Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

I explain the boundaries and how Thatcher and I are not to do anything that doesn’t involve practicing to fool the media.

Which means no sex.

“I just want you to be happy,” he reminds me, “and what you two are doing sounds like edging with no climax.” He squirts toothpaste on bristles. “Which is pretty much torture.”

He’s still cautious about me driving down one-way streets and facing heartbreak since Thatcher is too strict to break rules. But that’s not what’s happening here.

We’re in the same car with the same plan with the same destination.

“It was far from torture,” I say distantly as my phone buzzes on the toilet seat. All uninhibited thoughts about Thatcher Moretti vanish from my mind.

I wipe my palms quickly on a hand towel and then pick up my phone. Maximoff glances over while I read the Caller ID.

“It’s Tom,” I tell him.

Most of my siblings call me at least once a day, and if they don’t, I usually seek them out.

I click into the call and put it on speaker.

“Salut, petit diable,” I say brightly. Hello, little devil.

Tom shouts over loud bass and percussion, currently at band practice. “As-tu parlé à Charlie récemment?!” Have you spoken to Charlie recently?

Maximoff’s brows knit together at the mention of my iconoclastic brother.

They’re both at a better place ever since the FanCon, but I try not to have any expectations. It’s best that way. Because if they start fighting again, I won’t be shadowed in disappointment. And if they do rebuild their friendship, I can be pleasantly surprised.

No expectations.

It’s the best solution.

“I spoke to Charlie yesterday,” I tell Tom. “When he told me that I’m officially the most dramatic Cobalt.”

I spent the majority of last night calling each of my siblings and mom and dad, letting them know my plan to fake date my twenty-eight-year-old bodyguard. It was a quick call to each, and they all voiced their approval in their own way.

We’re a supportive clan but, more importantly, we all love grandiose displays of loyalty. And nothing screams loyalty like shielding a secret from the entire world.

Music fades over the line, so my brother must’ve found a quieter spot.

“Charlie said you’re officially the most dramatic?” Tom scoffs. “Give it a day, Jane Eleanor. Tomorrow, Eliot and I will have you beat. And anyway, you haven’t even announced that you’re dating your bodyguard yet. Call me back when your fake boyfriend wears a shirt with your initials on it.”

He’s referencing a real event when a pop singer “allegedly” dated a famous actor for publicity. My little sister said they had true love, but I guess we’ll never really know. I recognize very well that that must be how the world feels about my family.

Most people will never really know us or have all the facts, and they have to be satisfied with whatever we give them.

“Thatcher will not be wearing an I heart J.E.C. shirt,” I tell Tom. “We’re going to be a little more discreet than that.”

“Boring,” he tells me. “So I, uh, still can’t get ahold of Charlie.” Tom sounds distracted wherever he is. Possibly he’s also texting. He often tries to do both at once. “He’s not picking up his phone, per usual. Do you know where he’s at?”

One sibling usually calls me each day asking about Charlie’s whereabouts. I rarely have much information to share. They’d call Beckett, but he’s usually at rehearsal and I’m the next closest to Charlie.

Maximoff brushes his teeth and listens.

“Last night he was in Brooklyn,” I tell Tom. But we all know that doesn’t mean much. He could be on a plane to Dubai by now.

“Eliot should put another tracker on him,” Tom says, mischief in his voice. “See how that works out.”

“Tom,” I warn. “Charlie is not a dog.”

Last time Eliot and Tom attached a tracker to Charlie’s phone, we almost had a Cobalt Civil War.

“Hey, is Moffy with you?”

Maximoff pauses brushing. “Hey, Tom.”

“Dude.” Tom takes a longer beat. He has to be texting. “You know that guy I’ve been kind of casually seeing in private?”

I’ve heard everything about the casual hookup that’s on Tom’s speed dial. Emphasis on casual. It’s just about fooling around, Tom has said.

He isn’t in search of anything serious. He says it’s not because of the media, but I’ve seen him a little freaked out from how aggressive the paparazzi and public are towards Maximoff and Farrow. The rabid attention has scared many of my siblings away from diving into a relationship.

I love, most of all, that my eighteen-year-old brother has Maximoff for advice.

“Yeah, I remember.” Maximoff spits into the sink.

