boys, behave,” Jane says lightly, garnering a few audience chuckles. “Next question?”

The college-aged girl must divert her original question because she asks me, “Do you and Charlie hate each other?”

The moderator smiles sheepishly, and the line coordinator taps the girl’s shoulder. She never detaches from the microphone.

They’re losing control of this Q&A. Much like we just have.

Charlie swivels to face me. “What do you say, Moffy? Do you hate me?”

“No,” I say flatly.

Charlie turns to the audience. “There you go.”

I’m not here to play 5D chess with Charlie, but he keeps roping me in. I try my best to reroute the conversation off us. “How about we talk about your relationship with Beckett. What’s it like being a twin?”

Charlie hates that question.

He glares at me. “What’s it like being the most beloved human on the planet?”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t be so humble, Maximoff,” Charlie says. “They love you.” He faces the crowd. “Isn’t that right?” He raises his mic out, and they all cheer, scream, yell.

I catch the moderator’s gaze, and he balks and fumbles with notecards. “Settle down,” he says. “Okay, let’s get back on track here.”

Everything is out of control, and I’m not sure how to right the train on the track since I’m mostly to blame for shoving it off.

Ignoring Charlie, I say into the mic. “We’ll take a few more questions from the audience.”

Instead of being disappointed, they all raise their hands in the air.

Don’t punch your cousin.

At this point, that’s my low-bar level of success. And I’m just barely reaching it.

23

FARROW KEENE

I consider myself abnormally fearless, not a lot has ever rattled me, but a nightmare just kicked my ass awake. I’m caked in sweat, drawstring pants and black shirt suctioned to my body, and I open a cupboard on the dead-quiet tour bus.

Ripped Fuel is what I need, and the jug lies sideways on the shelf. A sticky note is attached. In guess-whose handwriting: do not take more than 3 a day.

I’d roll my eyes at Thatcher’s unnecessary instructions, but that takes energy on him that I don’t even want to use.

I twist off the cap while simultaneously plugging a cord in my phone. I fit earbuds in my ears, and then shake two pills in my palm. The fat-burning supplement contains ephedrine and caffeine, an easy trick to stay awake.

Because I’m not going back to sleep after that mind-fuck.

It’s 2:42 a.m. and the bus is parked at a Kentucky campground for approximately three-point-two more hours. We all agreed on a pit stop to let the drivers recharge for the next leg of the tour.

I’m a driver, and I can see the irony as I leave my bunk behind and unlock the bus doors. Clearly not sleeping.

My boots hit the dirt, a fire pit charred and extinguished. A full moon illuminates the mossy campground, only one other RV in sight. Trees rustle in a gust of wind, and the winter breeze cools me off.

I scuff a stone and shuffle through my phone’s music. Nine Inch Nails. Play. Bass blasts in my eardrums, and the first song doesn’t end before the bus doors creak open.

I overturn a large rock with my boot. Watching Maximoff step onto the earth like he’s mentally and physically prepared for any hell.

Lips lifting, I pop an earbud out. “Miss me already?”

He glares at the night sky. “God, spare me.”

I almost laugh. “Dramatic and infatuated with me.” My smile grows but then slowly fades as seriousness hardens his forest-greens.

He stretches his arms over his chest. “You woke up in a cold sweat.”

See, I tried not to jostle him, but we slept in the same bunk. A confined single-bed. Our legs were intertwined. My jaw was on his chest. I was more surprised that he didn’t bolt upright instantly when I left.

“Bad dream,” I tell him and then study his shoulder as he rotates his arms. He’s not flinching or wincing. It’s healed better than I initially thought. Good.

I’m hoping he never needs a doctor again. Because he no longer has my father. That fucking asshole…

“What was the dream?” Maximoff crosses the campground, opening and closing his switchblade absentmindedly.

I comb a hand through my hair. “You were drowning.” And I couldn’t save you. I breathe hot breath through my nose and rest my boot on a log bench.

Maximoff clicks his switchblade closed. Standing stoically, he reminds me of an unshakable marble statue again. A man who refuses to let anyone or anything topple him. At least not without putting up a hell of a fight.

And I’m not surprised when he tells me, “That would never fucking happen.”

I toss my head from side-to-side, considering that. Something never happening is a spearfish becoming a horse. Of course people can drown. Shit, even Olympic swimmers can drown. But I can’t wade inside these fears or let them leech onto

Maximoff.

It was a nightmare.

Not reality.

Our gazes catch in a forceful grasp. Not letting go. “You’re right,” I tell him. “You’re not drowning. Because you have me.”

He pauses in thought. “I’d survive either way.” He gestures from my chest to his chest. “Between the two of us, I’m the trained swimmer.”

I smile. “I meant metaphorically drowning.”

He glowers. 2% amused, 98% irritated. I’m a 100% satisfied, and we unconsciously near. Our boots scuff the dirt and moss.

“I’m not losing at anything,” he says, still trying to assure me.

I won’t say this out loud, but fuck, I agree—he’s capable of surviving 8 out of 10 scenarios. But I’m here for those 2 that he needs someone else. And he will.

He does.

He knows it too, but like me, those words rarely meet the air. I’d rather tease him for as long as I can, and he’d rather combat me.

“You’re not losing at anything,” I repeat his words and then say, “you’d lose to me in an MMA match in less than a minute.”

“Or I’d win,” he refutes.

I laugh hard.

“I’m fucking serious.” He pockets his switchblade, standing about an arm’s length away. “Let’s see who’s better.”

I’ll have him on his back in less than two seconds. “Someone teach you? Because I know I didn’t.”

“I did some research.”

My smile is hurting my face. “You mean you Googled MMA moves?”

He glares. “Are we doing this or not?”

I suck in a breath. “Wow, you must really want me to be on top of you.”

He licks his lips to hide a smile. “Maybe I’ll end up on top of you.” He gestures me forward.

Wind whistles. No paparazzi here. The only cameramen tailing us lost our tracks around Chicago. The rest stayed in Philly for money-shots of his parents.

This informal match is just for us, but my fist isn’t hitting his face. We quickly agree to no jabs, hooks, uppercuts or kicks. Leaving mostly wrestling and grappling.

We circle one another, and then he approaches like a bullet. He tries a clinch takedown, pushing my chest while sweeping my right foot out from under me. I maneuver out of the inside trip, and then step forward, drop to a knee. And swiftly shoot my hands behind his legs and pull.