My brows furrow.
Oscar swigs a Lightning Bolt! and translates, “Word vomit.”
Huh.
I have no clue what “Hey, Moffy” was about to morph into, but with the surface of my childhood nickname, I’m unfortunately more aware of my age difference between all of them and me.
“Security should only call me Maximoff,” I state here and now.
Farrow lowers his hand from Donnelly’s mouth, and some of the bodyguards exchange furtive glances. And Farrow tries to restrain an amused laugh, but as he looks to me, his eyes almost caress mine in affection.
Alright, I must’ve sounded like a dick.
Or a conceited dick.
An entitled prick.
All of the above? Probably.
Thatcher tells me, “I’ll let the whole team know.”
I nod and try to loosen my shoulders. Just to appear somewhat less domineering.
Boundaries here are blurrier than usual, and I don’t want to be just the client in their eyes. But two milliseconds ago, I made a declaration that sounded more like a dickish celebrity requesting a special menu than a regular guy asking to be treated fairly.
I try to figure out a better plan of action. One that doesn’t include me leaving this damn study. Retreating—that’s not an option.
Suddenly, Farrow stands. Nearing me, but he speaks to Thatcher. “Did you put me on temporary probation from security meetings?”
“No.”
“Then why the hell didn’t I hear about the one where Omega discussed the tour?” Farrow stops beside me and offers me his bowl of eggs.
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
He only peels his eyes off of me when Thatcher responds.
“You were in the bedroom with Maximoff.” He ends there. Like that explains everything.
Farrow glares at Thatcher.
Thatcher glares back, not relenting. This is the equivalent of a silent pissing match.
I gesture to the co-lead of Omega. “Is knocking not in the bodyguard handbook?”
Neither of them moves.
Oscar unwraps a Honey Bun. “You’re still a client who prefers privacy.”
“And you were with your boyfriend, Mof—Maximoff. Fuck,” Donnelly mutters.
They left Farrow in the dark because of me. That’s not fucking happening again. “Thatcher,” I say, and he breaks the glare to acknowledge me. “Farrow’s job comes first.”
“His job is you,” Thatcher emphasizes. “This is complicated—”
“Then let’s uncomplicate it,” I say simply. “Anything related to security, you can disrupt me and get him. I’d prefer it. And if there’s any other confusion, just ask.”
I swear I hear Farrow mutter an impressed, “Damn,” beneath his breath.
The whole talk screeches to a halt as the door creaks. Jane and Beckett slip inside. Carrying trays of coffee for everyone. Jane hands me a mug of hot tea, and we all scatter around the study.
Farrow and I are the only two standing. While he leans on a bookshelf—absentmindedly fiddling with a handheld wooden puzzle that he’s already solved twice—I grip my mug of tea. And listen to the conversation veer off into FanCon territory. Logistics.
How the fuck it’ll all work.
Thatcher motions to Jane on a rocking chair and to Beckett on the couch beside Donnelly, and he says, “If you have any acquaintances or friends or…” Thatcher pauses for the word.
“NSA,” Oscar clarifies.
“What?” Beckett looks to Donnelly, his 24/7 bodyguard.
“No strings attached,” I tell my cousin.
“A fuck buddy,” Donnelly explains.
Thatcher cringes a bit, obviously hoping to avoid that word. “If you want them on the bus,” he says to Jane more than Beckett. “I need a list. Names. We have to clear them before they’re allowed on tour.”
A cold draft wafts into the study, snow falling heavier outside.
Becket zips his leather jacket over a black The Carraways band T-shirt, half tucked into ripped jeans. His brown curly hair is artfully styled, and he’s lean and tall, built perfectly for dance. A warm smile toys at his pink lips. He looks older than when I last saw him.
Like he’s met more parts of the world, and he came out better. Tougher.
You know Beckett Joyce Cobalt as a principal dancer of an elite ballet company in New York City. His tattoos and extracurricular activities cause a stir for tabloids. But they also fill seats for shows. You call him the bad boy of ballet and he doesn’t bother proving you wrong.
