“Kinney!” I yell.
She opens a drawer and grabs a carving knife.
“You can’t cut a door down—stop.” She’s going to hurt herself trying to unlock his room. Kinney races back upstairs.
Farrow looks at Akara. “She has a knife.”
“Kinney, look at me,” I growl. The camera is on the floor. She chips at the wood.
I hear footsteps and a faraway voice. “Kinney, I’m coming! Back away!” That’s Banks Moretti.
“Kinney,” I force.
She angles the phone to her face. “Moffy, I can’t just…” she cries, the knife still in hand.
“Please,” I say with everything in my fucking soul, “go to your room. Wait there.”
More footsteps.
Kinney sobs and drops to her knees in a heap.
I want to be in Philly. Where I can pick my sister up and carry her far, far away from this. “Shh, it’s okay,” I say, chained and shackled here. Watching her pain and heartbreak through a phone screen.
Goddammit.
My eyes burn.
I’m numb. Ignoring a weight that descends on my body.
Kinney flips the camera, not wanting me to see her cry. But now I see the hall, his bedroom door and flaked wood.
Heels clap, and Aunt Rose rounds the corner fast. Urgent.
Banks Moretti runs past, and behind Rose comes Uncle Ryke and Aunt Daisy, her blonde hair blowing as she runs towards my sister.
Rose notices Kinney too and squats. “Kinney, give me.” She tears the knife out of Kinney’s fingers, strokes her head, and stands at the ready.
Daisy does what my mom would want to do. She wraps her arms around Kinney and hugs her tight. Kinney bawls in our aunt’s shoulder.
“We’re here, we’re here,” Daisy whispers in the sweetest voice.
Banks and Ryke kick the door twice, and they disappear inside the room with Rose. Agonizing seconds pass. More security floods the hall, then about four of my younger cousins rush in behind. Bodyguards restrain them from reaching Xander’s room.
Kinney must drop her phone. Screen is black, and voices jumble, too hard to piece apart the chatter.
I turn my head to check Luna. Christ, she was supposed to be on a plane back to Philly today. But she missed her flight five hours ago. Thanks to the crowd outside.
Luna is on the hotel bed, burying her head beneath her Moody Blues shirt, but Jane holds my sister against her chest comfortingly.
I look at Farrow. Instinctive. His hand is off my shoulder while he clutches his phone.
His eyes bore into my eyes. I inhale, but my defenses shut down any emotion that fights to surface. Numb.
I’m numb, and he knows not to touch me or hug me. Because I’ll flinch. I don’t want to be cut open and bare. Not here, not with an audience.
He nods, and I don’t just see an I love you written in his softening gaze. I feel it growing like a light inside of me.
“What was that?” Akara is on the phone, the only line of communication now. “Okay…” He eyes all of us. “Xander’s okay.”
I’m caging breath. Air still strained.
“He…” Akara stares off as he listens to the other person. “He was in his bathtub with headphones on…okay, thanks. Hey, yeah, okay…” He lowers his cell and tells us, “He didn’t hurt himself. He’s on the phone with his mom and dad right now. Lo wants Alpha to remove the hinges on his door.”
Now everyone collectively breathes together.
He’s okay.
My brother is okay.
“Thank God,” Oscar mutters.
Donnelly plops on the bed. Quinn blows out the biggest breath and crouches in a squat.
Charlie returns to his spot on the floor.
My brother is okay.
I crack my stiff neck. My eyes are dry and sear like I took a branding iron to each one.
And as I look around the hotel room, I start thinking about Omega. How these six people just shared in a private, raw moment that the world won’t ever see. Or feel. Or know.
After an hour of family calls, phones are pocketed. Heavy silence descends. We’re all scattered around the hotel room. I cross my arms, standing rigid beside Farrow who leans his shoulder blades on the window. Relaxed, at ease. Cool.
His demeanor is like a fucking drug. Almost entering my bloodstream and helping me breathe.
Akara faces everyone again. Tension builds towards the conversation that my phone abruptly spliced. I’ve been thinking about Omega’s fate.
Imagine replacing them with six other guys—it seems inconceivable, wrong. Like shuttling a family to the moon without a spacesuit.
