I wonder why.
If I could classify my relationship with Banks Moretti now, it’d be filed under new. Simply, he’s been more of a bodyguard to me and I’ve been more of a famous client to him. Whatever we know personally about each other has been what Thatcher has shared.
I whisper, “Tony has no empathy for you or Banks.”
Thatcher scowls. “He wouldn’t. To him, we’re a punch line and fucking twin gag like Thing 1 and Thing 2.”
I understand being dehumanized by internet trolls and media outlets. But Tony isn’t a nameless internet user. He grew up with the Moretti brothers, and I can’t even imagine how much worse that would hurt.
“He’s like an impenetrable, grinning Cheshire cat,” I say softly. “I think it’s easier when we both shut him down together.” We’re frowning because under our current situation, Thatcher can’t help me this way.
He dips his head, his voice low. Eyes serious. “I should be next to you.”
We both know he has to be with Xander. “It’s two months,” I breathe. “Once the probationary period is over, he’ll be transferred.”
Thatcher glances down.
At my hand.
That’s been on his thigh. “Oh,” I say aloud, warmth spreading throughout my body. “I didn’t realize I was…” touching you.
“You can keep it there.” We’re impossibly close now, and I don’t move away anymore. I don’t freeze, and his large hand hovers next to my cheek. Sensitive places tingling, electricity sparking, and an ache pulses harder and begs for him to just pick me up and devour me whole.
I whisper, “Thatcher.”
His forehead nearly presses to mine.
My eyes scald. “I can’t believe I’m going on a trip without you.” It’ll be strange. He was my bodyguard for almost a year. With me every day, and now…
I drop my gaze.
His hand encases my cheek. “Fuck it.” He’s a breath from my lips. “We’re switching places.”
“What?” I shake my head, utterly confused.
“Me and my brother. I’ll explain everything.”
7
JANE COBALT
“You can’t be serious,” I whisper to the Moretti brothers, and I can’t believe I even ask. Both are very serious men, Thatcher more so than Banks. They’re definitely not playing a practical joke on me.
My bugged eyes dart between my boyfriend and his twin brother in the noisy South Philly sports bar. So crowded here that only one barstool was unoccupied.
Thatcher has taken the stool. And while I clutch a pint of beer, I sit across his lap, his strong arm around my waist—and I’ve been really, really taken with our seating arrangement. Especially the nearness of his chest, his body heat flushing me all over, and how my arm brushes against his abs.
That was, until, they dropped a Mary-Kate and Ashley sized bomb on me.
“It’s just one week,” Banks says with a slight smile, one teeming with confidence that Thatcher matches in a shared glance. “This is nothing for me, even less for Thatcher.” He cocks his head to his brother. “Pack me up and ship me out, I’m ready.”
I begin to smile, sensing their energy. “You’re both excited about this, aren’t you?” Thatcher enjoys his job, and it’s often a high-octane, high-risk one, and I suppose this will jolt them with more adrenaline.
“To spend more time with you,” Thatcher says, looking down at me. “Hell yeah.”
A smile explodes across my face, and I sip my beer, feeling like my thirteen-year-old easily smitten sister. But realities take hold, and my smile starts to fade. “If you’re caught…” I trail off as they shake their heads.
“It won’t happen,” Thatcher assures.
It makes me sad to think they truly believe very few people can tell them apart. It makes me sadder to think it could be true.
They said they’d be fooling a small number of individuals. Mostly Tony, which should be easy enough.
I take another sip of beer. Thatcher keeps a hand on my binder that I placed on the bar counter, as though someone might snatch it and leak Maximoff & Farrow’s wedding plans.
It is a possibility, and I love how he ensures that all parts of my life are safe.
Thatcher looks into me. “You’re going to help us.”
My lips rise. “I like the sound of this.” I doubt I could sit idly backseat to this plan. I want to make sure the risk is low for them. With the tilt of my chin, I stare up at my boyfriend. “How can I be of service, Mr. Moretti?”
His palm slyly disappears under my robust, tulle skirt. The better to hide my boyfriend’s hand with.
