OUT OF MY WHOLE FAMILY, Connor Cobalt has the best office, the best view—hands down. Whenever I’m in the sleek city high-rise of Cobalt Inc., I either lose myself gazing out the window, a breathtaking Philly skyline, or I focus on the memorabilia my uncle shelves and hangs.
Rain pelts the glass and thunder roars. I’m not fixated on the storm. I’m currently staring hard at a framed National Geographic magazine on the navy-blue wall.
The cover shows a rugged, dark-haired man in his late thirties, skin tanned from the sun. With the horizon bleeding orange and yellow, he grips a rock face from at least four-hundred feet high. Using only his right fingertips. Legs hanging off, left arm dangling.
No harness.
No rope.
The sun rises behind him.
I read the title of the magazine: From Such Great Heights: The Best Free-Solo Climber in the World. Ryke Meadows.
My uncle.
My dad’s half-brother.
He’s in his forties now, and he still climbs. He still makes the front pages of magazines, and he has about five different sponsorships and ad campaigns.
Usually I would stare at this with admiration and be proud to know Ryke. I am. But I’m stuck here. Looking harder. Staring longer.
I see his dark, disheveled hair, his thick eyebrows, golden tan, and the way his body is cut and ripped and lean—and I see me. Or at least what I look like without the constant light-brown hair dye.
I inherited my sharp cheekbones from my dad, but that’s it. At the end of the day, I look more like Ryke Meadows than I do Loren Hale.
“He hates that one,” Uncle Connor says.
I rotate.
My intelligent, polished uncle watches me from behind his desk. Jane’s dad has blue eyes, wavy brown hair, and he wears a tailored suit with as much confidence as he’s worth. Billions. Like my dad and Uncle Ryke, he’s in his forties, and they’re all still lauded for their good looks.
Connor Cobalt has been People’s Sexiest Man Alive three times in the past decade alone.
We’re waiting for Ryke and my dad to show. I typically meet them at public restaurants. But since the media frenzy about my fight and the Camp-Away, they all three decreed “office lunch” before I could protest.
And Connor was the one who reinstated the cancelled lunch. This morning he called Dalton Academy and smooth-talked the administration. No parent-teacher meeting, so here I am.
Trying not to remember about last night in my Audi.
With Farrow. I’ll start smiling like an idiot, and he’d totally call me out if he were here. The high-rise has secure entrances. So Farrow is allowed to leave and eat at the food court below, drive my Audi around—pretty much whatever he wants.
I have no clue what he chose to do, and we don’t really text. We’re both too smart to get caught by a phone or email hack.
I study the magazine again. Uncle Ryke hates this one? “Why does he hate it?” It’s a great cover. Better than most of the tabloids that slap my mom and dad on the front.
“The headline.”
I reread. “It says he’s the best in the world.”
“And he vehemently disagrees. Ryke’s humility is another limb. I’ve tried my best to amputate it in the past, but it’s never leaving.”
Humility.
I blink a couple times, my eyes growing. I’m highly aware that I’ve been called humble multiple times. My gaze starts to narrow.
Jesus.
Christ.
How many traits do I share with him?
I just leave the magazine and sit on a leather couch. Which faces a few leather chairs in his office’s lounge section. My uncle trades his desk for the chair across from me.
I pop a couple knuckles, a bad habit, but I keep eye contact with Connor. He’s all about self-confidence. Eye contact. Never cowering to any adversary, and where he has employees running into cubicles or staring slack-jawed, I’ve never been intimidated by his godly presence.
“You know my mom was on the front page of Celebrity Crush this morning?” My shoulders are locked. “The headline: Lily Calloway Goes Back to Her Old Wild Ways! They had a photograph of her sticking her hand down my dad’s pants. And Uncle Ryke is upset over a cover where he’s scaling a mountain during a damn sunrise.”
A bad, acidic taste drips down my throat, but I don’t look away.
I meet everything head-on.
Connor barely blinks, none of this fazing him. “Ryke was ten times more upset about the tabloid yesterday than that National Geographic hanging in my office. That, I can assure you.”
I used to look up to Ryke as a little kid.
I used to dress like him: leather jackets, fuck-if-I-care style. I used to want to be him. I constantly asked him to take me camping. I begged him to let me ride his motorcycle.
Then I learned about the rumors. That my mom and my dad’s half-brother slept together. That I’m actually the son of Ryke Meadows.
