Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

“Oh my God,” Jane says in one breath, unblinking. “My grandmother has officially lost all sense of reality.”

Her rich grandmother contacted the press, her rich grandmother paid for the ad, and I’ve been mentally calling her rich grandmother a fucking jackass.

Still applies. Maybe even more. She’s about to cause her own granddaughter bad publicity and a dangerous amount of unwanted attention.

I let go of the newspaper to touch my earpiece. Static cracking. But I’m only eyeing Jane and her surroundings.

She clutches the paper and drifts away from me while rereading the article. Hurt pinching her brows. This is a familial betrayal. It would’ve been better if this came from a stranger.

“Jane,” I say, my voice deep. I want to do more for her, comfort her, but I’m fucking limited to the boundaries and rules of my job.

Jane meets my gaze and takes a seat on a cardboard box. “This was a calculated move on my grandmother’s part.” She splays the newspaper on her thighs.

“Why do you think that?” I step nearer to her spot. I’ve met Grandmother Calloway before, and family is family, but after Greece this summer, I think she’s the worst part of the famous ones. SFO would agree.

What she said to Farrow and Maximoff on the yacht reached some ears in security. Which then reached me.

“The timing,” Jane explains. “Moffy is newly engaged, and our grandmother is most likely hoping I’ll marry a man before him. Just so I’ll be the first down the aisle. It’s a heinous power-move that deserves booing and tomato-throwing.” She exhales a harsher breath, frustrated and upset. Her eyes are tightened in anger.

She almost buries her face in the newspaper.

Pained for Maximoff, mostly. I understand Jane well enough to know that this would hurt her the most. Their grandmother is stealing this once-in-a-lifetime moment from Maximoff. He’s supposed to enjoy his engagement, and she’s shining a spotlight on Jane instead.

I check some movement outside of this enclosure. An elderly man meanders around the aisles. Not a threat.

So I approach Jane in another step. I tower above my client, and then I squat down. Eye-level, I grip the paper. Gently pulling it off her face.

Her breath comes out deeper, and she searches my hard gaze.

Words aren’t my strong suit, but I’m here.

Jane seems to find comfort in my eyes, her shoulders relaxing. “The scariest thing in all of this is that my grandmother truly believes she has the best intentions. Most everything she ever does is selfish, but she thinks she’s altruistic. In her mind, this ad must be a way to help me open my heart.”

My brows pull together. “That’s dangerous.” She didn’t even ask her granddaughter for permission to run the public ad.

“Oui.” Jane folds up the newspaper. “It’s good that this is about me and not my brothers or sister. I don’t have a life-long career that can be destroyed because of bad press. I don’t have a passion at stake.”

My expression darkens. I respect her longing to protect her family—I understand that soul-deep need. But Jane doesn’t deserve to be a dartboard just because she has less going on in her life. Less to lose. She has to combat more horseshit than most already.

Her mind must be reeling. She blinks a few times. “The phone number—my grandmother must’ve had her assistant set up a new number and email for the ad.” She frowns. “How many men do you think will respond?”

“I can’t know for sure, but I’ll take care of it.” I straighten up to a towering stance. “I’ve got your six, always.”

She begins to smile, inhaling a lung full, and then rises to her feet. The top of her head reaching my collarbones.

Radiating confidence, Jane pulls back her shoulders and ties her hair into a low pony. She adjusts her purse and prepares for the chaos outside of this quiet sanctuary.

I’ve seen her do it a million-and-one times. This isn’t the first fallout. Probably won’t be the last. She’s living inside some type of modern age battlefield. Which is the only reason she needs a soldier.

The only reason she needs me.

“Ready?” I ask, fixing the settings on my radio.

Another breath, she nods. “Let’s go.”

6

THATCHER MORETTI

Dawn.

Fog hangs low outside the two brick townhouses in Philly’s Rittenhouse-Fitler Historic District, windows shrouded with mist. It’s where Jane, Maximoff, and Luna live, and by extension, their bodyguards. Left is their house.

Right is ours.

Exception being Farrow Keene, who lives with his client. Security makes a lot of exceptions for Farrow, and back when I was a lead and a third of the Tri-Force, I even helped pave that path for him.

Probably more than he realizes.

I step out onto the curb of the old narrow street. Tying drawstring pants tighter on my muscular waist. I didn’t have time to grab a fucking shirt.

