Headstrong Like Us (Like Us 6)

Another guy puffs out his chest. “Come at me, cocksucker!” And just then, Thatcher and Oscar run up the road, the security off-road vehicle parked in a safe distance. They didn’t come to chat.

They’re pissed. And they join the brawl, throwing skilled punches. Letting these guys eat the asphalt they requested.

I smash an elbow in a face, his nose crunches. Blood gushing out of nostrils, and I capture Maximoff’s shoulder after a set of knuckles bash his ribs. He does sink a right-hook.

We see them crumple, and Maximoff and I start pulling each other back. Last glimpse of the fight, I see Thatcher and the others pinning the guys to the ground. Oscar is zip-tying their wrists—but we’ll have to let them go. Can’t press charges unless the girls want the events of tonight to be public. It’s not happening.

The brawl is the only real justice. And I would’ve landed another kick in, if I didn’t have to protect a prince.

And that prince keeps pulling at my arm, trying to lead me towards the parked vehicle behind us. I can’t stop smiling at how he’s trying to draw me away from the street fight.

My eyes brush over him, my smile fucking killing me.

“What?” His arm curves around my shoulder.

I hook mine around his shoulders too, but I turn us towards the vehicle, walking down casually. “The untrained fighter trying to protect the trained one.”

He’s doing his best not to smile. “I held my own, man.”

“You’re getting better,” I agree. “Still not as good as me.”

Maximoff shakes his head, his lips upturned. “Christ, I can’t believe I’m smiling right now.” He stares deeply into me. “Thanks.” His voice is encased with sincerity and love.

He acts like I lifted the weight off this night. But he’s the reason this weightlessness exists inside of me, the reason I smiled in the first place, and I’m not sure he realizes it.

39

MAXIMOFF HALE

4 days until the wedding

Sun is out. Birds are chirping. Just another beautiful afternoon in paradise.

Really though, it’s gorgeous in Capri, and I’d probably wish we could stay longer if we weren’t counting down to the day. A day that I’m too stupidly eager for, and I’m trying so damn hard not to smile each time I swig my water.

Right now, the small outdoor café is packed for lunch. Plaid light-blue cloths line square tables, shaded by a bright yellow awning, and the click, click, click of paparazzi cameras are almost drowned out with café chatter.

Banks Moretti and a couple temps do a good job barricading the media.

Cameras are usually in my peripheral. Out of sight, just background, but after what happened at the coves, I think about them more.

How SFO obtained the phones that belonged to those guys. How they ensured no one captured any pictures or videos of the girls.

How you’ll never know that the skinny-dipping dare happened or the fistfight. Those assholes won’t file assault charges, not when they coerced underage girls to take off their clothes.

You’ll never see just how livid SFO were at the college-aged guys. Seething on the way back to the villas, and I’ve never heard that many men curse on comms. (Farrow let me listen in.)

It always feels good knowing they care. Especially when it’d be so easy to place all the blame on the girls—or on me, for being hot-tempered and charging after the guys. I probably, definitely, should’ve waited to run, but that’ll always be hard.

My parents, aunts, and uncles praised Omega the whole night, and I was in Akara’s villa when SFO cracked a few beers, winding down after the intensity. They raised their bottles a hundred-and-one times. Toasting to every damn thing.

“To the girl squad being safe.”

“To the captain, my captain.”

“To the zip ties in the car.”

“To Farrow’s med bag.”

“To busted earpieces.”

“To Maximoff’s paracord bracelet that didn’t come in handy.”

At the end, seriousness returned, and Oscar lifted his beer bottle and said, “Kitsuwon Securities 1 – Triple Shield 0.”

So yeah, that’s where my mind descends, but it’s easy to be in the here and now at the café. Farrow is bouncing Ripley on his knees, and with alluring casual ease, he lifts his aviators to his head, the sunglasses pushing back his black hair.

I’m super-glued to his new hair color, probably as much as the tabloids.

I had no clue he planned to dye his hair for our wedding. But he surprised me this morning and said, “I know you have a giant, overwhelming thing for my hair this color.”

Yeah.

But he has no idea why—no idea that the first time we met, he had black hair and that my brain has tied a neat ribbon around the memory and planted lipstick kisses all over the damn thing.

It’s embarrassing.

I take a bite of pizza, watching Farrow adjust Ripley’s dark-tinted sunglasses and hat that protects his fair skin. Surprisingly, Ripley has grown used to the constant camera flashes fast. I thought it’d take a decade for him not to fuss whenever a stranger screams his name.