Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

“I should’ve,” Thatcher says coldly. “And I still can—”

“No,” Akara interjects. “We need Farrow.”

Quinn nods strongly. It almost makes me smile.

Donnelly opens his mouth, but he catches my gaze that says, don’t. He’s not a lead of a Force, and they’ll just yell at him for interjecting. Donnelly doesn’t give a shit. “You fire Farrow, I’ll walk out.”

I cringe. “Man, be smarter than that.”

“You die, I die—”

“Oh my God,” I mutter and pinch my eyes.

“Stay out of this,” Akara says to Donnelly in his harshest voice, then to Thatcher, he repeats, “We need Farrow.”

Thatcher shakes his head once, but he knows I’ve never made a mistake that’s truly jeopardized the safety of a client. I’ve just done things differently than the status quo. And it unnerves him.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” I ask him and kick off my last boot.

“Be committed to this profession.”

I clock two hours a sleep a day trying to track a stalker. I spent the last four tour stops, including Nashville and Boston, securing the convention space just on the chance that they would appear and attack Maximoff.

And what’s worse: I’ve added my own father to the short suspect list. Because he has access to the families. To security. Knowledge of the next meet-and-greet stops.

And it makes me physically sick to think he could be harassing my boyfriend.

To hear Thatcher say that I’m not committed is a slap in the face, but I want to know why he thinks that I don’t care. Especially when my actions say I do.

I stand up with a deep frown. “Tell me why I’m not committed.”

“Since the start,” Thatcher says sternly, “you’ve had one foot in, one foot out. At any minute, you can leave for a hospital. So leave if this isn’t what you want to do. Go.”

“Hey,” Akara snaps. “He’s staying.”

My nose flares again. I’ve been in a cold war with my father over choosing this career. I’m fighting against a generational legacy just standing here. But if he can’t see that, then there’s only one way to prove that I’m serious about security. The team, this job, this lifestyle, my client.

It matters to me.

As much as I can’t stand Thatcher, I drop to a push-up position, and I say, “I’m not going anywhere.”

25

MAXIMOFF HALE

“What are the judging parameters?” Sulli mutters to herself and uncaps a pen with her teeth, blank paper on her lap.

I zip up the back of Jane’s reindeer onesie.

“Merci,” she smiles and drops on the floor in front of Beckett. She could sit on one of the two gray couches in the first lounge, but Beckett pops open a sewing kit. Planning to attach antlers to Jane’s hood.

He already sewed Sulli’s, who wears an identical onesie. Now she sits cross-legged on the opposite couch. In deep contemplation.

My lips start rising.

This is our first Christmas Eve away from our families. It’s weird, but not bad. Beckett and I sport ugly holiday sweatshirts, winter beanies, and camping socks. We decorated the bus with Christmas lights, candy canes, and plastic ornaments. Bought gingerbread cookies and made eggnog, Janie’s favorite, and now the air is lighthearted.

No tension.

Maybe because Charlie refused to participate tonight. He’s holed up in his bunk.

I was about to ask if he wanted to join, but Beckett stopped me. He said that Charlie wouldn’t see the invite as an olive branch. I just learned that in Charlie’s mind, me being nice is the equivalent of being pompous, overly heroic, goddamn flashy and ostentatious—like I’m fucking Gaston in Beauty and the Beast.

Beckett said, “Let him do his own thing.”

Fine with me.

I hand out mugs of eggnog to everyone, and I tap Sulli’s shoulder so she pries her face out of the paper.

“Oh, fuck.” She cups the mug. “Thanks.”

I sit beside her. “Vote for whoever looks the best.” Farrow, my mind blurts out in response. I swear my brain is one terrifying step from making shrines of the guy. Which is not cool.

Not cool.

And my mouth wants to upturn, but that I can control. I’m not smiling. I do steal a glance down the hall. The door to the second lounge is still closed.

The front of the bus is quiet without SFO. But Oscar is in earshot and in view from behind the wheel. Eating pizzelles that Thatcher’s brother sent.

