Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

“I will—here’s my bodyguard.” He must hand the phone to Ian.

I hang my earpiece on my shoulder and start unlocking the bus door. Maximoff is one step behind me. If he thinks he’s leaving the bus with me, he’s mistaken.

“Hey?” Ian says.

“He’s seventeen,” Maximoff growls. “He’s a fucking teenager who’s in a band, who’s not paying attention to everyone around him. That’s your job, and if you don’t fucking do it, I’ll let Thatcher, Akara, and Price know.”

“I understand,” Ian says quickly. “I apologize. It won’t happen again. You don’t need to tell the Tri-Force. Please.” He’s whining.

“Watch Tom.” Maximoff hangs up at that curt endnote.

My brows arch with my barbell. “You made Ian Wreath piss his pants.”

“Akara would’ve made him shit his pants.”

“He’s lucky you’re nice.” I unlatch the door. “You’re not coming with me, by the way.” I extend my arm in the stairway, blocking him.

Purplish bruises shadow his eyes. I scrutinize him a little longer, and a pit tries to wedge in my stomach. Shit, I don’t like seeing him hurt. In any capacity.

“Why not?” Maximoff combats.

Starting with my thumb, I count off the reasons. “You look like you were in a fistfight.” Pointer finger. “You’re a severely recognizable celebrity.” Middle finger. “Refer to reasons one and two.”

On any normal day, Maximoff wouldn’t care if people caught wind of his location or if fans bombarded the hotel. He’s used to that chaotic shit.

But we all agreed to keep locations as safe as possible for Beckett and Sullivan. Those two were never on the We Are Calloway docuseries, and so they were able to foster private lives much easier than Maximoff and Jane. They’re not that accustomed to quickly amassing crowds.

Akara wants to ease them in if we can.

As much as Maximoff loves his cousins, he’s always risked his personal safety to feel free. Posting his location, in real time, is his norm. Now he’s at the mercy of these confining restraints, and unfortunately for him, only I can unbuckle them.

“I’m hiding the bruises,” Maximoff says, about to slip on Ray Bans—I catch his wrist. Stopping him.

Our eyes never detach.

“That’ll hurt,” I warn. His sunglasses are going to sit near the fracture.

“I can handle it.” He tries to take a breath, but his chest collapses. “Farrow, I’m not staying behind on this bus. I need out. On the chance that someone recognizes me, it’s 4-something-a.m. and there can’t be that many employees awake.” He nods a couple times. “We can deal with one or two people noticing.”

My choice directly affects his life and the lives on that bus. I weigh the risks, grappling for a middle-ground where he feels safe and free.

When I release his hand, he gently puts on his Ray Bans. Concealing the black-and-blue marks.

I scan his sweatshirt, hood hiding his dark brown hair. “You’d do better wearing an actual costume.”

His shoulders bind. “Clark Kent only wears glasses and a fucking suit.”

My brows spike. “Did you just compare yourself to Superman?”

“Fuck off.” He almost starts smiling, but he sighs roughly instead. “Seriously, Farrow…”

I block out Thatcher, the rest of Omega, and anyone else who’d say or do differently—and I’m dying to give my client what he needs, and right now, he needs air.

Decision made.

12

FARROW KEENE

“What name is your reservation under?” a tiny hotel receptionist asks me. Round glasses fall down her aquiline nose, and wispy red hair curls around her ears. She’s the only one in the marble lobby, the elevators in sight.

“Farrow Keene.” I pass the twenty-something girl a credit card.

Next to me, Maximoff stretches his quad muscles and cracks a crick in his neck. I know what he needs.

“Is the hotel pool open 24-hours?” I ask her.

Maximoff tries to control himself from looking in my direction, but even with sunglasses, his expression is easy to read. Mouth upturned, neck a little reddened, desire flexing his muscles—it’s pure attraction.

Towards me.

Damn.

I swallow hard. His lack of restraint is killing me. I comb a hand through my hair.

“The hotel pool,” the girl repeats while typing on the computer and swiping the credit card. “Oh, um…” She pushes up her glasses. “We drained the pool yesterday to fix the lining. I’m sorry, but we have complimentary breakfast and free internet.”

