FIRECRACKERS.
Are you fucking kidding me—I launch to my feet while all three bodyguards bolt into action.
“Farrow!” Akara yells and points to the front door, then he captures his radio off a sleeping bag. “Akara to Alpha. Akara to Alpha.”
Farrow is already sprinting to the exit, and I’m not far behind with hot pinpointed eyes, seething inside-out. Someone broke my window with the intent to harm my family. Those could’ve been gunshots. It’s all I feel.
And I see red.
Farrow grabs the knob, but he suddenly whips around on me. He puts his hand to my bare chest, stopping me from reaching the door. Ire blisters his vigilant gaze in a way that I’ve never seen directed at me.
“Quinn, don’t near the window, there’s glass on the ground!” Akara yells. “Take the girls and Moffy upstairs to the bathroom and lock the door!”
My raging pulse hammers in the pit of my ears.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Farrow sneers at me. “You can’t follow me.” I spot the briefest flash of concern, of trepidation, before his gaze mortars hard and hot again.
I clench my teeth. I need to help. I have to fucking help. The intrinsic need bangs at my head, my ribcage, my heart, and I don’t know how to turn away.
I don’t know how to hide in a bathroom and wait.
“I see him!” Quinn suddenly yells. He charges towards us. Storming through Farrow and me to fling open the door, he runs urgently into the pitch-black night. Paparazzi who’ve been camping out on my street awaken like dormant fireflies and hornets.
Bright in the dark. And ready to sting.
Quickly, Farrow warns me, “Don’t. Follow.” Then he bolts outside, tracing Quinn’s hurried footsteps. Farrow’s caustic voice scalds my fucking ears.
He’s trying to protect me. It’s as simple as that.
My hands stay balled in fists, but I turn to find Jane and Sulli, to keep them safe—
“CARPENTER!” Jane screams bloody-murder, the sound lancing my heart. Everything happens fast—she tears back downstairs and out of Sulli’s grasp.
“Jane!” Sulli yells, almost falling down the staircase after her, but Akara grabs Sulli by the waist. “KITS!”
“You have to stay here!” Akara shouts. “JANE!”
“MOFFY! CARPENTER!” Jane screams, alarmed tears already soaking her cheeks. I try to shut the door, keeping the cats inside, but she shrieks, “HE’S ALREADY OUTSIDE! HE’S OUTSIDE!”
Walrus, the other kitten darts past my ankles, and I reach to catch him, but he scampers into the night. I don’t waste time. I chase the fucking animal down.
Running outside.
These indoor cats are her babies, and we live in the city. Where cars constantly speed by. If one dies—she’ll be gutted. It’s all I think.
All I know.
I fucking run. Onto the sidewalk, towards the street parking. I see Walrus scampering beneath a parked car.
And then I’m swarmed by paparazzi. Cameras in every fucking direction.
“CARPENTER!” Jane calls out, panicked. She’s outside? My head swerves, squinting in the harsh flashes. I can hardly see in front of me.
“JANE!” I shout and then shove paparazzi to work my way towards where I think Jane went. I spot her wobbling and tripping over her bare feet but determinedly chasing after another calico kitten. She’s drunk.
She’s fucking drunk.
I forgot.
I’m the only sober one here.
“I got him! I got him, Maximoff!” a cameraman yells at me and then suddenly hands me Walrus. I have no time to express my full relief or gratitude. I nod once to him, and then set my entire damn attention on reaching Jane.
“Let him through!” paparazzi start yelling at one another. “Let him through!”
“JANE!” I shout. I push through bodies. I push through voices that yell questions. I push through groping hands.
“CARPENTER!” she wails bloody-murder. I’m barely able to see the kitten. Bounding into the goddamn road. And Jane runs right after him.
I body-slam my way through the fucking paparazzi. Being accidently clocked in the cheek by a hefty camera. I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
My feet hit the cement road, and with Walrus in one hand, I wrap my arm around Jane’s waist the same time that she has a death-clutch on her tiny calico kitten. Headlights blare at us, coming fast down our street. I rapidly steer her towards the sidewalk, and we reach the curb just in time, the car speeding past.
