Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

I straighten. We were all hoping it’d be fleeting. Like fifteen minutes of fame. But if GBA publicized the story, it’ll air on the 7 o’clock news.

“Say something,” Jane says to me, a pink sleeping eye-mask on her head. But like me, she hasn’t slept. Guilt clouds her blue eyes.

“It’s not your fault, Janie.”

She narrated the Christmas Eve video. Beckett filmed it, but neither of them leaked it.

“But you talked to the security company,” she says like she’s filing all the details again and again. “It couldn’t have been a hack.”

I nod. “It wasn’t a hack, but Beckett texted the video to family and security. Which was fine. We’re all on a secure line, so it’s not his fault either.” He couldn’t have known someone would share the video and break the circle of trust.

We just don’t know who did.

Farrow pops his gum. “A famous one or security leaked it to the press, Cobalt.”

“Our families wouldn’t,” Jane says passionately.

“Epsilon,” Donnelly theorizes a culprit. “Someone narked.”

Oscar turns. “Doesn’t matter. The moment we leave this hotel, we’re all fired.” He gestures to the chaotic street. “Look at that. We can’t protect anyone if more security needs to flank us.”

Quinn paces again.

“Oh fuck, go back.” Sulli is motioning for Donnelly to change channels.

He returns to the last one, entertainment news, and increases the volume.

“…Christmas has extended its stay and is bearing more gifts for us,” the female reporter says on a sound stage. “Take a look at the viral video of the men who protect the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts. And be warned, you may need an ice cold shower after this one. So ho, ho, ho, watch these hotties, and let us know if you ship it.”

Strangely, her words lighten the tension. Donnelly and Farrow are smiling.

The video plays on the television. But this one is slightly different. The news station added bright text over each bodyguard as they saunter down the mock runway.

Akara is first with the words: The Boss.

“Truth,” Donnelly says.

Jane and I exchange a wary look. They’re labeling SFO from the bios Jane created on-the-fly, and it’s not an original concept or a coincidence.

It’s a homage. Our parents were once labeled just like this, and over twenty-two years later, media and fans still call Uncle Ryke “the jackass”.

“Please let them all be positive attributes,” Jane says in a soft breath.

On-screen, Donnelly appears in red trunks. The Ass-Kicker.

“Sweet.” Donnelly smirks.

Farrow is next: The Maverick.

I glance at him, and his lips almost rise. But he doesn’t really smile anymore. Come tomorrow, he may not be my bodyguard and some other guy probably will be.

But we did dodge one bullet. The video never showed us embracing, and the audio didn’t catch us flirting.

So the world thinks he’s just my bodyguard.

And I’m just his client.

Knowing we weren’t the ones who ruined Omega—that our relationship didn’t catapult their fame—it doesn’t really help. No matter the cause, their jobs are still on the chopping block.

Oscar pops on-screen, muscles oiled. The Pro.

In the hotel room, he hardly bats an eye. Not surprised.

The entertainment TV station presents the entire video package like a wet dream. Confident, unabashed men in red underwear, sculpted builds and six-pack abs—I’m shocked they didn’t go ahead and call them Sexy Fuckers Org.

Back on-screen, Quinn walks out in only a bow. The Young Stud.

Jane starts relaxing, the titles not as bad as she thought. Akara and Thatcher exit the bathroom the same way they entered. Stringent and grave. But their attention routes to the television. Watching with us.

A phone pings rapidly.

“That’s me.” Donnelly ditches the remote for his cell. “…fans found my Twitter. I just gained 10k followers…another thousand…holy shit. They keep askin’ if anyone on SFO is single.”

“Don’t respond,” Thatcher orders.

“It won’t matter,” Oscar chimes in. “GBA news already profiled our relationship statuses. Single as a Pringle. All of us.”

Multiple pairs of eyes dart from Farrow to me, but I bury a reaction. Inside, my brain blares on repeat, he’s taken, he’s fucking taken.