I know him as my twenty-year-old hard-working, extraordinarily talented cousin, the most calm and the least dramatic of the Cobalt Empire. He has no room for bullshit, and he’ll be the first to say you smell full of it. If he weren’t Charlie’s fraternal twin, maybe we’d find common ground. But if there really are sides in my family, Beckett will never be on mine.
Fair Warning: if you fuck with Beckett, I won’t hesitate to team up with Charlie and rip you limb-from-limb.
Beckett extends an arm. “No fuck buddies for me.”
Donnelly rocks back. “You sure?”
You’ve definitely seen Beckett pick up random girls at NYC nightclubs. You don’t know that he sometimes goes to private sex parties—the only reason I know is because he once told Eliot, who then let it slip to Tom. Who told Jane. Who then told me.
Gotta love family.
“Positive,” Beckett says. “If I’m going to hookup, it’ll be with someone I meet on the road.”
I take a larger sip of tea, and I notice how everyone’s zeroed in on Jane.
She’s quiet and tucks a pink throw blanket around her body. Maybe she’s thinking about her options. I’m about to ask, but Thatcher beats me to the question.
“Do you want to bring Nate?” he asks.
Her blue eyes meet me. “I don’t know.”
Farrow messes with the puzzle. “You can’t smuggle him on the bus, Cobalt. If you want him, we’re all meeting him.”
“What do you think, Moffy?” she asks.
“I think it’s your choice.” I dunk a tea bag a couple times. “But if I have to share space with your Asshole With Benefits, there’s not a chance I’ll be able to hold my tongue.”
She could do light-years better than that fucking douchebag. He cares more about expensive things than about her. I swear he’s complained a million times that our townhouse lacks a pool, hot tub, six-car garage, private guesthouse, etc.—and he’s told Jane that she should move out ASAP.
Beckett eyes me. “He’s that bad?”
I see-saw my hand like so-so. “AWB #2 was definitely worse.”
Jane shoots me a strong look. “Je regrette d’avoir demandé ton avis.” I regret asking for your opinion.
I touch my chest. “Tu connais mes sentiments à propos de Nate.” You know my feelings about Nate.
Beckett turns to his sister. “Est-ce qu’il t’a frappé?” Did he hit you?
Oscar whispers in Donnelly’s ear. I quickly realize that I have no idea which bodyguards are fluent in French. Farrow definitely isn’t.
Jane shakes her head adamantly. “No. Never.”
“He’s just an asshole.” I finish off my tea in one gulp. Literally every bodyguard trains these narrowed, pinpointed eyes on me like I’m withholding security info. “That’s it.”
Farrow tilts his head from side-to-side, considering my words. “Okay, but there’s a range for assholes, and most of us want to know where Nate falls.”
Oscar spreads out two hands to demonstrate the range. “There’s the likable asshole over here.” He waves his left hand before lifting up his right. “Then there’s the abusive motherfucker that deserves to eat cow shit.”
“And die,” Donnelly adds.
“Painfully,” Farrow finishes.
“Funny,” I mutter and notice Jane and her pissed off face: brows pinched, lips pursed, not as terrifying as she wishes she could be. “Janie can tell you where he falls on the assho
le range. She knows him better than me.”
“He’s a likable asshole,” Jane announces without a beat, fierce blue eyes pinging to everyone. “He’s only treated me with respect. For the sake of my future orgasms, leave him be.”
Donnelly smirks. “Farrow knows a little something about protecting and serving orgas—”
“No.” Thatcher shuts that down.
Christ, my neck is burning. I’m not embarrassed. No—that’s not a feeling I feel often, and I’m not letting it creep into me.
Farrow studies my reaction, and I try to recover with a sip of nonexistent tea.
Yeah, my mug is empty.
He’s near-laughter.
I’d combat him, but Thatcher speaks. “Back to the main issues.” He focuses on Jane. “About your cats—”