Headstrong Like Us (Like Us 6)

He’s had to check and ensure girls never stole his used condoms. Consequences of fame.

“I don’t have to stress about it anymore.” A soft smile pulls at his lips. Another reminder that we’re in this for life together. Happiness flits briefly from his mouth to his eyes before he nods, ready to unleash the imprisoned thought. “I just keep thinking about my dad.”

“About Kaden?” An acidic taste drips down my mouth.

“Yeah. That.” He tries to soften his gaze. “You said having Rowin around was a fucking mistake.”

“It was.” I run my thumb over my lip piercing.

He outstretches an arm. “Kaden is equivalent to Rowin. He works for my family. He’s slept with one of us, and I’m struggling with the idea of him being around you.”

I tilt my head back and forth. “That’s funny because I’m struggling with the idea of him being around you.”

Maximoff lets out a pained laugh. “This is a fucking catch-22.” He braces himself against the counter, reaching back with two hands. Gripping the edge tight. “This is the worst time to pull someone away from my dad who’s actively helping him.”

I’ve never considered putting anyone else above Maximoff. I choose him 100% of the time. But recently I keep finding myself having to place his family before his well-being. First, when med calls take me from his security detail and now this shit with his old hookup.

I want to choose Maximoff now.

“Even knowing you’re strong enough,” I tell him, “you shouldn’t have to be around bad memories just because you can weather them.”

“Maybe.” He cracks a knuckle. “I think we’d both rather ride this out for a while. Just until my dad is on his feet. Then we can tell him there’s a conflict of interest with Kaden. Right now, he can’t lose his therapist. He just can’t.”

I know.

But his belief that his parents will pull through in a few weeks (or less) is stronger than mine. Something is going on with them, and I just can’t see this turning around that fast.

“Okay,” I nod, knowing there’s no perfect solution. I just hope I’m not making the same mistake.

We don’t have much longer to contemplate this. Donnelly slips into the hospital room. Gauze is taped near the crease of his elbow where they drew blood.

No one else follows behind him, which just means there’s more waiting.

“Did they tell you anything?” Maximoff asks.

“Only that they’re fast-tracking the lab work. Should take around 24-hours. Nurse Jen said we can leave, and they’d call us when they have the results.” He looks to me. “Does that mean somethin’?”

“Maybe…”

Usually DNA tests take at least a couple days. It could mean that the mom died, and social services is trying to find a blood relative as fast as possible. But I don’t want to unearth that possibility, and I don’t know much about the system to offer an accurate guess.

Anyway, we have other issues now. We have to leave and return to the hospital without being spotted by paparazzi. We lost the trail on our way here, so no cameramen currently camp outside Philly General. So maybe we’ll be able to do it again.

I’m counting on it.

We don’t drive back to the Hale House. Instead, I make a detour to Donnelly’s apartment. The two-bedroom that he shares with Akara, Quinn, and Banks. None of the other guys are here, and I don’t ask who decorated the living room because black and white hand drawn posters are taped to the walls. A black leather couch, leather bean bag, and simple chrome table accent the space.

Donnelly slumps on the floor and leans back against the bean bag, while Maximoff and I take the couch.

Now we wait.

The next hours are excruciating. We keep SFO updated on comms and try to distract ourselves. Maximoff flips through channels on the TV, landing on a Harry Potter marathon. Donnelly crafts a paper fortuneteller—which is like a homemade magic eight ball—and tries to read my future.

No one sleeps. Not even as exhaustion beckons us like a siren calling out to sailors. We’re more inclined to sail this ship straight into a storm.

Morning comes and goes. Quinn, Akara, and Banks stop by to take showers, change, and leave. Quick entrances and exits. Without sleep, Donnelly can’t take his shift on Xander’s detail, so he has to give it up to Banks.

By the time night rolls around, I’m wired from Ripped Fuel, and Maximoff looks like hell.

“Sleep,” I tell him. “I’ll wake you, if we get the call.”

He shakes his head, neck tensed. Eyes glued to the TV. The eighth and final Harry Potter movie plays on the screen.

And then Donnelly’s phone vibrates on the floor, near his foot. Maximoff and I swing our heads towards the noise.

Donnelly glances at the screen and then answers. “Yeah?” His eyes find me. “Okay. Yeah….yeah. Thanks.” He hangs up.