Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

I kick the golf ball at a gnome. “You really think you’re doing me a favor?”

It takes him a hot second, but he admits, “No.” He curls a piece of hair behind his ears. “I think my hand is sliced open from a rusted sheet of metal. And I’d prefer not to be stitched up by the guy who hates me. Nor the guy who hates you.”

Okay.

Okay. I’m here and more than capable of helping this tool, and he needs to suck up his fucking pride like I’m about to do. “I have a med kit on my bike,” I tell Thatcher. “Do you really want to wait five hours in an emergency room when I could do it right now?”

“Rowin is still on his way,” Jane reminds me.

“I’m better at suturing,” I say. It’s just a fact.

Thatcher rolls his eyes and just shakes his head. But the words out of his mouth are, “Go get it.”

Thank you.

It takes me three minutes to jog back down the staircase, grab the med kit and then return to the roof. And when I arrive, Thatcher has changed seats to a picnic table bench.

Jane is on the phone, chatting to someone. Hushed and serious. She paces up and down the makeshift putt-putt course.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask Maximoff, who calls Rowin again—that’s it, I steal his phone, and he glares.

“Farrow.”

“It’s fine. He’s coming here. Don’t worry about him, wolf scout.” Once I finish my residency, I’ll be working with Rowin Hart on the newly named med team, and I haven’t been imagining what that’ll be like. It’ll happen when it happens. In three years time. So there’s no point in obsessing.

But Maximoff—I wonder if he’s been overthinking. He hasn’t mentioned anything about my ex and medicine and me.

I look him up and down, more concerned. “Are you okay with him—”

“Yeah,” he cuts me off, definitely knowing where this is headed. “It doesn’t bother me.” He drops his putter off his shoulder.

I’m not sure I believe him. “If it does—”

“It doesn’t,” he says, voice firm.

I let it go. It’s not a talk that has to happen tonight. I return his phone to him, and he slips his cell in his back pocket.

Maximoff glances briefly at Jane and then tells me, “Your father called her back. She messaged Dr. Keene earlier asking for tips on how to treat a cut from a sheet of metal.”

“Sheet of metal?” I repeat, and he points to the rusted metal shaped like a mushroom.

“That was on top of a Grinch statue,” he explains. “It fell and almost hit Jane. Thatcher caught it.”

Thatcher is a good bodyguard, and I wouldn’t deny that just because I dislike the guy.

“Let’s get this over with,” I say and we head over to Moretti. Dropping the trauma bag on the picnic table, I rummage for gloves and other supplies.

Thatcher watches tentatively.

And as Maximoff leaves to go speak to Jane, I’m left alone with him. We don’t talk. I rest my knee on the bench next to Thatcher, hovering slightly over him.

I snap my gloves on and take his hand. He’s already removed the plaid flannel shirt. The air pulls taut every time our narrowed eyes meet, and believe me, I’ve thought about punching Thatcher plenty of times. But digging a needle in further while I’m treating him, just to hurt him—I would never.

That’s not who I am, and since he’s let me stitch him, he at least believes that.

I inspect the wound. A deep gash slices diagonally across his palm. It missed his thumb and fingers. He’s lucky.

“You have all your fingers,” I tell him, cleaning and disinfecting the wound.

Thatcher doesn’t wince. Or blink. He looks over at Jane and Maximoff, but I can’t read his gaze that well.

With a needle and syringe, I pierce his skin to numb the gash. Gentle and precise. He takes his eyes off his client and watches me work.

“I want stability for these families,” Thatcher tells me. “It’s why I voted to keep you as his bodyguard. Maximoff needed you to stick around. And if you planned to quit, I just wanted you to fucking do it—and I was pissed when you finally did. Because you just proved me right, and I wanted to be wrong.”

I suture his cut. “Well, you are wrong.” I don’t look up at him while I stitch. “I’m going to be honest, I don’t know a lot about you, Moretti. We don’t talk about personal shit, and I’m okay with that. But for you to act like you know me inside-and-out and for you to presume all of my intentions…that’s annoying.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, and in his silence, I lift my gaze more. He shuts down, staring impassively at me. Expression hard like reinforced steel. I recognize that look.

This is something my boyfriend does.

I don’t prod Thatcher to speak, and I finish the last suture, clean up, and bandage his hand.

“Done,” I tell him.

He stands, opening and closing his hand in a fist. I straighten up and snap off my gloves, discarding them…

Something wet drips down my forehead. I touch the droplet and look at my fingers…I see blood. My pulse spikes. I blink. No.

It’s not blood. It’s clear, but I feel like it’s all over me. Drenched in blood, limbs slipping against my limbs while I try to hold a body down. On floorboards. I can’t get a good grip.

I blink.

I look up. I see the night sky. Not ceiling rafters. I’m on the roof. And rain starts pelting my face. I smell rain on metal. My heart speeds. I hear the violent crunch, I feel the impact against my body—I struggle for the next breath.

Fuck. I shut my eyes tightly.

Fuck.

I hear screaming in the distance.

Fuck.

Slowly, I open my eyes, and I block out everyone but him. Maximoff is in front of me. Unyielding forest-greens holding me upright. “Farrow,” he calls out to me. “Farrow.” He grips my neck, and I’m more alert. Looking at him.

He knows.

He knows what’s wrong.

My eyes burn, and I shake my head. These traumatic events have clung on, and I can’t rip them off now. And I’m pissed that this is happening.

“It’s the rain,” I say, something thick in my throat. Each word is heavy and coarse.

I grit my teeth, breathing through my nose.

“Let’s go downstairs,” Maximoff says, his tough gaze cradling mine which grapples for clearer focus, and I hold his hand before we move—

The door opens abruptly. Light rain showering the rooftop as Rowin emerges, med bag slung over his shoulder.

Maximoff is about to speak, but someone else beats him to it.

“You can go,” Thatcher says, nearing the entrance. He holds the door open and motions for Rowin to leave back through.

Rowin glances at his bandaged hand and then to me.

“I said you can go,” Thatcher repeats, more sternly this time.

Rowin gives Thatcher a nod, and then he shoots me an annoyed look, as though I made him drive through traffic for no reason.

Right now, I’m honestly just trying not to have sensory overload from the car crash or the confrontation with the stalker.

He leaves, and as soon as I’m downstairs with Maximoff, in the empty Superheroes & Scones store, we wrap our arms around each other. Chest against chest, my pulse beats with his, and I hold the back of his head.

I breathe in his chlorine and citrus scent. He probably shouldn’t have been swimming with his injury. But smelling summer on Maximoff makes me smile.

It grounds me to the here and now.

25

MAXIMOFF HALE

“What are the antibiotics for strep?” I quiz my boyfriend. Printed flashcards fill my hand and scatter the coffee table inside the loft of Superheroes & Scones. Three-day-old red velvet cake from Jane’s birthday lies next to more study materials and energy drinks.

It’s afterhours in the comics shop. Empty. The only real time I can enjoy one of my favorite places on Earth.

Farrow slouche

s on a yellow beanbag, his muscular legs splayed over my lap, and I reach for my mug of tea. Sitting straighter than him.