“What is considered the best though?” Sulli bites the end of her pen.

Beckett threads a needle. “It’s called hot Santa.”

Jane nods. “The hottest Santa should win.”

“Alright.” Sulli jots a note in a margin, and she goes to sip her eggnog. Pausing, she looks to me. “Alcohol is in mine, right?”

“Yeah.” I can’t be a moral authority on whether she should be sober or not. She hated her first beer, but she wants to try spiked eggnog. So I made her a glass. Oscar’s and mine are the only non-alcoholic drinks.

“Are there categories?” Sulli asks after a tiny sip of eggnog. “Do we rate from one-to-ten? Are there deductions?”

“Valid questions,” Jane says. “Let’s make two categories: runway and how they respond to a short Q&A.”

Oscar cranes his neck to peek at us. “If I don’t win, there’s a conspiracy at play and you’ve all given preferential treatment to your bodyguards.”

“He’s right,” Jane says, “we should try to be unbiased.”

Everyone is looking at me. I make a face. “If I rate Farrow high, it has nothing to do with the fact that we’re together.”

Jane smiles into a sip of eggnog. “I suppose we’ll just have to take your word for it.”

Beckett finishes attaching her antlers and lifts her hood. She kisses his cheeks with a merci, and then she sits beside him, ankles crossed.

“We should tell them about the scoring,” Sulli says and then shouts, “Kits!”

The door down the hall cracks open. “Yeah?!” Akara calls, and she explains the scoring system.

Donnelly sticks his head out, a smirk cresting his mouth. “You should just rate us one-to-ten on who’s the most bangable.”

He’s yanked back into the second lounge. “Paul,” Thatcher chides.

“Damn,” Quinn says out of sight, “he got a Paul.”

The door shuts.

Jane gasps, and I focus on my best friend. She cups her phone in one hand. “Eliot sent me a video of all the cats.” She presses play and angles the screen for us to watch too.

Kittens and cats race ar

ound the townhouse. Darting beneath the Victorian loveseat and hopping on the rocking chair. The camera zooms in on a gray cat that prances around the fireplace.

Eliot’s voice booms through the speaker. “Licorice, now do the cat walk. Do the cat walk!” He layered on techno music.

We all laugh, and Jane wipes the corners of her eyes. We watch the camera flip and face Eliot.

Squared jaw, a pretty-boy haircut, and the second tallest Cobalt, he could play Superman in a summer blockbuster, but a devilish grin always inches up his lips. Mischief glimmering behind blue eyes.

You know Eliot Alice Cobalt as the king of drama. Literally, he’s starred in local plays from William Shakespeare to Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams, and he’s already signed to a theatre company for the next two years. He often films himself and posts humorous soliloquies about a lamp or toothbrush, and he’s not afraid to be uninhabited and wild.

I know him as my passionate eighteen-year-old cousin who thrives in chaos. Who, 9 times out of 10, will light a napkin on fire if I’m at dinner with him. Who loves stories but struggles with reading. Can’t make sense of street signs or restaurant menus. Can barely pick apart a single sentence. Who used to ask Jane, his brothers, and me to read books out loud. Hardbacks pile high in his bedroom, and for fun, he writes plays using a voice-app. He’s dyslexic, and a fucking brilliant, soulful actor who can make an audience cry with a few words.

Fair Warning: even with all the mayhem he brings, I love this guy, and I’ll drive a sword straight in your gut if you fuck with him.

“By the time you receive this,” Eliot says in the video, “I’m at the lake house. It’s Christmas Eve, and you’ve all left me, which means I’m terrifyingly the oldest here. Moffy, if you’re watching, I don’t like this responsibility. Come back, save me,” he says dramatically. “I hate you all, but I love you all. Oh the tragedy.” He grins and lifts a calico kitten to the camera and waves the paw in goodbye. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” The video goes black.

Quiet lingers, all of us missing family. Sulli stares off, more downcast and homesick, and Jane and I exchange a damage control look.

Janie tucks her phone away and stands. “No more videos of home. Let’s enjoy tonight.”