Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

I bite the thick pizza, bell peppers and sausage falling onto my plate. “Fuck,” I mumble.

Farrow looks too amused. Like he has me beat at something else. He’s eating his pizza without an avalanche of toppings.

Yeah, I don’t fold-and-hold my pizza, and I don’t know how he made that look cool.

After he takes a swig of water, he tells me, “Okay, let’s do this.” His eyes meet mine. “We’re not gifting any bikes since we both need new ones. I can’t afford a brand new MT-10, and that’s the Yamaha I’d want. I’ll split the cost with you, and then when you buy a new bike, we’ll split the cost of that one.”

I swallow my food. Thinking about this. “So we’ll both own both bikes?”

His pizza hovers near his mouth. “Technically, my insurance will be on mine, but personally I’d consider them both of ours.”

Both of ours.

I repeat that.

Both of ours.

“You’re smiling,” he points out before eating.

Yeah, it’s hard to grimace. “What can I say? I like your personalies more than your technicalities.”

His rings clank on wood as he taps his chair. He swallows his food. “Technically,” he starts, and I’m already groaning, “personalies don’t exist. It’s not a word.”

I fill my mouth with pizza to free my hand—and I flip him off.

He rolls his eyes into a smile. As he eats the crust of his, I zero in on his cheek. Where Thatcher hit him. The bruise is almost gone, but Jane has helped Farrow conceal the blemish with makeup whenever we go out.

Farrow didn’t want a tabloid to spin a story about me punching him.

I’m still majorly pissed at Thatcher. More than even Farrow at this point. I don’t understand why Thatcher keeps shitting on my boyfriend, and if he does it again, I’ll snap on him.

I told Jane what her bodyguard said, and immediately she told me, “I won’t speak to him. I can’t.” Out of loyalty to us, she’s been on a gigantic silent treatment with Thatcher until further notice.

I know it’s hard for Janie. She likes to engage in conversation, even if it’s a one-sided chat and the person rarely answers back.

In the pizzeria, my gaze falls from his cheek to his carved biceps. More distracted by his tattoos than his muscles. An inked ribbon circles a compass with the words, go your own way.

The media keeps speculating what my next career will be.

A recent headline: Maximoff Hale, Heir to Three Corporations. Which one will he choose? You believe that I’ll be hired to one of the family companies: Fizzle, Hale Co., or Halway Comics.

I can even help out at Superheroes & Scones. But I don’t know where my heart is yet.

“What are you thinking?” Farrow crumples a napkin.

I retrace my brain’s endless paths. “I’m thinking about life. How I left my family legacy, and tomorrow, you’re returning to yours.” My head turns as someone approaches.

A waiter brings over hot tea that I ordered. I thank him, the water steaming and cup too hot to touch.

As he leaves, I tell Farrow, “And how I have a gigantic load of free time and maybe I should build a house with my bare hands or go into the wild and figure out the philosophical meaning of my fragile existence. And then I think about how I’d rather go into the wild with you.” I add, “And how my ass is better than your ass.”

Physical, mental, and sexual—those are the routes of my mind.

He looks me up and down, his earring swaying. “I have the better ass, but I can let you believe that you do.”

I picture his ass now. And I instantly imagine my cock sliding inside of him and the way his muscles contract in scalding arousal—fuck me. I blink a few times to avoid fantasizing.

His knowing smile spreads wider and wider.

I scowl. “Your smile is ripping your face apart.”

“Anatomically impossible, but nice try.” He laughs as I grimace, and then my phone vibrates. Texts from my family. Asking about the date. It’s been constant all night.

I take out my phone just to ensure it’s nothing serious.

But I’m distracted.

By you-know-who.

Not Voldemort. Someone hotter. Not that I think the villain in the Harry Potter books is even remotely hot—Christ, stop thinking.

Farrow tears apart a straw wrapper, his eyes falling to me, before rising to the television. The Philadelphia Flyers are in the Stanley Cup playoffs. We both like watching pro sports, especially if our hometown is involved.

But that’s not what’s getting me.

