Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)
Jane lifts her mic to her pink lips. “Farrow is a lovely person.”
Maximoff raises his mic. “But he’s taken.”
Gasps flood the room, and my smile is killing me.
Oscar whispers in my ear, “Boyfriend’s territorial.”
I’m enjoying this.
“Taken by who?” the boy asks.
“That’s for Farrow to know,” Jack Highland says, his charisma softening the words. “Remember, we’re all here for Maximoff, Jane, Charlie, Beckett, and Sulli.” He waves his mic, and the crowd cheers for them. Many shout I love you to the famous ones.
The boy puts his lips too close to the mic. “Jane, who would you ship yourself with?”
“Happiness,” Jane answers.
“Is that the name of a bodyguard?!” someone shouts.
“It’s a noun,” Beckett says with a what-the-fuck face.
Jack speaks to the boy. “There are no ships with bodyguards. Next non-bodyguard related question.” He motions for the assistant to pass the mic to the next in line.
“But-but.” The boy white-knuckle grips the microphone. “What about Sullivan and Quinn? Quinnivan is a real thing, right? Or Maximoff and Donnelly? Maxelly?”
I choke on my gum.
Oscar pats my back, and I cough hoarsely into a fist. That one isn’t funny. I’m not shipping him with anyone but me.
Maximoff is laughing hard, and he lifts his mic. “Cute,” he tells the boy.
The boy looks infatuated. “Thanks…I love you.” In his daze, the assistant pries the mic out of his hands, and a line coordinator ushers him to his seat.
Maximoff steals a glance at me, his lips upturned.
I smile more.
No one calls out Maximoff and me as a potential pairing, but we haven’t discussed what would happen if they did. SFO is already on unsteady grounds, and if we make a major mistake on tour, we’ll all lose our jobs. There’s no need to rock that boat.
36
MAXIMOFF HALE
We’re in the middle of nowhere Kansas, and Farrow refuses to come to bed. Lawyers sent him another zip file of NDAs, and he’s still searching. Still not getting any sleep. It will end, I remind myself.
I’m not going to hound him. So I let him work, and I crawl into my bunk and shut the privacy curtain.
There’s only one person I want to talk to at midnight on a Saturday. And yeah, I know it’s late in Philly. But I’m pretty sure he’ll be awake. I’m just hoping he answers.
He does on the third ring.
FaceTime connects, and my fifteen-year-old brother fills the screen. His straight brown hair is longer, hiding his ears, and pieces fall over his forehead. Bulky red headphones around his neck, he rests his head on a pillow. He’s in bed but still awake.
“You’d probably get better sleep if you didn’t nap all day,” I tell him.
Xander adjusts a pillow against the headboard, sitting up, more comfortable. “Are you learning medical shit from your boyfriend now?”
“That’s just big brother advice,” I say easily.
Xander tucks some of his hair behind his ear. “I’m glad you called.” He flips the camera, his door gone. “Please tell Kinney’s girl squad to stop putting crap in my room.” He zooms in on a BMX bike and rock climbing gear. “Vada thinks I’ll go dirt biking with her. I won’t. Winona thinks I’ll actually climb a goddamn mountain. She’s crazy.”
Everyone’s been worried about him. “I’ll pass the word,” I say. “How’ve you been?” Our parents made him add an extra day of therapy to his schedule.
Xander flips the camera, relaxed against a mound of pillows. “Alright.” He shrugs. “Not as…I don’t know.” He chews his bottom lip, then shrugs again. “Anxious, I guess. I’m not about to do anything, you know.” He rolls his eyes at himself, then sighs. He’s been suicidal before, more so when he was younger.
“That’s good, Summers. I’m proud of you.”
He drops his gaze. “For what?”
“Waking up this morning,” I say seriously.
“Yay me.” His sarcasm clear. “I’m full of accomplishments.”
“Hey, that’s fucking big.” I watch his chest rise in a deeper breath, and then the camera careens a bit.
He leans over to a nightstand and grabs a Sprite.
My brows scrunch. “What the fuck are you drinking?”
He takes a sip. “Can you not read?” He angles the green and blue can at the camera. The label in sight.
“I see a Sprite. A Coca-Cola product,” I remind him, “our family’s competitor.”
