Sinful Like Us (Like Us 5)

Beckett. He’s not thinking this through. We have no access to a phone or internet, and before I say so, Akara chimes in, “None of us can call for a helicopter.”

Thatcher nods. “We don’t have the resources right now.”

My brother doesn’t seem deterred. So either he’s fooling himself or he has an ace in his sleeve. With a lithe movement, he spins towards the banister. “Charlie!”

Oscar shakes his head and then turns into Farrow to say, “That kid’s got every helicopter and private plane service on speed dial.”

Farrow whispers something back that I can’t hear.

And it’s not Charlie who descends the staircase into the foyer.

Joana Oliveira tosses her backpack on the growing pile. “Why does everyone look like they just got their asses kicked by me?”

Everyone is ominously silent.

“What they’re not telling you,” Beckett suddenly says, “is that we’re stuck here.”

Her face plummets. “What?” She whips to Oscar with wide, horrified eyes. “Bro.”

Oscar holds up a comforting hand. “I know—”

“My fight is in two days.” Joana shakes her head in distress.

Quinn motions to his sister. “We’ll get you there, Jo.”

Oscar rubs his forehead, not as assured or willing to promise their sister. This has now turned into a royal dilemma and not how I saw this informal meeting going.

I haven’t even taken a sip of coffee.

Really, I like Jo. From our short time together, I’ve found her put-up-or-shut-up energy very refreshing and rather amusing when directed towards SFO, who see her as a little sister. But right now, the air is very strained.

“I can’t miss this fight,” Joana emphasizes to her brothers.

Beckett tips his head to her. “Welcome to the Screwed Club.”

Oscar’s eyes flash with protective heat. “Beckett, watch yoursel—”

“We’re not in the same situation.” Joana cuts off her brother and spins on Beckett with angry brown eyes. “You’re a ballerina. I have a televised fight, and if I’m not there, I have to forfeit. I don’t have an understudy.”

Beckett restrains a soft smile.

She cringes. “Are you grinning?”

“Yes,” he says honestly. “Look, I don’t have an understudy.” He stiffens more. “I have a douchebag, asshole who’s vying for my spot. If I’m not there, he’ll replace me, and I’m out of work for an entire season.” He inhales a sharper breath, and then he rotates to the staircase. “CHARLIE!”

Jo storms through the foyer with a blistering stride and cracks the door open. She rocks back. “Holy shit.”

Cold sweeps inside like a mad, furious rage, and I block the slapping wind with a hand to my face. Until Thatcher steps in front of me and shields me from the freeze.

My pulse skips.

I’ve already peered outside. Where the view is an endless sea of glaring white.

“What do you want?” Charlie climbs down the stairs in nothing but a pair of boxer-briefs. He rubs at his eyes, sandy-brown hair matted from sleep.

Beckett looks over his shoulder. “Can a helicopter fly through that?” He nods his chin towards the door that Oscar begins to shut.

Charlie barely glances at it. “Not unless you want to die.”

“No one leaves the house,” Akara declares, speaking to his men and to my family. “I don’t care where you have to be. Or how important the shit is that you’re missing. No one goes anywhere until the storm ends.” He stomps off, leaving uncomfortable silence in his wake.

28

JANE COBALT

2 Days Snowed-In

Only 2 days away from Christmas Eve, an anxious urgency permeates through Mackintosh House like an inescapable toxin. The need to be home for the holidays is a ticking clock we all hear and feel.

I speak quietly. “Charlie said he’s sick of everyone. Beckett won’t look at me, but Sullivan and Luna seem to be faring well. For now at least.” I sit on the washer/dryer combo, a plaid tartan blanket snug around my shoulders. And I have a rare high-up view of Thatcher as he’s seated on the cold tile.

Since early this morning, I’ve taken inventory of food, firewood, and other necessities like medicine. Thatcher and I split up most of the day to lessen Tony’s suspicions about the twin swap.

I’ve only been in the laundry room for a couple minutes, and already, Thatcher is looking up at me with heady, concerned eyes.

“How are you doing?” he asks, his voice so very deep.

His question blooms inside me, a budding rose through the thick impenetrable ice.