I don’t believe those rumors. My mom has been adamant that she’s always stayed faithful to my dad. And she looks proud whenever she says, “I’ve never cheated on Lo.” A sex addict who never cheated—it’s a big deal.
My mom is strong as hell.
But there was one time where I questioned the rumors. I was twelve. I asked my dad flat-out. I asked him who’s my biological father—and he said, me. Unequivocally, wholeheartedly. Me.
I believe my dad. I’ve seen the DNA tests, and they confirm that I’m Loren Hale’s son. We’ve even publicized the DNA tests.
People don’t like to believe facts. They want to believe the most salacious story. The one that makes you keep flipping the pages.
That story isn’t always the truth.
I like the narrative where my mom and dad helped each other battle their addictions. Two addicts who used to enable one another were able to pull through together and become sober and healthy. I like my reality. My real-life parents. Who possess an unconscionable amount of strength that most people will never know and never see.
They’re my heroes.
And I’m damn proud to be their son.
Recently those paternity rumors have been running rampant again. I want the world to know that I’m proud to be the son of Loren Hale. I want to honor my dad, and I have no idea how to do that other than to look more like him. So I dye my hair.
I need you all to know that I love him.
So damn much.
“We’ve got tacos!” My dad barges into the office, his light brown hair artfully styled. His daggered amber eyes rarely lose that edge, just like his voice and his jaw, but there’s something so human and warm about my dad.
It’s his love of the people around him.
His love for his wife and children.
His love for me. It’s more powerful than anything I’ve ever known.
Ryke enters the office behind my dad, the walls frosted for privacy. He shuts the door—I jolt as a foiled taco lands on my lap.
My dad towers nearby, his face scrunched at me. “You look a little pissy. What’d I miss?”
I gesture from me to Connor. “We were talking about how Uncle Ryke was pretty upset over the Celebrity Crush issue this morning.” I start peeling the taco foil, and I look up as my dad and Ryke turn to Connor. The source of the info.
Ryke glowers.
My dad’s jaw sharpens. Not happy that Connor fed my frustration over Ryke and my mom’s friendship.
Connor stares at me. Only me. “Context is really a beautiful thing, Moffy. Let’s try not to lose that.” To my dad, he says, “I was making a point that was lost in translation. And to be clear, it was poorly translated by your son.”
It’s true, and as my smile forms, my dad sinks on the couch beside me. Ryke takes the chair next to Connor. And they pass around food.
I look between the three of them. “Is anyone going to mention how that photograph was taken in the neighborhood?”
My dad and my mom were in the backyard. Their backyard. In the same gated neighborhood with twenty-four hour security. How Alpha let a photographer capture a shot of my parents from who-knows-where—I have no idea.
What if paparazzi are in the trees? What if they hired one of the neighbors to spy?
It’s not okay.
“We’re looking into it,” my dad says, sifting through his paper bag of food. Off my stern expression, he adds, “Don’t worry about it, Moffy.”
“How can I not worry about it?” I point at him with my chicken taco. “Luna, Xander, and Kinney live there and someone is taking pictures of the house.”
“I’m sorry, did you lose your name badge?” Sarcasm thick, he pretends to scan my red crewneck for the nonexistent badge. “Because…I don’t think it says Dad on your shirt.” He pats my shoulder lightly. “Pretty sure that’s my job, bud.”
“It says Big Brother on my forehead.” I must’ve jabbed my taco towards him.
He glares. “Eat it. Don’t abuse it.”
Connor wears a billion-dollar grin. “Ryke’s favorite motto.”
They’re talking about pussy.
Ryke unwraps a taco. “It’s a good one but not my fucking favorite, Cobalt.”
“Do tell, what’s your ‘fucking’ favorite.”
Ryke bites into a taco, sauce dripping down his unshaven jaw. He licks his thumb and says with a mouthful, “Don’t be a fucking dick.”
My dad flashes a half-smile. “A motto we’ve all broken.”
His brother tosses a piece of lettuce at him.
I study their interactions more than I ever do. I sense Connor scrutinizing me. Almost knowingly. He’s five million steps ahead of everyone. Always.
I stop obsessing and go to eat my taco. Pausing. I notice a leak of hot sauce.
“I have yours,” I say to my dad.
He checks the insides of his taco. Just cheese, chicken, and lettuce, and he swaps with me.
“You can’t tell me not to worry,” I say to him, back to the original topic. “I need information. Don’t keep me in the dark.”
He inhales a sharp breath, his jawline cutting like glass.
“I’m not a kid.”
