Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

In the public’s eyes, Quinn Oliveira became the Casanova of Omega. The Young Stud. And I can see Thatcher weighing Quinn’s dedication to this job. Like he does to me all the fucking time.

Thatcher catches sight of my glare, and he glares back.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket. Just as I reach for my cell, Akara tells Quinn to make a choice.

Donnelly shrugs and hands the phone to Jack. “It’s just pussy, Quinnie. You can eat it later.”

Jack doesn’t flinch, used to blunt talk. “She’s cute. You’d look good together, but I’m with Donnelly.” He passes the phone back to Quinn.

I check my recent message from Maximoff.

You busy? – Maximoff

“Farrow,” Akara calls me out for my phone while Quinn decides to stay put for the meeting.

“It’s Maximoff,” I say, typing back a reply.

I send: No. What do you need?

Akara doesn’t nag, and he snaps his finger to his palm, “Okay, so here’s the deal. Alpha is still the force that’ll work the night with a celebrity a week from now. Price isn’t compromising or letting Omega take the lead.”

No one thought he would.

“Bigger news,” Akara says, “Eliot and Tom Cobalt graduated high school. For those that don’t know”—he zeroes in on Quinn—“Security Force Omega was formed when Maximoff left home. At that point, SFO became the division of security that protects the kids who turn eighteen and become legal adults. Epsilon handles all the minors. Normally, this means that we’d be welcoming Eliot and Tom’s bodyguards to SFO, but the Tri-Force has decided on a restructure.”

Oscar frowns. “A restructure?”

Akara outstretches his arms. “Omega has gained some fame. We’re the only ones who get stopped for autographs, the only ones getting extra Tinder dates, and if we start adding more bodyguards, there’s a chance they’ll gain notoriety by association. It’s not something the security team wants.”

I understand now. There’s no plan to add extra bodyguards to SFO. Which is perfectly fine by me.

Akara continues, “All of us here—we are Omega. Even if you’re transferred to another client, even if you quit or get fired. We’re the bodyguards on SFO until further notice.”

Thatcher straightens off the door. “What about my brother?”

Akara nods. “We’re still talking about adding Banks to Omega, and it’s likely that’s the way it’ll fall.” No one asks why. Banks and Thatcher are identical twins, and he’s been recognized just as much as Thatcher on the street.

My phone buzzes.

all of SFO + jack. Were gonna chill tonight up here – Maximoff

After seeing his cousins carry pillows and air mattresses upstairs, I figured he’d invite everyone to this little “sleepover” thing.

Your text needs an apostrophe and capital letters. And you sure you want Thatcher up there? I send, and rise off the table as a swarm of texts hit me. Everyone in the living room is watching me.

“Boyfriend okay?” Oscar asks.

Maximoff texts me a middle finger emoji, along with these:

Bring snacks – Maximoff

Chocolate chip cookies in the pantry – Maximoff

Drinks, another sleeping bag, pillows – Maximoff

These are definitely requests from his cousins.

If you need help, I can come down –Maximoff

I instantly call him, phone to my ear. “Don’t you dare move.”

“Too late, I’m already doing cartwheels down the stairs.” His voice sounds tight with pain.

I rub my mouth. “You’re a terrible liar, wolf scout.” My eyes latch onto Akara, and I mouth, upstairs. He nods, and I tell my boyfriend, “We’ll be there soon.”

Maximoff looks worse than when I left him.

His pallid skin gleams with sweat, dark brown hair damp like he took a shower, and he breathes measured breaths through his nose.

But he’s not shaking. No chills.

Good.

I block out most of the background chatter as SFO and Jack settle into the attic room. Sleeping bags and pastel blankets cover air mattresses that line almost every inch of floor space. Bags of chips and bowls of popcorn are being passed around.

I’m already sitting next to Maximoff on his bed, and while he sticks the thermometer in his mouth, I reach over his chest. Carefully.

And I switch on the portable fan. I sense him watching my inked hands, and our muscular legs unconsciously intertwine.

I grab a limeade Ziff sports drink. Leaving the other half of a bagel on the end table. He has to be too nauseous to eat.