Jane is shaking and slightly limping. She must’ve fallen.
I try to discern where we are—I think we’re twelve or fifteen houses down from ours. I guide my best friend towards our townhouse.
“Maximoff! Why are you in your underwear at eight at night?!” is the only question that snaps my attention. Reminding me that I’m nearly fucking naked on chilly October 30th.
Great.
Cameras flash in fierce frenzy, and I just fixate on getting Jane home. Getting us home.
“Moffy,” Jane says, voice firm and wide-eyes on Carpenter and only Carpenter. “He almost…he…did you…?”
“He’s alright. He’s okay.” I don’t think she even realizes Walrus escaped too. Or that he’s in my arms. She’s blurry-eyed wasted, fighting to keep her heavy-lids open. I glance down. Blood seeps through the fabric of her flannel pants, both kneecaps bloodied.
My jaw locks. “Come on, Jane.” I try to quicken our pace. Where there’s this much commotion, there may be hecklers not long after. Although, a heckler with firecrackers started all of this—maybe he has friends coming for a round two.
Maybe he wasn’t a lone wolf.
Maybe they’re planning to hide in our house.
Goddammit.
Walrus squirms in my left arm. Digging his claws into my bare chest and trying to crawl up my shoulder. I yank him back down, not caring about the scratches.
Paparazzi push into my face when I wrap my right arm around Jane’s shoulders. I have to let go of her just to shove them out.
“Back up!” I yell, not joking around.
A lot do shuffle backwards. And then some don’t give a shit about us.
Swaying drunkenly, Jane almost falls again, her legs wobbling.
“Janie. Hold him.” I give her Walrus too.
Recognition parts her lips. That two cats ran outside. “Merde.” We have to hope that none of the others sprinted out before Walrus and Carpenter.
Jane holds her kittens in a fiercely protective grip.
Quickly, I pick Jane up. Wrapping my arm beneath her legs, the other supporting her back. Cradling my best friend—the paparazzi go wild.
“RIGHT HERE, MAXIMOFF, JANE!! LOOK HERE!”
Fuck off.
I can move three times as fast. Jane tucks her head into my chest because of the lights. Cameras only flash hotter, more incessant.
And then…the paparazzi begin creating a path. Separating enough for a body to fit through. But not for us. For the towering six-foot-seven Italian-American bodyguard that bulldozes towards Jane and me.
I squint, my vision impaired from the constant flashes, but I distinguish the longish, scruffy hair, unshaven jaw and stern brown eyes of Thatcher Moretti, the lead of Security Force Epsilon.
With his massive height and strong build, he creates a barrier between us and the media. Making it ten times easier to push through the masses.
Thatcher clicks his mic on the collar of his black button-down. “I have them. Clear the street.” He spots Walrus wiggling in Jane’s motherly grip. Thatcher grabs the kitten and tucks Walrus protectively under his arm. Like a furry football.
By the time we reach the front stoop of my townhouse, white lights dance in my eyes. I can count on my hands the number of times I’ve personally used the front door.
Three.
Three fucking times.
Because this insanity happens.
As soon as the door shuts behind me, I register the sheer amount of people in my townhouse. All familiar faces from Alpha. They tape our window and sweep up glass. Speaking into mics, scouring the rest of my home for intruders.
I rest Jane on the loveseat, still pushed against the archway.
And Quinn rushes past towards the staircase. Quinn? “Quinn, where’s Farrow?” I call out. He doesn’t stop. So I chase after him, to the base of the stairs. “Quinn!”
He pauses to glance back, his nose bloodied.
What.
Happened.
Quinn opens his mouth, but Thatcher tells him, “Go, Quinn.”
No. Fuck that. “Where’s Farrow?!” I yell, not fucking around.