The next bodyguards in line for hire may not care as much. May not love our families as much. May not want to be here for reasons greater than money and fame. And I don’t just feel lucky that these six guys exist in our lives. Here today.
I feel like they’re necessary. Integral pieces of our world that not many others can really fill.
So I break the quiet. “We’re not firing any of you,” I tell them. “If you want to fucking quit, you’ll have to quit voluntarily.”
Quinn raises a hand. “I’m not quitting.”
“It’s not up to you, little bro.” Oscar nods to Akara and then Thatcher. “The Tri-Force makes the call.”
Dear World, want to gift me that mind-reading superpower? Stat. Sincerely, a tense human.
I rotate my tight shoulder.
Akara fits his baseball hat on backwards. “We’ve decided that there has to be some changes. It’s inevitable, guys. If we act like nothing’s different, we’re jeopardizing the safety of our clients, of all of you…” He looks at my family. “None of us want that.”
Thatcher scans the bodyguards. “We’ve discussed ways to minimize the impact of our popularity, and to remain a part of Omega, with the same client, there are new nonnegotiable rules.” His warning glare lands on Farrow.
I quickly process the news.
Oscar beats me to the question. “We’re not being fired?”
Akara begins to smile. “Everyone’s staying.”
Shoulders start loosening. We all start really breathing for the first time in 24-hours. Oscar takes a seat, collapsing on the bed next to Donnelly.
I rub my mouth, something powerful surging through me. I’m about to look at Farrow, but Thatcher speaks.
“Think of it as a test-run,” he says.
Farrow pops his gum, and I can almost feel his eye-roll at Thatcher.
But Akara nods in agreement. “We’ll finish out the tour and prove that we can still do this job. If there aren’t any major security mistakes, we’ll stay bodyguards, guys. If we fuck up, there’ll be six termination papers. Easy as that. But like I said, there are changes.”
The nonnegotiable rules.
Thatcher crosses his arms. “First, delete all personal social media accounts. No Instagram, no Facebook, no SnapChat, no Twitter, no anything that fans can find you on and follow you.”
Oscar ties a bandana around his forehead. “Goodb
ye to Donnelly’s drunken SnapChat dick pics.”
Donnelly leans against the headboard. “Those were sober, man.”
Farrow chews his gum into a smile.
Beckett laughs.
Thatcher shakes his head, but he stopped saying things like your client is in the room and that’s inappropriate the third week on tour. The fact that they’re even having a security meeting in front of me and my cousins and not privately in a bathroom—that means something.
“You’re not here to promote yourself,” Akara reminds them, “or Donnelly’s dick.”
Donnelly nods heartily. “What about Twitter? I need to keep up with fandoms.”
“Need or want?” Thatcher asks.
“Both.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “I need it and I want it.”
“You need to delete it,” Thatcher says. “You’re here to protect your client. If you need Twitter for security reasons, we’ll have anonymous security accounts made. But if we see you searching for television shows or porn, you’ll lose password access.”
Beckett tosses Donnelly a lighter. “You can use my Twitter.”
“Thanks, man.” Donnelly puts the cigarette between his lips.
“Second,” Thatcher says, “don’t reach out to tabloids. Don’t accept any interviews, not even to defend yourself.”
That’ll be easy for Farrow. I can’t see him volunteering for a Q&A with Celebrity Crush.
“And lastly,” Akara tells SFO, “don’t sleep with fans. Let’s maintain a level of professionalism. While we’re under this spotlight, we’re representing the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts. Do them proud.”
To me, they already have.
The official meeting ends, and bodies move around. Trying to stretch, go to the bathroom. We’re not just lacking sleep. We have no extra clothes, no luggage or toiletries. Things that’d make my cousins and little sister feel better and more comfortable after 24-hours holed up here.
I could be completely fine with little to nothing for a lot longer. But I’m aware not everyone is me.
Janie searches her sequined purse where she had a sleep mask.
“De quoi as-tu besoin?” I ask. What do you need?
“I wish I wore pajamas.” She unbuttons her pastel pants and sighs in relief. “Tellement mieux.” Much better.