Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

“That’s fucked up.” I run a hand along my jaw. Calling my father back won’t change his mind. He only wants one thing, and it’s not words.

Maximoff nears and hooks a couple fingers in my waistband. We draw closer, and his stoic gaze thunders against me, the heady beat saying we’re dealing with this shit together. Not apart.

I grip the hem of his shirt, but he takes over and lifts the gray fabric off his head. Knowing I’m examining his muscle again. He has swimmer’s shoulders, really used to being stretched and rotated. Especially with the butterfly stroke.

There’s no bruising and the swelling is gone. Better. “How does it feel?” I ask.

“Just sore,” he says. “I haven’t been swimming as much while on tour, and I think maybe I’m just tight. I need to stretch more.”

I nod. “I’ll keep an eye on it.”

He tucks his shirt in his back pocket. “I know I’m making it worse—the friction between you and your dad.”

“It was never going to get better.”

Maximoff offers his Fizz Life, and my mouth rises as I accept the can. Taking a sip.

“That’s kind of how I feel about Charlie and me,” he says, his large hand on my waist, pulling me closer. Our legs knock, and neither of us shifts back.

I hold the curve between his neck and good shoulder. “Have you ever talked to him about Harvard?”

He shakes his head. “Even if I wanted to, I can never get that far. He makes it impossible.” Maximoff frowns at a thought. “I know I don’t make it any easier, either. It’s just…” His brows scrunch. “…some people aren’t meant to be friends. Maybe that’s just us.”

20

MAXIMOFF HALE

Chicago, thank God we’re here.

We’re alive and breathing and no one’s been punched, in case you were concerned.

So at 3:00 a.m. in our hotel room, Farrow got a call. Spoiler Alert: it’s not a bad one this time. Akara invited him to the hotel bar for drinks. All the bodyguards are there, off-duty, while my cousins are safe asleep.

As soon as Farrow hung up, he turned to me and said, “You’re coming along, wolf scout.”

I was already wide-awake. Sending out work emails and trying not to think about tomorrow’s meet-and-greet. And I wasn’t about to reject a rare offer to hang out with Security Force Omega.

Farrow and I—we’re still in the early stages of our relationship. I’m pretty damn sure. Like 70%. If we’re basing the “stages” on time, then I’m confidently 99%. Because we haven’t reached a six-month mark yet and that seems like a solid relationship number.

I think. Because if we calculate hours spent together, our number is ridiculously high—stop thinking.

Obviously I don’t know how any of this works. There’s no playbook for dating your bodyguard. If there was, I’d own about a million goddamn copies. But I still want all of his friends to treat me like a regular guy and not just Maximoff Hale the Celebrity Client.

I’m not even positive that’s an achievable goal. Maybe it’s something completely out-of-this-world impossible and I’m shooting beyond the stars.

But I gotta try.

I zip up my green jacket. “So which one is your best friend?” I ask Farrow as we ditch the elevator and jog down a flight of hotel stairs. Anything to move around a bit. The cavernous cement stairwell is also empty, no strangers lurking.

Farrow is step-for-step in line with me. Descending the stairs swiftly, he fixes his earpiece and says, “None of them.”

“Bullshit,” I retort, “they’re definitely your best friends.”

Farrow tosses his head from side-to-side, considering. “No.”

I make a face.

He puts a piece of gum in his mouth. “They’re all aggravating on any given day.”

“What are you, allergic to friendship?”

He rolls his eyes into a smile. “Allergic to friendship,” he repeats, chewing his gum. “I don’t enjoy owing people anything, and having ‘best friends’ is a commitment that I’m not actively signing up for.”

“I get it,” I say. “You don’t like anyone tying you down—”

“One person can tie me down,” he cuts me off and then glances at me. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.” I sort of was. I unhinge my jaw, ridding whatever expression is causing him to overflow with satisfaction.

His grin has landed in James Franco territory. “I didn’t say that person was you.”

I blink. “You ever hear of that annoying six-foot-three guy with bleach-white hair who died in a Chicago stairwell?”

He laughs. “You mean the guy you have a hard-on for.”