Quinn’s jaw muscle tics, but he rushes upstairs. I shake my head, pissed. I rotate on Thatcher, but he towers near Jane while she slowly rifles through a first-aid kit. For her bloodied knees.
Thatcher barks orders, “I need eyes on all the cats!” He already places the calico kittens in their leopard-print carrier. Securing them. “We have Walrus and Carpenter. Where are Ophelia, Lady Macbeth, and Toodles?”
Jane blinks drunkenly at him. “You know their names?”
I glare at Thatcher. “Where the fuck is Farrow?”
Nothing.
No acknowledgement of my question. In the grand scheme of security, it’s unimportant for me to be aware of my own bodyguard’s whereabouts. I’m supposed to sit and let the extra security protect us. I’m not supposed to care about them.
Not even if they get hurt.
It’s their job.
I spot Price by the broken window, the Alpha lead chats to a younger security member. My phone vibrates angrily on the rumpled sleeping bags. All of my family must be freaked.
My mom…
I have to call her.
Thatcher doesn’t even answer Jane’s question. The most strict, no-nonsense guy on the team. I swear, I liked that about him, but now I’m fucking irritated.
Thatcher holds his mic. “Jane, do you have any strays in the house?” She struggles with the gauze packet, and I go to help. He cuts me off and takes my place. Kneeling at the loveseat, he tears open the gauze.
I need to do something, but security loves to impede me from doing anything productive.
I could scream I’m so frustrated right now. I rub my face.
Where’s Farrow?
Where’s Farrow?!
Where’s my… I stare fixatedly at the closed front door.
“No strays,” Jane tells him, trying her hardest not to slur. “I did adopt another yesterday. Licorice. He’s a four-year-old…gray, long-haired. Blue eyes.”
Thatcher speaks into his mic. “There’s a sixth cat—Licorice. Gray.” He presses the gauze to her knees, and Jane rips open a Band-Aid with her teeth. Thatcher tells my best friend, “Lady Macbeth, Toodles, and Ophelia are accounted for.”
Jane nods, barely relaxing.
The door opens, and my chest rises, thinking it’s Farrow. But it’s not.
It’s not him. It’s Luna’s bodyguard.
Fuck this.
I charge over to the Alpha lead. My gait is strong and determined. I’ve never shied from any of these men. Not for a damn breath. Not for a second. And they’re going to answer me now.
“Price.” My firm voice yanks his attention from the younger security member. “I need to know where Farrow is. Now.”
“You should sit—”
“No. You fucking tell me where my bodyguard is. This isn’t up for discussion.”
Price clicks his mic. “Price to security, someone give me an update on Farrow.” Right. Farrow never grabbed his radio before he ran outside. Price can’t contact him directly.
He stares faraway. “Price to security,” he repeats. “Someone give me an update on Farrow.”
I cross my arms over my chest. The wait killing me. I turn slightly and spot Akara descending the staircase.
I frown, expecting Sulli to be right behind him. The last image I have—he was with her. I was sure he was with her. “Akara!” I call out. “Where’s Sulli?”
He walks tensely over. “She left.” He touches his earpiece, distracted, then his focus returns. “She texted her dad halfway through the movie to come pick her up. She felt a lot worse than she let on.”
“Ryke was here then?”
He nods.
I’m not surprised. Sulli has a very close friendship with her dad and her mom. She tells them everything. If she felt dizzy or nauseous, she wouldn’t have hesitated to call Ryke.
“He planned to stay and check on you and Jane,” Akara explains, “but it got chaotic, and he needed to get Sulli out before paparazzi blocked the street.”
“Why aren’t you with her?”
Akara looks upset, his face cut in severe lines. “I can’t officially be on her detail since I’ve been drinking. Someone else is with Sul.” He touches his earpiece and takes a step towards the kitchen. Before he leaves, he pats my shoulder like I’m glad you’re okay, hang in there.
“Hey,” I say to him. “Thanks.”