His molten eyes fall back to me again. Pricking my nerves, and then they lift to the TV. Eyes on me, then the TV, me—his lip rises, then the TV.

My cock strains against my jeans. I’m aware that within the crowded pizzeria, phones are aimed at us. Some better hidden than others. We’re being recorded from inside and outside.

We’re public.

I remind myself that. We’re public, and I’m allowed to touch my boyfriend. So I stand up about the same time that he drops his boot. He gestures me over, but I’m already heading to his side of the table.

When I sit beside him—so close that my thigh is up against his thigh and his strong arm wraps around my lower back—flashes ignite outside. Glaring through the windowpanes.

My temp bodyguard sits one table away, faking interest in his phone and bowl of soup. I briefly glance at my cell, too. No emergency text messages. All should be well.

More flashes.

More bright light.

Paparazzi won’t leave if I ask. The only way to fix this is to leave myself, and the cameramen will follow me.

But out of all nights, I don’t want this night to be short-lived. So I drape my left arm over his shoulders and ignore the thumping in my sore muscle.

Farrow slouches a bit so my arm drops to a lower angle. Ten times less strain on my shoulder, but I’m still holding him.

His inked fingers dip beneath my jean’s band, not going far. Just enough to warm the skin on my waist with his skin. We tune out the gawking and the lenses. And we watch ice hockey in public. Clearly romantically linked.

It’s the most casual, ordinary thing.

You have no idea how much this means to me.

“Maximoff Hale.” All of a sudden, a stocky guy in a local college sweatshirt approaches our table, and my temp bodyguard bobs up and down in his seat. Hesitating to intervene. I usually let fans near.

I motion to the bodyguard to sit.

Farrow is super-glued to the guy, even as he whispers to me, “Recognize him?”

18

MAXIMOFF HALE

“No,” I whisper back to Farrow, and then I smile at the guy who raises a hand in hello. I tell him, “Hey, man. I’m kind of busy tonight—”

“I was just hoping for an autograph.” He reaches over the half-eaten supreme pizza, trying to

pass me a napkin and a ballpoint pen.

I have to take my arm off Farrow to grab both. To me, it’s not a big deal to sign a napkin. It’ll take a half a second and could make someone’s day. But I notice how the guy checks over his shoulder and smiles impishly at a booth, a potted plant shrouding the other faces from view.

It puts me on edge.

But I don’t falter, uncapping the pen. “I’m right-handed, so this’ll be sloppy.” It looks nothing like my actual signature.

“Whatever’s good,” he says distantly, zeroing in on Farrow. “Can I get your autograph too?”

Farrow barely blinks. “I’ll pass.” He’s turned down autographs and pictures before, but not with this much coldness attached.

The college-aged guy almost…smiles.

This isn’t a fan.

“Here.” I extend the napkin and pen to the guy. “Have a good night, man.” Please leave. Please don’t ruin my fucking date.

Pocketing the autograph, the guy loiters for another half second. And stiltedly, like he’s rehearsed this line with his friends, he tells me, “I didn’t think Farrow was your type, Maximoff. I thought you’d end up with a rich dick, not a fame whore.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you fucking serious?”

“I said—”

“Get the fuck out,” Farrow cuts in, standing up. But he can’t usher him away that easily. I’m sure he wants to, but he’s not a bodyguard or a bystander. He’s a part of the confrontation.

The guy laughs, then looks at me. “Is your boyfriend gonna hit me?”

Farrow rolls his eyes. He’s intimidating to most, but as my boyfriend, the worst of the worst kinds of humans will try to provoke him for fifteen minutes of fame.

Chair scraping back, I stand up next to Farrow. “Kids are here,” I growl. “Go back to your goddamn booth.”

My temp bodyguard is speaking into his radio. Hesitating.

“You seem tense, Maximoff.” The guy takes a single step back. “That’s what happens when you trade down—”

“Fuck you,” I sneer, and Farrow fists the back of my shirt—because I almost lunge. Then he holds the back of my head, protective. Comforting. Telling me not to defend him and let street hecklers get to me.