“You’ve been saying that since you were four. So pardon me if I just want you to be a kid.” He bites into his taco and gathers his thoughts while he eats. He speaks after he sips a Fizz Life. “The security team is meeting about it this week. It’s being handled. I’ll let you know if anything changes. I can’t give you more than that, Moffy.”
Farrow can. He’ll know what’s happening.
Even if I didn’t have Farrow as a resource, I’d nod to my dad all the same. I may push and prod a lot, but I get that he can’t tell me every little damn thing. I kept the Luna tongue piercing from him.
And he didn’t care. You know what he told me? “I’m glad your sister has you to turn to. That’s what siblings are for.”
Then he grounded her for two weeks. No comics, movies, or computers. And he took all of her cosplay costumes out of her closet.
So in the office, I nod a couple times to my dad, but another question crashes against me.
“Is she okay?” I ask firmly. “Mom. Is she alright?” One of my greatest fears is hearing and seeing bad shit from a tabloid first. I don’t want to find out information from a second source.
I don’t want to be whiplashed. And I can’t live my life fed facts from the media. It’s too warped. So that’s why I push and push for answers.
“She’s been at a great place for years, bud. She can stick her hand down my pants and be fine. She’s fine.” He smiles a faraway smile. Like he’s recalling the moment.
I nod again. “I just hate that they’re using her addiction as click-bait.”
“It’s fucked up,” Ryke agrees.
We agree. How many times have we agreed on issues? Do we always agree? And why the fuck am I psychoanalyzing us?
The media. Maximoff Hale is just like Ryke Meadows!
I’ve been infected by the media. Tabloid parasites. No one notices my internal war except maybe Connor.
Ryke balls up a couple napkins and searches for another taco in the paper bag.
My dad shrugs like the foul play is just common. I recognize that we’ve all encountered this shit, but whenever the media touches my mom or dad’s addictions, they cross a line. Incinerating all sense of morality and ethics.
“What’s fucked up is this taco,” my dad says. “Where are the extra hot sauce packets?” It’s already dripping in orange hot sauce, but my dad would put Tabasco on everything if he could.
“You’ve probably burned half your taste buds in your mortal life,” I tell him.
“Then you’re doing well by not mimicking me.”
I flip his words over and over in my head. It’s not because I wouldn’t want to be like you, I want to say. But my dad fucking knows this.
It’s the world I’m concerned about.
It’s you.
I stare off for a second, and Ryke throws a handful of hot sauce packets at my dad. They hit him square in the face.
My dad drills a glare between his older brother’s eyes, only a year apart. Ryke is near laughter.
“I’ve decided you’re no longer my brother,” he says to Ryke.
“Who the fuck am I then?” Ryke balls up another dirty napkin.
“Just Some Guy. JSG for short.”
Connor grins wider. “I’ve been wanting to rename him for some time. Though I’d have gone with something else.”
Ryke groans. “We don’t want to fucking know.”
“I do,” I chime in.
“Of course you do,” Ryke says, tossing his wadded napkins into the paper bag. “You’re always on his fucking side.”
It takes him a long beat to finally look up at me. His tough brown eyes meet my steady forest-green, and I say, “I didn’t know there were sides.”
“There are sides.” My dad stands and reaches over to Ryke’s lap. “I’m always on the side with the good food.” He snatches the paper bag and plops back down next to me. “Taco?” He tries to break the tension, but I’m not dropping this.
“I’m not always on Uncle Connor’s side,” I rebut. “He called me an idiot last week. Why would I side with that?” I try to holster a smile as I gesture at Connor who arches one brow. We were playing chess, and when I lost, he told me not to worry. That I didn’t have a chance with my IQ compared to his IQ.
Subtly, he called me an idiot. He doesn’t deny or refute. And I love blunt honesty, so I actually like that memory.
“You tell me, Moffy,” Ryke says. “You’re the one who’s been dyeing your fucking hair for a year.”
The room quiets.
And he leans forward, forearms on his legs, to be closer to me. “What did I do? Just let me know, and we can fucking fix this.”
I realize that I’m sitting in the exact position as him. Bent forward, forearms on my legs. I don’t move. I don’t blink. I just think.
I think about how Ryke Meadows may’ve had the greatest influence on my life. If I’m more like him than my father—isn’t that the conclusion?
Does that mean I spent too much time with him? Does that mean I love him more? Will the media draw these questions—and fuck these questions and my mind that won’t stop turning.