I must’ve forgotten myself in the equation.

“I’m about as well as Moffy.” My ribcage feels like a painful corset cinching my lungs. “Possibly better considering I’m sleeping more than he is. I love him dearly, but he’s going to drive himself over an edge.” My throat tightens. “It’s easier knowing he has Farrow now.” He’s the only person who can help Moffy relax.

Thatcher assesses me. “You feel responsible for your family’s well-being too.” It’s not a question, yet I feel the need to explain.

I shrug, tensed. “In a lot of ways, yes. But Maximoff feels more responsible since he invited everyone to Scotland, and they all believe he’ll fix this more than they think I will.”

His frown is a dark scowl. “You help out just as much as him.”

“He’s the leader. I’m just the second-in-command, and really, I’m lucky. I don’t envy his position, and I definitely don’t want that pressure.” I quickly add, “How’s SFO doing?” I don’t know why I’m so uncomfortable talking about myself right now.

He skims me, the scrutiny scalding me in the chilly laundry room. It’s the second coldest place in the house, the first being the cellar. “Most of the team hasn’t racked out in over 24-hours either.”

Our bodyguards bear a great responsibility for my family’s welfare too. And there’s strange comfort in knowing it isn’t just Moffy and me holding down the fort.

Two men who we desperately love and trust are helping us. Plus, the rest of Omega.

I try to take a breath.

Skin pleats between his focused eyes. “You look scared.”

I attempt to swallow fear, but it fists me. And I realize he captured the emotion that has me deflecting. How smart he is—this man of mine.

I inhale. “I am.”

He starts to stand—and quickly, I hold out a hand. “Please, don’t. You’re busy.” He has a laptop on his muscular legs, and the laundry room had the best reception before we lost all signal from the storm.

Thatcher’s been tasked with pressing refresh on a webpage. SFO has taken turns trying to send an email to our families. A futile effort really, considering we don’t have internet. But he’s not a man who’d disobey these kind of orders, and I don’t want him to start for me.

Thatcher reluctantly stays seated. “Talk to me then.”

I blow out a loud breath, puffing my cheeks. “I’m afraid what happens after.”

“After?”

“After my brothers and cousins realize that we’re most likely going to be stuck in Scotland for Christmas. After we actually are. Because it means this is the second Christmas we’re not in Philly.”

Last year, we were all on a tour bus.

I continue, “The second Christmas we miss Xander’s birthday, the second Christmas I’ve taken from you.”

Thatcher sends me a stern look. “You’ve taken nothing from me, Jane.”

“Christmas Eve is your grandma’s favorite holiday, and who knows how many you’ll have left with her—and yes, I didn’t know how she fawns over Christmas while we were on tour.” I speak hastily. “But I know that now, and I know how much she wants you there, and now you won’t be. Not alone or with me.” I do the best I can to keep eye-contact.

His intense gaze isn’t defeating me.

It wraps me.

Tightly.

Protec

tively, and oh God, I wish I never told him to sit back down. Because I also love that he’s willing to break orders for me.

Constantly.

Even now.

He nods a few times. “I won’t lie to you.”

“Good,” I say pointedly.

“Good,” he repeats, “because you need to hear that you’re right. We’re probably not making it home for Christmas, but you didn’t take time away from me or anyone else. We’re just spending a holiday with other people. And if my grandma doesn’t make the next Christmas…” He pauses, his jaw muscle twitching. “I have enough memories of us together to last a lifetime.” He softens his gaze. “I could just as likely die tomorrow. And I’d want to spend my final moments next to you.”

My body caves, then rises. His declaration pricks tears, but the thought of him dying nearly doubles me over. I straighten up. “If I were to die, I’d want you beside me too. And also Banks.”

“Banks?” His furrow-browed confusion is cute.

“You’d need your brother after I died, and I’d want someone there for you.”

His affection for me flows out so apparently. He padlocks nothing, and his love, so powerful and frightening, begins to eliminate the anxious toxins around us.

Thatcher glances briefly at the laptop, then me. “I’m revising what I said.”

A smile spreads across my face. “Let’s hear it, then.”