“That’s perfect,” Maximoff says, sounding sincere. If he’s downtrodden about the pool, he doesn’t let on.

The girl busies herself with key cards, not aware that a celebrity just spoke to her. “Great, great.” She slides an envelope across the counter. “Your block of rooms is ready. Do you need help with your bags?”

“We’re good.” I take the envelope and credit card.

“Thanks for your help,” Maximoff tells the girl.

“Oh, wait, um.” She raises a finger in thought.

Maximoff solidifies.

I lean against the counter and unwrap a piece of gum. There’s a very, very good likelihood that she’ll recognize him in the next five minutes. I’ve already accepted this.

“Are you here for business or pleasure? We have an excellent guidebook of Cleveland if you’re sightseeing. Let me just…” She crouches to find a brochure in the cabinet.

Maximoff puts his arm on the counter. “We’re just here for tomorrow—”

“Izzy!” A girl rushes out of the back employees only room, dressed in an identical blue blazer, and she waves her cellphone. Squealing. “Izzy, Izzy, you have to see this!”

Maximoff rotates, his back to them.

Izzy clears her throat and whispers, “We have guests, Sana.”

Sana swings her head to me. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry…” Her voice trails off, and she eyes my neck tattoos and my lip, nose, and brow piercing, plus my earring. She presses her lips together to keep from smiling. “Sorry, it’s just that the H.M.C. FanCon announced its first city.” She spins to Izzy. “And they’re coming here.” She bounces on her feet with a grin.

I smile and pop my gum in my mouth. I step back a little from the counter. Just so I can see Maximoff.

His lips rise, and he mouths, should I tell them? He realizes it’s only a matter of time, too.

I shake my head and mouth, not yet.

“The FanCon is in this hotel?” Izzy asks.

“Not here here,” Sana clarifies and speaks to me. “It’s in the Regala Hotel, much larger and more convention space. It’s

one mile from here. I can give you directions if you need them.”

I suck in a breath and decide to irritate Maximoff a little. “Never heard of an H.M.C. FanCon.”

He shoots me a look.

My smile stretches.

Sana gawks. “Have you not been online in the past twenty-four hours?”

“I’ve been working,” I say easily. “Is it about comics or something?”

“No, it’s the biggest meet-and-greet tour of the past decade.” Sana rocks on the balls of her feet. “Maximoff Hale, Sullivan Meadows, Jane, Charlie and Beckett Cobalt will all be in the same room together. We haven’t seen that…ever.”

“In years,” Izzy corrects. “They’ve probably been together at least once.” She slides over a brochure. “Here’s that sightseeing guide I mentioned before—”

“Izzy, this is all the sightseeing he needs,” Sana says and then turns to me. “You should look into the FanCon. Tickets will sell out soon.”

Izzy nods. “I heard they’ll go within the hour.”

Maximoff smiles a more heartfelt one. He’s dedicated most of his time to raise money for charity, and knowing this tour helps other people means everything to him.

I rub my thumb over my lip piercing. “What would you do if you saw one of them?”

“The five?” Sana asks, hand to her heart. “I live for any photographs of them together. Can you imagine the camaraderie? The friendship? The loyalty?”

I can do better than imagine. I’ve seen the friendship and loyalty with all of them but two. Charlie and Maximoff created a fissure within “the five” that’s palpable. They haven’t even spoken one word to each other since we started driving.

I chew my gum slower and lean into the counter. “Not a photo. If you met them in real life.”

“Like at the FanCon?” Sana asks.

I’m worried she may faint if Maximoff turns around. It wouldn’t be the first time. The most memorable was in Philly at Lucky’s Diner. A boy passed out on a plate of pancakes when Maximoff waved to him. Someone shouted for a doctor, and no one stood, so I assessed the kid.

He suffered only from embarrassment.

“Who’s your favorite?” Izzy suddenly asks me.

I tilt my head. “Favorite…?”

“Favorite Hale, Meadows, or Cobalt.” She pushes up her glasses. “Mine is Lily Calloway. She’s…” Izzy just smiles.