Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

And it’s not Maximoff or Jane or any of the famous ones.

Oscar racks up the pool balls and surveys the crowded bar and pissed off faces. “Donnelly is going to flip when he gets here.”

He’s definitely not the type who’d appreciate someone demanding that he vacate his own city. We all call Philly home, and the jeers began the moment Oscar and I stepped into The Independent. Our go-to spot whenever we’re off-duty and not at the Studio 9 gym.

Becoming “somewhat” famous doesn’t mean everyone loves you. I’ve spent plenty of hours with Lily Calloway and Maximoff, and I’ve seen how unwarranted hate festers out of notoriety.

I grab a cue stick and catch eyes with a bearded, tattooed dipshit. He flips me off with two hands and careens forward on his stool. His attempt to rope me into a confrontation.

I almost laugh and spin the cue stick. I’m not that easily snared. Sidling up to the pool table, I tell Oscar with the tilt of my head, “It’s like they don’t realize we’re all trained fighters.”

Oscar grins. “Idiots.” He tries to align the pool balls perfectly, and his curly hair falls over a rolled bandana that’s tied across his forehead.

My phone buzzes in my pant’s pocket. I pull it out with a piece of gum. New text.

“When my little bro gets here, Redford, tell him you’ve only played pool once or twice.” Oscar grabs a stick off the wall.

I chew my gum, not looking up from my phone. “You want me to hustle your brother,” I say, partially interested. I read a recent message and lean some of my weight on my cue stick. My boot rests on the rung of a short stool.

I’d say this is heaven but it’s missing someone… – Maximoff

He included a selfie that could be part of a Calvin Klein campaign. Fucking gorgeous. Halfway submerged in his family’s pool, his wet hair is slicked back, and beads of water roll down his temples.

My mouth rises.

Luna photo-bombed him, her tongue touching her nose.

Our clients are spending the night at the gated neighborhood, visiting parents and siblings. Maximoff invited me to join him, but since the tour officially ended early yesterday, Omega wanted to go out.

And I need to be with security.

I start texting him back: I’d say you’re missing a comma. Before I hit send, Akara plucks my phone right out of my hand. He wafts smoke out of his face, the bar clouding.

“When’d you get here?” I ask, noticing a beer bottle in his grip. I’m not sure how he managed to push through the hecklers at the bar without causing a fistfight.

Donnelly saunters towards Oscar, beer also in hand. Through the cigarette smoke, I make out his septum piercing, a new thing, and he cut holes in his Studio 9 shirt.

“Five minutes ago,” Akara answers me, his sweaty muscle shirt suctioned to his chest.

I pop my gum. “You smell like a five hour workout.”

Akara rubs my phone on his sweat stains, making a point. “We all agreed not to stalk the stalker tonight. You know Maximoff is safe with his family.”

“I realize that.” I don’t need the reassurance. I’m confident whoever the fuck is behind the sick photos won’t reach Maximoff at his parent’s house. It’s decked out in security alarms and cams.

I extend my hand for the phone.

Akara rubs it on his chest again. “You really want this thing back?”

“Man sweat really doesn’t bother me.” I motion to him. “Give me.”

He slips my cell into his back pocket.

I roll my eyes. “Akara—”

“You can get it back later tonight.” He squeezes my shoulder. “No client, no boyfriend. Just relax.”

I chew my gum slowly. “I’m the definition of relaxed.”

Akara swigs his beer. “You’ve been the definition of hyper-vigilant. I’ll let you know when you’re back to Farrow ‘chilling in hurricanes’ Keene.”

I’m not dwelling on that. Mostly because a brawny fucker yells, “Go eat shit, posers!!”

Donnelly leans on the pool table. “Haters gonna hate.”

“Get outta Philly!” a collective jeer comes at us.

Donnelly suddenly straightens up and outstretches his arms. “I’m from Philly! You get outta here, man!”

Oscar pulls Donnelly back by the shirt before he storms the bar, and then he steals Donnelly’s beer.

“Hey,” Akara says, “let it go. We don’t need to make another headline. Security Force Omega Gets in a Bar Fight reflects badly on our employers.”

Donnelly glowers at the bearded, tattooed guy who’s been staring me down. “What about Security Force Omega Wins a Bar Fight, boss?”