Our room quiets when the entertainment segment shows Thatcher. He towers on-screen in his underwear, leaving nothing to the imagination, and he spins around. His bare ass is in full view. To millions of viewers. Words flash across his back.

The Jockstrap.

Great. I almost cringe. Under any other circumstance, I could see Omega laughing—but the room tenses.

Thatcher’s strict features never change shape.

Jane looks horrified. Like she committed manslaughter against her bodyguard. “Thatcher, I’m terribly, terribly sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Thatcher lowers the volume using the TV button. “None of it bothers me.”

Jane is still pale.

I reach out and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

“Jane.” Thatcher catches her gaze, and very seriously, he says, “I’m relieved it wasn’t you on the television. That’s all.”

She death-grips my hand, almost cutting off the circulation. But I let her hold longer, and Akara snaps his fingers to his palm.

“So this is it,” he begins to deliver the news, good or bad—and my phone rings. Jane instantly releases her grip, and I check the Caller ID: Kinney Hale.

For FaceTime.

I can’t ignore my sister. Our mom and dad are in New York City tonight at a charity event for children. Sponsored by Halway Comics. Which means she’s home alone with Xander.

“Sorry,” I tell everyone. “You can talk without me…” I gesture amongst the group while I return to the window and grasp at the illusion of privacy. But I like that I’m closer to Farrow.

I answer the call.

She swings the camera. What the fuck is she doing?

Her features are blurred, brown hair whipping every damn way, black eye makeup streaming down her round cheeks. Gangly limbs shifting in and out of view.

“MoffyIcantIcant.” Her voice is a jumbled out-of-breath, tearful mess.

“It’s okay. Take a breath, Kinney. Tell me what’s wrong.” I block out the pit that wedges in my ribcage.

She cries and pounds her fists at wood.

“Kinney. Focus on me.”

Farrow ditches his spot and stands next to me, peering at the fuzzy FaceTime screen.

“I can’t…I can’t get a hold…” She rattles the knob. “OPEN THE DOOR!” she screams helplessly, and I make out an Elfish sign on the wood. Xander’s room. And I know.

My brother broke a rule and locked his door.

I go rigid and abandon my emotion. “Kinney, listen to me.” I glance over my shoulder to alert my cousins. So they can call family, so security can call bodyguards—but everyone already rises.

Beckett is awake. Charlie is on his feet. Phones are being drawn, numbers called.

“Eliot, are you down the street?” Charlie says.

“Mom?” Luna says.

“Dad, are you near the Hale’s?” Sulli asks.

“Tom?” Beckett calls.

Jane speaks in hurried French.

“Get Banks,” Akara says to Thatcher, then he lists off other names, and the rest of SFO starts dialing. Phones to their ears.

All but Farrow.

He puts a hand on my shoulder, zeroed in on Kinney with me, and I tune out the rest of the room.

“Kinney, Kinney,” I say in a calm but forceful voice. I watch my thirteen-year-old bony sister—barely ninety-pounds—run at the door. Arm slamming into the wood. Tugging at the knob. Pounding her fists. Trying to break it down.

I’m painfully aware that she’s going to fail.

&nb

sp; “Slow down, look at me,” I tell her. “Look at me.”

Kinney breathes, steadies the camera; her smudged eyes look broken but murderous.

“Go wait at the front door,” I say.

“I’m not leaving him!” she screams at me like I’m not helping Xander. But right now, I can only help her.

And I’m not letting Kinney find our brother…

I go cold.

Farrow’s thumb strokes the back of my neck, and he tells Kinney, “You need to unlock the door for Banks.”

That works. Kinney runs downstairs, rubbing at her cheeks. “If he did something…I’ll never forgive that turd—” She cuts herself off in a sob. “I didn’t mean it. I don’t want him to.”

“It’s okay,” I say, a knot in my chest. “Don’t think about it. Just unlock the door. Stay downstairs.”

Flying through the foyer, she lands on the welcome mat and flicks the locks. Then she sprints to the kitchen.