My dad raised me, and when I was twelve, I had a choice. I could either resent Ryke or I could love him as much as my dad does.
I chose to love him. As a teenager, he taught me how to ride a motorcycle. We went on annual camping trips. I created the Charity Camp-Away out of my love for hiking, camping, kayaking—and would that even exist without Ryke?
He showed me how to build a fire with flint. How to pitch a tent. How to climb rock faces. Outside of the Meadows family, I’m the only one who’s ever been to their Costa Rica cabin-treehouse.
Ryke and his daughter Sulli invited me.
“Moffy,” Ryke growls my name. “Did you fucking hear me?” His f-bombs come frequently but not very harshly. His gaze even softens on me. He doesn’t want to hurt me.
I don’t want to hurt him.
I’ve tried for years not to hurt him, but this past year—I snapped. The paternity rumors are weeds that won’t die. And with the agitating Maximoff Hale is just like Ryke Meadows! headlines, they sprout every time I blow a fuse and fight with my fists.
I should be chastised for the violence. Not be compared to my uncle out of affection.
“It’s not you,” I tell my uncle assuredly. “I love you. You know I love you. I’m just…” I motion to my head.
Overthinking. As always.
I just never want to be used as evidence for Loren Hale being unworthy or unfit as a father. I never want anyone to look at me and say, Maximoff is just like Ryke, so Ryke must’ve raised him. He must love Ryke more. He must hate his father. What if his father abuses him? What if he’s violent?
It’d be so easy for people to draw that conclusion because of my dad’s past. He’s a recovering alcoholic and has been sober for over twenty years, but his own dad was an alcoholic. The media said my grandfather abused my dad. In different ways. Some are true.
Some are false.
But I don’t want anyone to attach any ugly thing to Loren Hale. Stay back. I swear to fucking God. Stay back.
“What can I fucking do to help?” Ryke asks me. “I want to help.”
I nod repeatedly, and I spit it out. “Which one of you am I most like?” But it’s my dad who answers.
“You’re like all three of us, bud.”
I turn to my dad.
He touches his chest. “You’re sassy like me.” He points at Ryke. “A hardhead like my dear brother.” He nods to Connor. “And steadfast like my one true love.”
Connor grins. “I couldn’t agree more, darling.”
I start to smile. “With which part?”
He surprises me by saying, “All of it.”
I trust that they’re not pacifying me with lies. I nod a few more times. Ready to change the topic to one light-years away.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I suggest.
My dad asks, “How are you doing with your new bodyguard?”
Dear World, are you fucking with me or what? Sincerely, a startled human.
An image pops in my head: me on top of Farrow in the backseat of my car. Since all three of them hire the bodyguards to protect their children, I’m pretty much certain they’d all hear “you’re with your bodyguard” as “Farrow Keene took advantage of you”—and it’s just not true.
It’s why I have to lie. Sort of. “Farrow is annoying, a Grade-A know-it-all.”
My dad’s eyes grow teasingly. “You like him that much?”
I take a swig of water to submerge my smile. He’s just joking, but Christ, it’s real.
“That’s it?” Ryke asks, brows knotted.
I think fast. “We’re cordial. I respect him. He respects me. That’s all there is to say.”
“You’re okay to let him handle your NDAs?” Connor asks, referring to my one-night stands.
“Sure. Yeah.” I nod. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask.” I set my water bottle down. “What’s better, silicone-based lube or water-based?” The last word leaves my lips, and the office door cracks open. I expect Connor’s assistant to peek inside.
…Farrow slips into the office.
What.
I rub my eyes to ensure that I’m absolutely, entirely 100% not fantasizing and haven’t tapped into some secret superpower. Obtaining a magical ability to conjure a newly-minted boyfriend sounds more fucking believable right now.
Farrow zips up his leather jacket, a piece of his bleach-white hair brushing his dark eyelashes. His casual confidence is fucking hot, but this can’t be a fantasy. Because he’s not even looking at me.
He only acknowledges Connor. “Alpha asked me to check the street view from your office. Price said he sent you a text.”
Connor has his phone cupped in his hand. “I saw. Do what you need to.” Wait.
He’s staying? My mouth falls fraction by fraction.
“Thanks,” Farrow says, his eyes flitting to me for a brief second. I barely catch his lips lifting before he faces the windows and surveys the street below.
One-hundred-million-percent in earshot.
My dad pops open a Lightning Bolt! energy drink and lightly elbows my side. “Why do you want to know which lube is better?” No.
No
No.
Fuck.