“No,” Akara says.

The hecklers shout some more bullshit, and we do a good job of ignoring. But a female bartender leaves the counter and nears us.

She ties her hair into a bun. “Hi, guys. Look, I can take your drink orders and serve you, but you shouldn’t approach the bar. It’s not safe, and the manager thinks this is a better deal for everyone, yeah?”

The bearded dipshit looks too pleased with himself. He thinks we’re about to be kicked out, not given special treatment.

Amusement pulls my lips upward. I’m enjoying this.

“Sounds good,” Akara says. “You guys want anything?”

“I’m buyin’ a round of whiskey shots for everyone,” Donnelly says, gesturing to all of us.

“Got it,” the bartender says and departs.

I chalk my cue stick. “Who’d you tattoo?” I ask him since that’s how he earns extra cash, and it’s the only time he buys everyone drinks.

“Luna.” Donnelly picks a cigarette out of a pack. “Thought about consulting with her dad first since he went ape-shit on me about the others, but then I thought, nah. He won’t ever see this one.”

My brows spike. “Man, if you tattooed her ass and her dad finds out, he’ll—”

“Don’t freak. It was a shooting star below her hipbone.” He cups his hand over a flame and lights his cigarette. “And she’s eighteen. If it’s not me inking her, then another tattooist will, you know?”

I know.

But that’s still Loren Hale’s daughter and Maximoff’s little sister. That’s still the Hale family, and fuck, I’m not typically incessant on inserting myself in other people’s shit, but I understand that family better than him. And I care about Luna.

Akara motions his beer bottle at Donnelly. “If she asked you to push her off a cliff, what would you do?”

“I’d say let’s grab some parachutes first, babe.” He smirks. “Then I’d clasp her hand and we’d go down…” He jumps forward and then slings an arm around Oscar.

“You playing?” Oscar asks him about pool.

“Later.”

Akara shakes his head, his lips lifting. He does friendly disapproval well.

My smile widens at Donnelly. “Look who’s never being put on Luna Hale’s detail.”

He blows cigarette rings at me.

“Hey, guys.” Quinn approaches, his plain shirt torn at the hem, nail scratches on his neck.

Most everyone stiffens, but I’m still leaning on the cue stick.

“What the fuck happened?” Oscar instantly nears.

Quinn pushes his brother away. “You know how the crowds are.” The ones in the street, outside The Independent.

“Nah, they aren’t that bad,” Donnelly says.

Akara frowns and assesses Quinn from afar, who tries to convince everyone with I’m fine, I’m fine, but it’s clear that the fame has been harder on him than us.

“I just need a drink,” Quinn mutters.

The bartender returns with a tray of whiskey shots, and the bar boos at her, more than at us.

“Sorry,” I apologize to her, and she shrugs sheepishly.

Donnelly puts a wad of cash on her tray for a tip.

“Thanks. I’ll leave this here.” She sets the tray on a pub table and then tucks the cash in her back pocket.

I grab a dri

nk. “Take a shot, Oliveira.” I hand Quinn the glass.

He downs the whiskey shot, and then Thatcher, the last of Omega and my new roommate, joins us. I can’t say we’ve been friendly. We’ve spoken one time since the tour ended. He asked if I saw Ophelia, Jane’s white cat, who went missing for an hour in our townhouse.

I said no.

He said nothing in reply.

And that was the end of that shit.

“Who’s playing?” Thatcher asks, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled to his elbows.

Oscar points his stick at me. “Redford is supposed to break.”

I pop my gum. “No, I’m out.” I pass my cue stick to Thatcher. “You go ahead.” I’m not handing him an olive branch. This is me just not wanting to play pool.

Thatcher senses this, and he doesn’t say thanks.

I down a shot, whiskey burning the back of my throat. And I sidle next to Oscar. About to place a bet on the pool game.

But the bearded dipshit with leathery skin and an eagle bicep tattoo stands off his stool. He must be in his early thirties, not much older than us, and four more men flank him. All look about three-hundred pounds.

Donnelly often says he’s “a buck seventy-five” and the rest of us are lean and muscular like UFC fighters and boxers. Not heavyweight entertainment wrestlers. Shit, the only one who comes close is Thatcher. But even entering a fight underweight, we could easily knock all of them out.