Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

“And your lack of fear makes me uneasy,” Oscar says outright, “but you do you, Redford. When this crashes and burns, it’ll be my turn to take you out for drinks.”

I roll my eyes. He broke up with his long-term boyfriend in college, and I took him to a bar so he’d stop texting Darrien.

And I may’ve bought him one Corona.

Without another word, I finally make my way to the second lounge. Only Akara here.

He rests against the tabletop and snaps his fingers to his palm. “So first thing, did you read the SFO email?”

“Yeah.”

Thatcher sent the email to all of us at the crack of dawn. I barely skimmed the words, but I can recite the entire “memorandum” by heart.

SFO Rules on Tour (not to be negotiated or disputed):

1. SFO will take shifts driving the tour bus. Since Paul Donnelly & Quinn Oliveira failed the driver’s test to operate the bus, only Akara Kitsuwon, Farrow Keene, Oscar Oliveira, and Thatcher Moretti will drive. Thatcher has been behind the wheel for the past hour.

2. The tour bus acts as a “home on wheels” and for this reason, you’re considered “off-duty” on the bus. You’re not required to wear radios on the bus, but you must immediately wear them once you step off. Keep your phones charged in case Alpha or Epsilon need to reach you.

3. Bus doors must be locked at all times.

4. Alert the driver if your client leaves the bus. Always join your client. Don’t leave their side.

5. Any guests must be vetted before allowed on the bus. NDAs are required.

6. We’ll drive through nights, so please be respectful of those sleeping. Don’t bang doors.

7. Some conventions will include overnight stays at hotels. Bodyguards must stay in the hotel room with your client. It’s likely some clients will want to room together (i.e. Sulli & Jane) – make note of this.

8. There are nine men to two women. Please respect their space.

9. Recognize that the tour crew isn’t allowed on the bus. You are. Understand this honor, and ensure the protection of your client.

10. Lastly, remember the hierarchy. You have any concerns, bring them to Akara or Thatcher.

“Good,” Akara says. “Thatcher wanted to make sure you didn’t just delete it.”

“Of course he did.” I notice the severity in Akara’s face. “What’s wrong?”

He checks over my shoulder, but no one is eavesdropping. Then he whispers, “Tech team traced the IP address of the Instagram account. The user is from Philly.”

I don’t blink. “The probability that they know Maximoff—”

“Is a lot higher,” Akara finishes. “The user blocked the tech team, and now there’s a firewall stalling us.”

“Shit.”

“Possible motives for someone to make a personal ‘death threat’ account would be revenge.” Akara pauses as the bathroom door swings open, and we both shift. Our backs to the hall. “Omega is going to quietly work on unmasking the anonymous user, and while we gather intel, don’t obsess over the account.”

I frown. “How is the account still active? We flagged it.”

“We need it to stay live now,” Akara explains. “If the user really is plotting to hurt Maximoff, that account is the only evidence we can track.”

I nod, my gaze searing. Everything inside of me craves and pleads to solve this now and free Maximoff from a threat. To keep him safe. Protect him.

But I’m on a bus.

Headed towards a sleepless city, and his fast-paced life isn’t stopping for anyone.

10

MAXIMOFF HALE

Farrow drives the graveyard shift. On route to Cleveland. I camp out in the passenger seat and keep him company.

I prefer Farrow driving over pretty much everyone else. I can fucking admit that I’ve been on edge. I’d do just about anything to sit behind the steering wheel, except break the law.

Which leaves me with a bucket load of nothing. Unfortunately.

Lights dimmed, the bus hums. Quiet. Bodyguards and my family sleep in their bunks. The privacy door is slid closed, so we’re shut out from the first lounge. And only one paparazzi van has been trailing us. With tinted windows, there’s not much cameramen can catch.

Farrow keeps one tattooed hand on the steering wheel, posture all cool confidence. His left foot is perched on the seat, arm relaxed on his bent knee. He constantly glances at me with an ever-growing know-it-all smile.

My blood simmers. I crack a knuckle or two and shift in my seat.

I never thought a lot about chemistry or how his unperturbed energy would be compatible with my strong-wired, but something about Farrow just drives me nuts. My pulse pounds harder than my broken nose throbs.

Every damn time I’m with him, it feels like the first time we’re together. He’s inched under my skin, into my blood stream, definitely my brain—I’ve been a fucking goner since I was sixteen. And I still haven’t fully accepted this fact.

That someone in my life is here for me. Because they love me. A romantic love. Not family, not solely friendship. It still seems unbelievable.

I don’t know why.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

I unconsciously glance at his zipper. Fuck my sexually frustrated brain.

He tilts his head, and then eyes the road with a satisfied smile. “You dreaming of fucking me?”

I give him a weird look while I prop my foot on the dashboard. Trying my hand at relaxing. It feels strange. “Why would I dream about it when I can just fuck you?”

“Because you’re not fucking me right here, wolf scout.”

He knows I usually get what I want as a celebrity. And him telling me no—it just sets my body on fire. I drop my foot, my muscles flexed and abs tight. “Hold on, let me wish upon a star,” I say, sarcasm thick.

He glances at me, the road, then the bulge in my jeans. It’s a normal bulge. Don’t get excited. “How pent-up are you?”

“Not enough to ram my dick in your ass and kill everyone in the back.”

He rolls his eyes and then smiles. “Always a precious smartass.” He unwraps a piece of gum and steers by propping his knee on the wheel.

“I’ve seen way too many movies where a couple dies because one is blowing the driver. Death by blowjob—not how I’m dying.”

“Okay, that’s not what I asked.” He crumples the foil and tosses it in the change tray. “Time hasn’t really been on our side lately, and if you need to jack off without me, I won’t be pissed.” He focuses on the road as the GPS directs him off the exit. “That’s not a hall pass, by the way.”

“Wait a minute.” I sit up straighter. “You’re telling me people stop masturbating when they get in a relationship?”

He checks his side mirror. “I never expect it, but I’ve been with someone who did.”

I grimace. “Fuck that guy.”

Farrow starts smiling. “And you do know what a hall pass is, right?”

I blink into a glare. “No.”

“Sarcasm?”

“Yes. Jesus Christ.” I growl out my irritation.

“Just checking. You seem a little—”

“Don’t say it.” I’d literally cover his mouth if he weren’t driving right now.

“Pure.”

I flip him off, and in the next brief glance, he studies the corners of my eyes, the skin beneath bleeding black-and-blue. I’ve checked in a mirror. I’ll need to conceal the bruises with makeup before the meet-and-greet.

I watch his palm and fingers rub his knee before he clutches the wheel again. Talking about sex just sends me down a rabbit hole. An abnormal, really strange abyss that no one would expect, but he can tell I’m drifting somewhere. Mentally.

“What are you really thinking about?” he asks.

I try to lean back. “My mom.”

Weight sinks in the air at those two words, but he waits for me to continue.

I inhale a strong breath. “I was just thinking about how

difficult a trip like this would’ve been for her—if she were here at my age, still battling her sex addiction.” I lick my lips. “I don’t know. It’s the small stuff. Like, would she have wanted to stop the bus and screw my dad? Would she be fidgeting or upset? Or would they’ve just fucked on the couch? Then I start thinking about how fucking weird it is to be casually thinking about my parent’s sex life.”