I understand the rawness of painful moments that, without realizing, soon become painful pasts. Most of the time too sore to touch or talk about.
In the last year, I’ve barely been able to speak about the HaleCocest rumor or Nate, my horrible friends-with-benefits who is a fuck-buddy no more.
“I won’t pry further,” I tell him.
His eyes dart to mine and stay on me for a longer beat. I wish I knew what he was thinking.
“I promise you,” I say wholeheartedly. “I’m honored that you gave me this much. Truly.” It’s more than he’s even given other bodyguards. I ask Thatcher who in the entire team knows about their military background, and he only says three names.
Bruno, Akara, and Price, the Alpha lead.
Apparently, Price found out during Thatcher’s initial background check for the position, but Price agreed to keep the information private.
That’s it.
Those are the only people Thatcher and Banks ever told.
He inhales stronger, and we’re somehow even closer, his boot touching the tip of my shoe, my chin a breath from his chest.
“Jane,” he starts, but his mouth snaps shut as my phone rings.
I rarely desert a call. I’m about to apologize, but his attention is wrenched to comms. His hand flies to his ear and his other touches the mic at his collar.
“Say again?” He speaks through comms.
I find the blue zebra-print phone case in the pit of my purse, and as soon as I look at the Caller ID, my stomach falls out of my butt.
Something horrible is happening. Because Moffy is not supposed to call me.
This morning, he made me a cup of coffee for my first day at work, and he specifically said, “I’m not texting you. I’m not calling you. Not until five p.m. when you clock out. Today is about you , and you’ll kickass as long as you stay focused on yourself. Alright? No family distractions.”
I wavered, cup of coffee between my palms. “What if someone is in trouble—”
“You’ll be my first call,” he assured me. “But it won’t happen.”
It won’t happen.
I waste no time. Phone to my ear. “Moffy? What’s happened?”
4
JANE COBALT
“Janie…are…” Maximoff’s voice crackles with static.
My heart thrashes in my chest. “Moffy? I can’t hear you.”
“…I…bad.”
Bad.
I cage breath and pull my phone down to check the signal. I barely even have a single bar. Back to my ear, I speak quickly. “Moffy, who’s in trouble? Are you okay?” I wander down the aisle for better reception, and Thatcher keeps pace beside me, speaking harshly in comms.
Which can’t be a coincidence.
When shit hits the proverbial fan, the security team and my family will hurtle into action in swift harmony.
“Moffy, are you still there?” I hear absolutely nothing, and then faint static. “Who’s in trouble? What’s happened?”
“…Janie…”
“Moffy!”
“…okay…I—” His voice cuts out.
Silence.
I inspect the phone screen. The call just dropped. “No, it’s not okay,” I mutter, prepared to redial, but then someone else is calling me.
My brother.
A photo of Eliot from Greece pops up on the screen: windswept brown hair, a squared jaw, and eyes that cajole and ask do you dare? Moffy often says that Eliot looks like Clark Kent, to which I’d agree. But my nineteen-year-old brother has always possessed the devilish charm of a comic book villain, not of Superman.
Eliot just moved to New York with our eighteen-year-old brother Tom, and both fire-obsessed menaces are now living with Charlie and Beckett in Hell’s Kitchen. Moffy and I have a bet on how long until they burn down the apartment.
I said four months. He said two.
But we’re both hoping for never.
What if they’ve put themselves in real trouble? But I can’t think of a situation where they’d be hurt or in danger this morning. They’re incredibly busy these days. Eliot just joined a new theatre company, and Tom is a lead singer in an emo-punk band. Beckett is a principal dancer of an elite ballet company, and Charlie’s daily whereabouts are a mystery, even to me.
I answer, phone to my ear. “Eliot, what’s happening?”
“Sister…” His deep smooth voice breaks to pieces with the spotty signal. “…fucking fiend.”
Eliot is often dramatic and hyperbolic, as we all can be, but hearing him call someone a “fiend” does not alleviate any sort of panic.
“I can’t hear you, Eliot,” I tell him. “What was that?”
Call dropped.
My sisterly dread has now shot to the moon.
I lower my phone as it rings again.
Audrey is calling, but my little sister should be in class right now. 8th grade.
I try to accept the call—call dropped.
“No,” I breathe, clutching my phone like it’s my lifeline to my family.
The name Pippy shows up on the screen. My youngest brother is calling
me. Ben Pirrip Cobalt—he should be in school too. 10th grade.
Call dropped.
Charlie is suddenly ringing. My nonconformist brother is often hard to reach, but it’s not uncommon for him to call during pandemonium.
My thumb taps the button. Call dropped.
A new name pops up on the Caller ID. Tom. He’s typically dead asleep this early in the morning. I tap—call dropped.
Now Beckett is dialing.
I stare wide-eyed at the phone. Beckett is usually the last of my brothers to reach out due to his rigorous ballet schedule. The fact that he’s calling now means this is a real catastrophe.
Who’s in trouble?
His call drops like all the others. Every single one of my siblings just called me. Sullivan Meadows and Luna Hale, my closest female cousins, are the next two calls that drop.
I have no new texts, and I can only assume none are going through.
I have to find better reception. Outside. Go outside, Jane. I start to sprint down the aisle. Thatcher is already ahead of me. Leading the way.
He knows where I want to go without any doubt. He always seems to understand where I crave to be and what I need.
As I sprint, my ballet flat slips off my heel.
I stumble a little and then tear my flats off my feet. Cramming them into my purse while I rush after my bodyguard, his stride long and strict.
Thatcher glances back at me, his expression grave as he clicks his mic. “No, you’re still coming in weak.” We round the narrow aisle, in sight of the glass door to exit, and mayhem erupts outside.
I screech to a halt, phone ringing incessantly in my frozen fist.
Thatcher stops and checks on me again.
“JANE! JANE!” paparazzi scream over each other.
At least twelve men swarm the store’s door. Lenses pressed to the glass since they’re not allowed inside. Flashes ignite in furious succession.
I can’t be surprised they’re here. I’ve exited buildings with more, but these cameramen seem particularly hostile.
This won’t be an easy getaway. I can’t simply step outside and take a call. I’ll have to rush to my car and possibly drive away first or else they’ll bang on my windows. It’ll be twenty minutes.