Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

Farrow laces his boot, and I check my phone for reception again.

No signal.

I remember how Quinn and Luna flew back to Philly after crowds cleared in L.A., and right about now, I’m fucking glad she’s missing this.

After talking in private, the co-Omega leads return to our spot, and Thatcher tells us, “You all should get back on the bus.”

I give him a look. “You want my family and SFO to get on the thing that’s smoking and may catch on fire? That’s a hard no.”

Akara fits his baseball cap on. “It’s late. No one is coming until morning.”

Fog rolls in from the distance. No street lamps. Only the bus headlights illuminate our eerie setting. Pitch black. Endless empty wheat fields. It’s already the start to a bad horror movie.

But I feel safer keeping everyone out here than on an exploding bus.

Thatcher reads my resolute expression, then nods. “Okay. We’ll stay outside.”

Frogs croak and crickets chirp in the unnerving silence.

While on the ground, Beckett stretches out his legs and nods to me. “Virgins die first, right?” He doesn’t watch horror movies, but he knows I do with Kinney.

I’m about to answer, but Donnelly muses, “Protect the virgins at all costs.”

“Virgins raise their hands,” Oscar says.

Only Sulli raises her hand and scrunches her nose. “What? Really? I’m the only fucking one?”

Jane squeezes her in a side-hug. “We love you most. But not because you’re a virgin. That’s just a coincidence.”

We laugh.

Beckett smiles. “We’ll all protect you, Sulli, just try not to outrun us.”

“Virgins don’t die in horror movies,” I say and cross my arms as a breeze whips through. “You have it backwards.”

“Sluts die first,” Charlie says on the ground. He unbuttons another button on his white shirt. Even with the cold.

“Well, most of us will die then,” Oscar says, tying a bandana around his forehead.

I catch Charlie’s gaze. “Yeah, you’re right.” I nod, and everyone quiets as Charlie and I agree on something. A rarity on this damn trip. “Death by sex,” I explain. “It’s a trope, especially in older horror movies.”

Farrow ties his other boot. “Moral takeaway: sex is bad, kids. Protect your virginity.”

Charlie leans back on his elbows. “But if the virgin does die, it’s usually a girl and she’s always the final kill.” He smiles at Sulli. “Congratulations, you’ll outlive us all.”

“Fuck that.” She stands and wipes the gravel off her legs. “We’re all surviving.”

“Goals.” Donnelly blows smoke in the air. He tosses the cigarette pack to Beckett.

Farrow rises and stuffs his hands in a green Philadelphia Eagles hoodie. My hoodie.

I rub my mouth, trying to tell myself to look away. Stop staring like I’m fucking obsessed with him.

But my childhood crush is wearing my clothes. It’s the first time he’s dressed in something of mine. Maybe being in the middle of nowhere without paparazzi is the cause.

I skim him. Head to fucking toe. He took out his brow piercing, but he still has an earring, hoop in his nose and lip—and he has on my hoodie. Jesus.

Christ.

Fuck me and my short-circuiting brain. It’s just a fucking hoodie. He’s not wearing the meaning of life.

Farrow suddenly catches me staring. His lips quirk.

My neck heats, and I look away.

More smoke guzzles out of the bus. We all watch.

“Maybe we should put some distance between ourselves and the bus,” Jane suggests. She hops to her feet and takes off down the deserted, dark road.

I quickly follow suit. Jogging to catch up. “So I gotta tell you, this is the part of the horror movie where we both die. We’re the first to leave the group.”

She smiles softly. “On the contrary, old chap. We’re leading the group.”

I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, my cousins, their bodyguards, and Jack are following our trail.

Bodyguards click their flashlights, and I notice Farrow keeping pace with Oscar. He nods to me, but he doesn’t run ahead. Maybe to give me some alone time with Janie.

The further we are from the bus, the darker. My best friend powers on her phone light, and I unclip my carabineer on my jeans, an emergency flashlight attached.