I smooth my lips together and try to subdue my shallow breathing. His warm hand tracks hot lines up my thigh. Thatcher kisses the nape of my neck before whispering, “Okay?”
“Yes.” Oh my God, yes. If I blink three times, I feel like this raw, sexual, warrior of a man will disappear in a poof, and I’m wide-eyed and too eager.
Banks… is staring right at me. He nearly laughs.
Am I panting? Am I childishly head-over-heels?
My face is on fire. “I like your brother,” I state outright.
“Right on.” He smiles and swigs his beer. He’s been standing and shielding bar patrons from reaching me. People pack in tight to watch football and a pro-wrestling pre-show.
I sweep Banks more curiously. Whereas Thatcher carries himself like a commander in a mythic warzone, Banks is a primed solider who would fill every frame of a documentary. He’s background that can’t be unseen.
I glance back at Thatcher, just as he tells me, “Banks and I need an objective eye when it comes to our similarities and differences.”
“That’s where I come in?” I ask.
Banks nods. “My four,” he suddenly says to Thatcher.
“I see them,” Thatcher replies, but he never shifts his gaze or hand off me.
I just now notice a few men ogling me from afar. Not nicely either. I’d say snidely is more like it.
I lean more of my weight against Thatcher. He pulls me closer to his chest, and I feel his heavy heartbeat that thumps in a calming rhythm.
Thatcher and Banks are off-duty. Yet, they’re still watching. Still surveying our surroundings.
Tony, my actual bodyguard, is seven-stools down the bar, and I make a concentrated effort not to glance at him. Though, I’m sure he’s observing everyone and also pompously gawking at us.
At least he’s not in earshot.
I sit more upright. “From what I’ve seen, Tony can’t discern your personalities, so the biggest risk might be mannerisms and physical traits.”
We go over a few technicalities in the next five minutes and screech to a halt on glaring problems.
“Your tattoo,” I whisper to Thatcher.
“It’s on his ass,” Banks says.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s right—my boyfriend has a tattoo on his ass. SFO, namely Paul Donnelly, inked script on Thatcher recently, and I wasn’t present. It happened under the cloak of Omega Brotherhood and I just saw the result.
They didn’t write “hypocrite” on his butt like I thought they would. Like Thatcher said they could. Instead, SFO decided on something that “better fit” Thatcher.
And so they tattooed the word, Cinderella.
The cursive lettering and placement is actually quite beautiful. When I first saw the tattoo in bed, I was overwhelmed. Thatcher has always been the one living the rags to riches story. He’s been the one with everything to lose.
Banks finishes off his beer. “Just don’t get buck-naked, Cinderella.”
Thatcher glares and motions to him. “You also have a fucking tattoo.”
My brows jump. “You do?”
Banks pats his right thigh. “The ink is blown out. If I could kick my fourteen-year-old self in the ass, I would.”
Thatcher explains to me, “Free tattoo in a friend’s basement.”
“Is it a design or script?” I ask.
“Roman numerals
.” Banks places his empty beer on the bar. “Which should’ve been tattooed over years ago.”
Thatcher hones in on his brother. Banks stares directly back. Neither one blinking.
Tension pulls uncomfortably, and I look between them, something unsaid gripping them and the air.
“You want me to tell her?” Banks asks.
I freeze.
Thatcher is dead-set on Banks. “She already knows.”
“Yeah? She knows that everyone in our family blames each other for his death, but no one thought to point a finger at him?”
A chill slips down my spine, and I realize this is about their older brother.
“Fuck him,” Banks says with bite.
Thatcher’s nose flares. “Don’t.”
“I love him, but Mary Mother of God, I hate him like a thousand pounds in his direction, and my dumb ass has to live with his death on my thigh.”
My stomach flips.
Roman numerals. A date.
The day Skylar died.
His words drop heavy. Like a small implosion. Banks looks everywhere but at us, and Thatcher drills a pained expression on the wall. I can feel how infrequent they discuss Skylar, and my big mouth might lead all three of us in a sinkhole, but I just speak.
“It could be worse.” I offer my beer to Banks.
He takes the glass, his brows knitting. “How?”
“You could’ve tattooed it on your ass.”