Xander chugs, then burps. “I’ve got a whole case under my bed. I keep telling Uncle Stokes to make a clear-colored Fizz drink. But he’s not having it…so…” Xander hoists his can to the camera.
All four Calloway sisters have shares and stock in Fizzle. The soda empire ties the Cobalts, Hales, Meadows, and Stokes together. But after my grandpa stepped down as CEO, he handed the reigns to Sam Stokes.
You know nothing about the Stokes family. Poppy Calloway, the oldest sister, and her husband Sam Stokes managed to steer clear of the media. Their only daughter is an actress, filming a movie in Canada right now, and I keep in touch through text. But we’re all in different stages of our lives.
Xander pops open a second Sprite can.
“Traitor,” I say into a smile.
His lips almost lift, but honestly, I’m not sure the last time my little brother had a full-blown smile on his face. Maybe when we went LARPing a few years back.
He pries the tab off his can, his mouth down-turning, and his amber eyes drop again. “You deserve being called a traitor more than me right now.”
What? I see myself in a tiny box on the FaceTime screen. My brows pull together, face sharpened. I shift uncomfortably on my bunk. The space suddenly feels cramped and small.
“Why is that?” I ask, my voice tight.
“You’re not attending Mom and Dad’s vow renewal,” he says with a shrug, like it doesn’t really matter, but he looks sad. “Just like you missed my birthday.”
My muscles bind. I try to sit up a bit more.
I should’ve fucking known he’d surface this. Our parents just announced a second wedding in April to renew their vows. The media published the story like American royalty just declared the biggest ceremony of the year.
It made so many headlines that paparazzi raced back to Philly. Like ants returning to their mud hill. And about five hours ago, we lost the last van that’d been trailing our tour bus.
My mom and dad—they did that for Security Force Omega. Knowing a wedding announcement would reroute the media’s attention. And seeing the look on the bodyguards’ faces when the roads cleared…it made me immeasurably proud to call them my parents.
Maybe in Xander’s eyes, if I really loved Mom and Dad, I’d be at their vow renewal. But it’s not that easy.
The FanCon ends the same day as the wedding. It ensures that paparazzi will stay in Philly during the rest of the tour and not bombard us. Our parents chose that wedding date, knowing I wouldn’t be able to attend.
“I made a commitment to this tour,” I tell my brother. “If I could be there
, I would. You know I miss you a fucking ton.”
He squeezes the soda can, the aluminum crushing a bit. “Yeah, me too, and I get it. I guess.” He sighs heavily, his hair hanging in his face as he slumps. “Hey, so I’ve been meaning to ask you…” He glances to his right, checking for any eavesdroppers where his door used to be.
“Yeah?”
He chugs his soda and wipes his mouth on his arm. “I know Mom was addicted to masturbating or whatever. That means we could be addicted to that kind of stuff, too. So what’s like too much?”
“Too much jerking off?” I ask.
“Yeah. Is there…like a number or something?” He tucks his hair behind his ear again. I see myself at fifteen, questioning every damn thing.
“Are you having sex?” I ask, realizing we haven’t talked about this stuff in a while.
“With my hand,” he replies.
“That doesn’t count.”
“Then no.” He tosses his crushed can somewhere. It sounds like it lands on hardwood. “If you don’t give me a number, I’ll just ask Luna, and she gives shitty advice, so I know you don’t want that. Take pity on me.” He belches.
I smile, about to tell him there’s not a number, but the bus comes to a rocky, abrupt halt. A mechanical screech pitches the air.
Great.
Xander reads my face. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I say quickly. “Something with the bus. Can I call you back?”
“Bro, just give me a number first. It’s killing me.”
“One million,” I say.
He flips me off, and I reaffirm I’ll call him back and then I hang up. I swing my legs off the bunk and jump down. Entering the crowded lounge.
From the driver’s seat, Thatcher cranes his neck over his shoulder. “Everyone okay?”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
The next words are ones I didn’t ever want to hear.
“The bus broke down.”
Prognosis: no one knows what the fuck happened.
The bus just kind of died, and now we’re waiting for a mechanic to drive out into the middle of absolutely nowhere.
All of my cousins and Donnelly, Oscar, and Jack sit on the pavement across from a wheat field. A plume of gray smoke sputters from the rear of the bus. I’ve helped my uncle fix up an old Jeep several times. So I understand cars, but this is a bus. There isn’t even a hood.