I look at Janie. “What’s the chances we’re leading them to their deaths?”

Jane ponders this. “With your survival skills and my wit, we’d put up a good match against any adversary ahead, but we’re hopelessly unlucky, you and me.”

I put an arm around her shoulders, and she leans into my build. Almost like old times.

Shining my flashlight on the street, I ask, “Did you talk to your mom today?” Aunt Rose has been calling Janie every single day since the tour began, and every single day, Janie has ignored the call and replied with a text: not yet.

“No,” she says. “I thought about it. I did.” She ties her wavy hair in a low pony. “But so much time has passed, now I don’t even know what to say. They wrote those essays for me, and they both apologized. Now I feel like the brat that’s icing them out.”

“They fucked up,” I remind her. “You can take however long you need. That’s not being a brat.”

Her long lashes lift up to me. “You forgave your parents in a couple days, Moffy.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“My parents are…” I lick my dry lips, trying to step on the right word. I think about how people see the Hales. Fragile, breakable, humans—a row of dominos that topple with one blow. But that row of dominos always uprights again.

And again.

Again.

Strong.

My parents are strong, I remember, but it’s a kind of strength that appears after raw vulnerability. Like a scar after a wound.

I don’t like hurting them before they’re healed. “They don’t need me adding to their stress,” I end up saying. “Your parents eat and breathe loyalty. It’s okay to feel betrayed.”

“I don’t anymore though,” she says and kicks a loose piece of gravel with her ballet flat. “I understand why they did what they did. They love me. We received the royal interrogation treatment that they’d give each other. It’s actually quite flattering in this odd way.”

I frown. “Then why aren’t you talking to your mom?”

The wind whistles and wheat sways beside us. A cold chill snakes down my neck, and I zip up my gray jacket. Since we’re ahead of everyone, the landscape is fucking creepier.

Jane presses closer and hooks her arm with mine. “Like I said, I don’t know what to say.”

“You could start with hi,” I suggest. “Your mom will probably fill in the rest.”

“Next time she calls, I’ll pick up,” Jane says with a determined nod. “I will.” She smiles up at me. “Can you believe we got through a horrendous rumor unscathed?”

“Are we though?” I ask.

“Lightly scratched,” she amends.

“Gently used.”

“We’re in the bargain bin now,” she agrees. And we both smile.

“This tour—it helped, right?”

“Most surely,” she says. “I don’t think I could’ve stayed in Philly, and the money you raised, Moffy…it’s incredible.”

“We raised,” I correct Jane.

Her big blue eyes say that I’m wrong and I’m the one who deserves the credit, but I’ve had too much help from too many fucking people to accept it.

Loose pavement crunches beneath my Timberland boots. “What’s been the worst part?” I ask.

Jane doesn’t even hesitate. “The sexual frustration. It’s strong, and I can’t even commiserate with you.”

I actually feel bad about that. “Why don’t you call your AWB? He can tag along for the last part of the tour.”

Shock arches her brows “You want Nate o

n the bus?”

I grimace. “Not really, but I also don’t want you to be sexually frustrated.”

“And I don’t want nine guys grilling him,” she says into a sigh. “My options include me, myself, and my vibrator.” She brightens her phone light. “Nate and I have sexted some, so I’ve had that.”

I kick some gravel. “You could always ask your new bodyguard to help you out.” I start smiling. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Jane snorts. “Oh yes, in your life, bodyguard duties include giving head.” She narrows her eyes at the dark road. “God, could you even imagine? What would I say? Hello Mr. Moretti, I’m in need of some oral assistance. Would you be so kind to spread my knees?”

Someone clears their throat behind us. “Maximoff.”

That’s not Farrow.

Fuuuck.

Jane and I suddenly freeze, her eyes about to explode out of her head. She flushes, fumbles with her cell, and the light blinks on and off. She curses in French before we both turn and face Thatcher Moretti.

“Yeah?” I answer him and glance over his shoulder. The others are further back. Not matching our pace.