“No, the other one,” I say dryly, and when I jump a couple stairs, he easily keeps pace. “So which one do you hate the least then?”

“Like I said, they’re all aggravating.”

I sigh heavily and stretch my arms while we descend the stairs. “Give me some slack here, man. It’s not like you needed cliff notes when you met Jane. You practically already had the Jane Cobalt Encyclopedia.”

His expression softens. “Okay. Cliff notes. I grew up in the same neighborhood as Akara, but we never talked, not even in high school. Different social circles. That shit.” We pass the fifth floor doors, and he adds, “I met Oscar at Yale. Donnelly, I met him a little before I went to college. Then he followed me, and he’d crash in my dorm, my apartment—he’s like an infection you can’t rid.”

“An infection that did some of your tattoos,” I say.

Farrow glances at me, more serious. “No, he did most of my tattoos. I met him when he was an apprentice, but he can draw and I liked his style. He became really good.”

Huh. “What’s most?”

“I’d say about eighty-five percent is Paul Donnelly.”

I stop on the third floor, and he follows suit, leaning casually on the railing. My eyes graze the crossed swords on his throat, wings on his neck. I’m not an expert on tattoos, but I always considered Farrow’s ink nothing short of breathtaking and fucking gorgeous.

“So let me try to understand,” I say. “You’ve known Donnelly for almost ten years, you let him tattoo you, crash at your place, you probably introduced him to security work, and you still don’t consider him your best friend. In fact, you refer to him as an infection.”

His lips rise. “If you knew him better, you’d realize he’d take that as a compliment.”

“I’m being serious.”

Farrow shrugs. “It’s not like you and Jane. You two are best friends. See, what I have is a group of guys that I sometimes get along with. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes we hang out. Sometimes we don’t.” He smiles off my confusion. “It’s not that complicated, wolf scout. That’s how I like it.”

A bulbed Chicago sign backlights the small hotel bar and array of liquor bottles. But no bartender mans the counter. Blue and red Chicago Cubs posters decorate wooden walls, and all the rustic high-top tables are vacant except one.

The five bod

yguards instantly spot us—and their talk pretty much vanishes. I’m aware that Thatcher, Akara, Oscar, Quinn and Donnelly are eyeing me, not Farrow.

Jesus.

I’m starting to think I’ve been cursed with a superpower that causes verbal paralysis.

“Hey,” I say confidently, and most of them reply, “Hey, man.”

Akara slides another wooden stool next to the only unoccupied one. I figured they had no clue I’d be joining Farrow. So I’m not as shocked as they are.

“Look who showed up,” Oscar says to Farrow.

“Not for you, Oliveira.”

Oscar cracks a smile, and Farrow and I take a seat on the two open stools. He rubs my thigh, almost to say, don’t overthink.

Good idea. I hadn’t thought of that one before.

My palm brushes his hand, and I end up resting an elbow on the circular table. My attempt at not sitting like I’m about to run an Ironman Triathlon.

Battery candles, dice, nuts, liquor bottles and whiskey glasses scatter the wooden surface.

Donnelly doles out three dice to everyone, a cigarette burning between his fingers. “Maximoff would know…” he trails off at a no-nonsense look from Akara.

Oscar mimes slicing his neck. I’m guessing he’s saying, don’t go there. But I can’t be sure.

“Talk about something else,” Thatcher says, voice stern.

I’m guessing they’re censoring themselves around me. I’ve been with bodyguards off-duty plenty of times before—like the Hallow Friends Eve and even just on the tour bus—but they try not to dig for secrets and they dodge certain topics about my family.

Farrow splays his earpiece wire over his shoulder. “Which one of you fuckers scared the bartender off?”

“Bar and kitchen closed five minutes ago,” Akara says while texting and then he pockets his phone.

Quinn swishes a bottle of Jack Daniels. “Bought it before the bartender left.”

I’m still super-glued to the Maximoff would know comment. “Donnelly,” I say, all eyes on me. “You can ask me. It’s alright if it’s about my family.” I already know how the world perceives the Hales, Meadows and Cobalts, and security can’t view us worse than strangers who are fed tabloid lies.