“I am?” he jokes.
Such a smartass. I roll my eyes, but I continue on, “You commit to me. You don’t need a girl. But you’re attracted to girls. Same thing. I like both, but I’m fine with one forever. Make sense?”
“Yeah.” But he stares off. Thinking again. Fuck.
I retrace my words. Okay, I said “forever” and I’m not sure he ever thinks that far ahead. He’s young, and I’m his first boyfriend. I’m not trying to scare him off. At all.
“I didn’t just propose to you,” I say casually, “calm down, wolf scout.”
Maximoff growls, “I’m calm.” He hears his edged voice, then sighs out his frustration. He almost smiles when he catches sight of mine.
He nods once, eyes on me. A look that lights me on fire. We sit up fully at the same time, and he seizes the back of my head. Our mouths crush together again.
Fireworks explode in rapid succession for a finale, but neither of us are ready for this night to end.
31
FARROW KEENE
After a quick shower in the suite, we hurry out. I throw a towel at him, both of us dripping water. Our phones started buzzing at the same time.
I check mine.
Turn on your radio – Akara
u need ur radio, boss is getting mad – Donnelly
Radio. – Thatcher
bro, get your radio. – Oscar
Everyone told me to text you to get your radio – Quinn
Could be serious or unimportant. I’m not panicked. I glance at Maximoff who reads his own texts before I leave for the living room. Finding my radio beneath a tufted chair. I crouch and grab the thing.
Maximoff appears, phone in hand. His shoulders are squared like he could join a rescue team. I almost smile. Because this is his posture when he’s just brushing his teeth.
“And?” I ask while I untangle the cord to my earpiece.
“The girls left the club.” He uses his arm to rub water off his temple. “They’re at a 24/7 diner and asked if we wanted any food to-go.”
“Shit,” I curse, flicking a switch to my radio. “It’s dead.” I stand quickly and collect my pants, digging in the pockets. No batteries on me.
See, if SFO changed locations and they believe Maximoff will eventually meet-up with their clients, then they’ll want to stay in touch with me via radio. Hence, the onslaught of text messages.
I step into a new pair of black boxer-briefs. “I have more batteries on the bus,” I say, grabbing my pants and belt. We parked the tour bus at the nightclub’s VIP parking. Only a ten-minute walk from this hotel.
I’m not going to be fined for pointless shit, and losing a grand for a dead radio is about as pointless as it gets.
Dressed fast, Maximoff and I breach the crisp night. He draws the hood of his Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt, and I zip up my leather jacket.
Dallas still alive as the New Year rolls in, drunken people cheer on the sidewalks. Gold top hats on heads and feather boas on necks. More fireworks crack, but less frequently.
I love high-strung cities that never sleep.
Maximoff drinks in the frenzied atmosphere. No paparazzi or screaming fans interrupt the moment yet.
We walk step-for-step in sync, edging close to each other. He almost catches a yawn, but it escapes with a soft, “Fuck.”
My mouth upturns. The suite was a secure room, so I say, “You could’ve slept back at the hotel. I’m capable of grabbing batteries alone.”
His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and he stuffs his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. “You’d probably get lost,” he says dryly. “Directional skills are the first thing to go after I make someone come.”
I laugh once. “That’s cute, but you don’t need an excuse to hang out with me.”
He growls into an aggravated groan, “Fuck off.” The corners of his lips start lifting.
My smile is fucking killing me. It takes all my energy not to grab his hand. Instead, as we face straight ahead, I lean closer, and our shoulders touch.
His carriage rises.
“Is that Maximoff Hale?” I hear the female voice, about twenty feet ahead of us. Clusters of women smoke outside an upscale bar. Mid-to-late-thirties, all in sequined cocktail dresses, they wobble in heels and zero in on Maximoff.
I lower my voice. “Ignore them. Don’t do anything.” His gut-reaction will be to acknowledge fans, but for the sake of his cousins and their anonymity, he can’t let this location leak.
Maximoff is more rigid. He shifts his head slightly. His hood partially conceals his features, but not that well. We have to walk towards the women and the bar, just to pass them.
A woman cups her hands to her mouth. “Maximoff Hale!”
“Can we get a picture?!” another woman shouts.
“I want more than a picture,” one says suggestively and too loudly.
I’m not “gawking” at Maximoff or the women. Bodyguard 101 for this situation: stare straight ahead.
Walk.
Don’t engage.
“Oh my God, he’s hotter in person.”
“Is that really him? Can he hear us?”
We step in direct line with the bar.
“Are you Maximoff Hale?” A blonde woman is about to cut us off, but I slyly move out of my path and step towards her. Causing her to stay put and blocking her from my client.
“He gets that a lot,” I tell the woman as I walk backwards, towards Maximoff who never stops sauntering ahead.
She checks me out. “Who are you?” she asks, but I’m already spinning around. Lengthening my stride, I’m beside Maximoff in a quick second.
I try to read his expression. “What?”
He blows on his cold hands. “At first I felt bad about not stopping for them, then I saw you do that—”
“My job,” I define.
“—and now I want to fuck you,” he finishes strongly.
My blood heats. “Can’t get enough of your bodyguard,” I tease.
He raises a middle finger.
Okay, we need to reach this
bus. Because all I want to do is wrap my arm around his shoulders. Warm his hands. Touch him.
Most of the trek, we stay quiet, and he people-watches more than people watch him. The sleek black bus sits in the back of the VIP parking.
I greet the nightclub employees with a head-nod and curt wave. And we reach the bus doors. I unlock them, and we both climb on.
We stop cold in the first lounge.
Hearing deep groans.
High-pitched moans. All originating from the back. Second lounge door is shut.
“What the fuck,” Maximoff mutters.
“It might be Jane,” I say, but she never said Nate would be joining us in Dallas.
“It can’t be. She’s with the girls.” Maximoff is already charging for the back. Shit.
I follow close and grab his shoulder, stopping him before he clasps the doorknob. “You don’t know who the fuck is behind that door,” I say lowly. It could be SFO, one of his cousins, or a stranger, his stalker, someone we haven’t vetted.
I pull him behind me.
Orgasmic wails pitch the air, loud as fuck. Most likely a girl. “Ahhhh!” she shrieks. Sounds like bad straight porn.
Not my thing.
“Exactly,” Maximoff whispers, anger lancing his edged voice, “we don’t know who it is. We need to—”
“I am. Back up.”
“Farrow—”
“What if it’s your sister?” I whisper. “You really want to walk in on Luna having sex? Let me save you from that.” I put a hand on his chest.
He complies this time. Stepping back, arms crossed. There we go.
I bang on the door. Laughter and curses respond.
“Who is that?” a girl giggles. She’s not one of ours. I instinctively reach for my radio mic, but it’s dead. Maximoff actually starts searching my bunk for batteries.
I bang again. An indistinguishable voice says hold on and the door swings open.
Completely naked, Beckett Cobalt slips out, loosely cradling a decorative pillow near his crotch. He shuts the door behind him.
My brows spike.
Surprise = mid-tier
Threat = low
Me = bowing out
I let Maximoff take over, and I rest my shoulder on a nearby bunk. He hands me the batteries and approaches his cousin.