“We locked a day to do anal,” Tom explains in a rush, “and I was planning on taking fiber supplements like you said Farrow does. But I’m too paranoid to just rely on that since it’s my first time. And now I have to get this stuff to douche, and I mean, I have to figure out how to even douche.”

“It’s alright, don’t stress.” Maximoff looks back at my phone. “I’ll text you what you need. It gets easier every time. Call me if you’re having trouble.”

He exhales in relief. “Will do.” To me, he says, “Adieu, ma soeur.” Farewell, sister.

“Adieu.”

Maximoff rinses toothpaste out of his mouth. “I can ask Farrow if he can get ahold of Oscar and see if he knows where Charlie is.”

I shake my head. “No, if Charlie wants to be alone, he should be left alone.” But if I can’t reach my brother in 36 hours, I’ll send in the cavalry to find him.

Our heads turn as floorboards squeak.

Farrow appears, beautiful wings and crossed swords inked on his neck and throat. He leans casually on the doorway, already dressed in black slacks, his radio clipped to the waistband. He had an early security meeting at Studio 9 with Omega and some of Epsilon and Alpha.

Thatcher and I were the main topic at hand, I’m sure, but instead of digging into that, I raise my voice. “Moffy, your bodyguard has a terribly big hard-on for you.”

Maximoff tries to boast, but he ends up smiling too much at Farrow. “You heard Janie. She only speaks the truth.”

“I do,” I play along and close my bottle of cleanser.

Farrow skims Maximoff’s bare chest and towel. “You told her to tell me that, wolf scout.”

Maximoff scrunches his face, about to put the toothbrush back. “How could you know that, man?”

He arches his brows. “Because I know you.” He looks to me. “And you.” His gaze darkens a little more than usual. Protective.

It must’ve been an intense security meeting.

His gaze flits to Maximoff’s hand, and his smile suddenly stretches from cheek to cheek. “That’s also my toothbrush.”

Oh no.

Maximoff goes rigid. “No it’s not.” He checks.

Oh it is.

Farrow laughs and pushes into the bathroom. They have this moment where he cups Maximoff’s jaw and kisses his lips tenderly in greeting, and they murmur under their breath to one another. Their hands pulling each other closer. Chest to chest.

I never want to be jealous of their love. I want to be satisfied with what I have, but my stomach tumbles in strange patterns.

I’m not sure what I really feel right now.

I just know what I want to feel.

I train my focus elsewhere and start texting on my phone. “I’m asking Thatcher to come over.”

Maximoff detaches slightly from Farrow. “Are you going out?”

“I’m making an announcement, and you all need to hear it.”

Concern washes over his eyes. “What kind of an announc

ement?”

“You’ll see.”

15

THATCHER MORETTI

Banks slides out from underneath the Volkswagen Beetle, oil staining his palms. Since we were teenagers, he was always fixing friends’ cars for an extra buck. He got a job at an old mechanic shop down the street when he was fifteen.

I hand my brother a torque wrench. “That briefing was fucking horseshit,” I tell him rigidly, both of us in the garage.

We just got back from Studio 9. The Alpha lead and the new Epsilon lead spent the majority of the team’s time rephrasing the same fucking point and hammering it to death.

Do not fuck Jane.

Do not have sex with a client.

Do not sleep or screw or push forward inside that girl in any goddamn way. Direct quote from my superior.

Men yelling in my face to make me take it is just a fucking side salad. Tastes like nothing, I chow down in silence, and I move on to the main course: my purpose, my reason for being.

My responsibility.

My client.

Jane.

But the fact that two leads opened a crass can of worms—talking about her and sex and me in graphic warning—it didn’t taste like nothing. I was chewing on a bag of rusted nails.

It hit a nerve.

She means something to me, something that I should release in the fucking wind, but I’m clutching tighter. Bringing her closer.

I’m walking the thinnest line with security, and even tempering my anger is becoming harder.

I left the briefing with Banks, both of us glaring, and I muttered to him what I held back from saying earlier, “Respectfully, sir, shut the fuck up.”

Banks bounced his head, up and down. “Amen.”

Back in the garage, Banks uses the torque wrench to scratch an itch on his neck. “Old guards are still clearly paranoid since Farrow slept with Maximoff and kept his job. They already promised the parents that it wouldn’t happen again.”

The team wants to maintain trust and respect with the parents.

I stare hard at my brother. “I was one of the men who promised the parents.” Back when I was a lead. I had to douse the fire that Farrow lit.