Cover of darkness vanishes with daybreak, and the early-morning September chill bites my bare chest.

I used to always wake up at first light. Before the Marine Corps, before my parent’s divorce—our dad would tell us to get our asses up and finish our chores, all before breakfast.

I didn’t really mind it, and to let Banks sleep longer, I’d do some of his tasks. Folding his clothes for him. Placing shirts and pants neatly in one dresser drawer that we had to share.

Being on my feet at dawn is like any other day.

But what’s congregating on the old street—it’s not the type of shit that I deal with before I can even shower.

“Hey, man,” a stocky redheaded temp bodyguard greets me, coming up to my side. “I can’t see much, but they keep calling her name and paparazzi are waking up.” I hear multiple car doors shut.

Through an eerie layer of fog, I make out maybe…three or four men leaving their respective vehicles.

One is already on the street.

“Jane! Are you home?!” a guy yells. His whining desperation sounds less like typical demands of paparazzi.

He’s a fucking suitor.

It’s a polite term that the Alpha lead wants us to use.

Ever since the Cinderella ad, a bunch of delusional fuckbags have been congregating outside the townhouse. Swarming the street, along with the media.

It’s been one week since the ad’s been in print, and this should’ve died down already. But it’s gotten worse. More suitors keep coming in from out of state, staking claim to a girl that they cannot fucking have.

I fit in my earpiece. “Get eyes on the pap vans and keep watch of the left townhouse. I’ll handle the other targets.”

In the filmy haze, I see a line of paparazzi vehicles camped out on the street. Most are parked on the adjacent sidewalk to free the road. Some have been there long before the Cinderella ad, but the media attention has doubled. Cameramen are also waking up earlier than usual.

Several already spill out of their cars.

One cameraman is squatting on the sidewalk, positioning the lens towards misted windows of Maximoff’s room. Blinds and curtains shut.

Another guy sets up a tripod.

I look to the temp guard as he hesitates. “Copy?” I ask.

He frowns. “Sir, what’s protocol if these targets bring Jane gifts?”

I drop my voice another octave. “Do not touch whatever they try to hand you. Don’t accept any packages. Just tell them to fuck off without antagonizing them.” I let the cord to my mic hang on my bare chest, and I hawk-eye the most vocal suitor right now.

“Thanks, sir.” He exhales. “My shift is usually inactive.”

I nod. Understanding.

Temp guards are on a rotation right now. Around the time Maximoff and Farrow’s relationship went public, we had to hire 24-hour stationary guards outside the townhouses. Usually one man is enough at dawn.

That’s drastically changed this week. And I got called out of bed to help.

Of all the properties the fam

ous ones own, this is the most unsecure location. No gates. Too easy access for the public. Fans constantly take selfies on the stoop, and we had to disable the doorbell.

Other than the 24-hour guards, there’s nothing the team can do to make it any safer. I’d build a stone fortress around the whole structure if I could, but city codes, violations, and all of that shit.

It’s red fucking tape.

I glance at the temp guard. “Stay alert, watch your sector.” And then I aim for the vocal suitor.

“Jane!” he wails, nearing the curb. “Jane Eleanor Cobalt!”

I approach with authority and intent.

He’s older. Most of the suitors are between early-thirties and late sixties. It’s disturbing, and I don’t want Jane to see their faces. I don’t want them to occupy space in her brain.

Clear them out.

Quick visual assessment: mid-forties, plain face, thin silver-framed glasses, jeans and scuffed white sneakers. He has a laser focus on the front door and a bouquet of red roses in hand.

“Sir.” I block his path.

He skids to a stop.

“You need to back up.” I point to the car I saw him get out of. “Go home.” Through the fog, I notice the Florida license plate.

He stands uneasily in the middle of the street, his eyes growing behind his glasses. Staring up at me like I’m a character from Game of Thrones. Ready to smite him down with an axe.

Intimidation is one of the first defenses in this job. We have to scare them off, not provoke them or beat them to a bloody fucking pulp. No matter how much they antagonize and ridicule these families, people we genuinely care about.

“I just want to see Jane,” the man squeaks out.

“You wanna see her?” I glower. “You can’t.” I hear my Philly lilt break through. Banks jokes that my accent is stronger the more pissed I get.