With Maximoff, and even me, there’s a fine line between “coddling” and taking care of each other. I let him adjust his ice packs on his shoulder and chest, and when I unscrew the sports drink, I see the don’t do that for me in his features.

The warning dies out the second I take a sizable swig.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “That’s cute that you thought this was yours.”

His cheeks flush. That’s one way to return color to his face. With the thermometer under his tongue, he mumbles, “Fuck you.”

I smile. “That was the most precious fuck you I’ve ever heard.”

He groans, fighting his upturning lips, and he says with more bite and growl, “Fuck you.”

I suck in a breath. “Still precious.”

Maximoff shoots me a middle finger and then removes the beeping thermometer with the same left hand. He reads his temperature, purposefully holding the screen away from me.

His brows knit.

“Give me.” I motion to him with two fingers.

“Just what I expected,” Maximoff says dryly, “I’m the Human Torch.” He passes me the thermometer.

98.5 degrees Fahrenheit. He’s a fucking dork. “You don’t have a fever,” I tell him.

He takes another measured breath before looking right at me. “Probably because I never get hot when I’m around you.”

I nod a few times. Unable to break his gaze. Ensnared. “Must be why you’re sweating right now,” I tell him.

He grimaces, two seconds from a real smile, but his eyes snap shut abruptly. Pain slamming into him somewhere. I almost wince just watching him. I’m used to seeing people in discomfort at a hospital, but it’s definitely different when it’s someone close to me.

I massage the back of his neck, my fingers skating upward and threading his thick hair. I’m about to pull my leg off his, but he leans more of his weight into my side, like a physical plea for me to stay.

Maximoff.

I keep our legs laced.

His eyes slowly open with a sharp breath, and he’s looking at Luna. She’s looking at him, concern welled up in her amber gaze.

He tries to marbleize his features. Tries to be her strong unshakable big brother. These parts of him are so intrinsically Maximoff Hale that I wouldn’t want him to change. He loves people so overwhelmingly, and he cares. Shit, he cares more than anyone, and when people need him to be their everything, he is always there.

But it only makes me want to be there for him.

Every time. Every day.

Twice as hard. Ten times as much.

“Maximoff,” I breathe, capturing his focus. I lightly shake the sports drink at my boyfriend, what I planned to do from the moment I uncapped the plastic bottle. “I’ll share with you.” And only you.

His eyes fall to my mouth, and then he quickly snatches the drink. I notice how he doesn’t attempt to talk.

“Moffy,” Charlie calls. Our heads turn.

And I reluctantly split my attention between Maximoff and eleven other people. A few pillows prop Charlie’s broken leg, and Donnelly leans over his cast, black Sharpie in hand. He’s sketching the Philly cityscape, and to be honest, I’m surprised that Charlie is letting him. His cast has been blank.

“Yeah?” Maximoff asks, voice tight.

I survey the attic in one sweep, the room loud with chatter.

All eleven people lounge on sleeping bags, but since they’re elevated on the air mattresses, everyone is basically eye-level with us.

The three girls sit beneath the curtained window. Sulli braids Luna’s hair while Jane talks breezily and sips a beer.

Near the dresser, Beckett is telling the Oliveira brothers about New York clubs, Donnelly listening in as he draws, and next to the girls, Jack is showing Akara a photo or video on his camera. That doesn’t shock me. Jack and Akara have been more civil since the FanCon.

Thatcher is the only one observing and not in a group, his back up against the door. And no, I don’t care.

Charlie slips on dark sunglasses. “You look like shit, Moffy. If you’d just—”

“I’m not taking a Vicodin,” Maximoff combats and then winces. An icepack slides down his shoulder—I fix it for him since the sports drink occupies his hand.

Jane says something to her brother in French, and he raises one hand in surrender. Conversations pop up around the room, and I hear the tail end of Oscar talking about the worst flavor of Doritos.

I tune everyone out and hone in on Maximoff.

He’s pinching his eyes, and he readjusts himself, starting to slide back off the headboard.

Shit.