He nods. “It’s just another shitty day, right?”
“Doomsday,” I say, and a knot is in my throat. Remembering Farrow. Price repeats that same phrase for the fourth time.
I’m close to searching outside for Farrow myself. Which may worsen the situation, but if no one’s going to find him, I will.
“Price to security,” he repeats, and then the front door opens. “There he is.” I can’t even relax at the news. Is he fucking hurt? blares in my head.
Farrow saunters inside, not casually. His muscles are taut. He locks the door behind him. And the moment he sees me, he almost rocks back, nose flared. “You went outside?” He hones in on my reddened cheek and my lip—I rub my mouth.
It stings. A camera must’ve busted my lip open.
I zero in on his bloody forearms. Skin scraped like he slid against pavement. All the way to his elbows.
I grimace into a cringe, my muscles turning inside out. My heart in my throat.
“Cats escaped, and Moffy went out to get them,” Price explains briefly to Farrow. “We need an update.”
Farrow swallows hard, his face twisting the longer he looks at me, almost pained. He takes a step towards me at the exact same time I take one towards him.
We pause. We stop.
I’ve never wanted to embrace someone so much in my fucking life. Something wells inside my body. An emotion that I’ve never experienced.
“Farrow,” Price snaps.
I blink a few times, tearing my gaze off my bodyguard. Farrow combs both hands through his hair and rotates to the Alpha lead.
“Both guys are being booked tonight,” Farrow says.
I go rigid. “You caught them?” I’m stunned. Hecklers. Harassers. People who throw shit. Who stalk us. They rarely ever get caught. These people are usually faceless, nameless humans. As nondescript as an anon online. I’ve lived my life content knowing that there’d be little retribution.
I’m fine with that.
I get it.
“A few paparazzi tripped both guys,” Farrow says, more to me than to Price. “They slowed them down. I was able to tackle one guy and keep him down. Quinn grabbed the other, and then the police came. I dealt with the cops—Quinn came back here already, right?” he asks Price.
Price nods and tosses him his radio. “Keep the volume high.”
Farrow attaches the radio to his belt.
“Jane has the first-aid kit,” I tell Farrow and motion to the loveseat. I’m still eyeing his bloodied forearms. He’s still scanning my face, even as he fits in his earpiece.
“It’s all yours,” Jane tells us, teetering as she stands, kneecaps bandaged. She raises her chin to meet Thatcher’s gaze. “Have you located Licorice?”
His hand hovers by her hip in case she falls. “We’re working on it.” I hear his South Philly lilt. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Jane blinks like she’s trying to battle her drunkenness. She hiccups and says, “Thank you, Mr. Moretti.” He’s twenty-seven, the same age as Farrow. Not middle-aged.
“Thatcher is fine,” he tells Jane.
Is she blushing?
Jane presses her lips together, then sways. “I should go call my parents…” Her gaze finds me. “Do you want me to call your mom, Moffy?”
“Please.”
She hiccups, teeters and then with her cat carrier in hand, she tries to confidently ascend the staircase like Cinderella at a ball.
She manages to reach the second floor safely. All without tripping. I would clap, but I concentrate on Farrow. We both sink down onto the loveseat.
I dig through the first-aid kit, and he actually watches. Not even making a comment about how he’s the doctor.
Thatcher drags the iron café chair over and sits directly in front of us. But he only acknowledges Farrow. “You should’ve grabbed your radio before you left the house.”
Farrow leans back. “I’m not apologizing for that.”
Thatcher glares. “You never apologize for anything.”
“I caught the guy—”
“The cats escaped—”
“That has nothing to do with my fucking radio,” Farrow sneers. “Drop it, Thatcher.” One time I asked Farrow which guy he hated the most on security. He didn’t even hesitate before saying, Thatcher Moretti. Now I get it.
His strictness is the antithesis of Farrow.
I rip open antiseptic wipes. “Was it a brick?” I ask Thatcher, cutting into their tension. I motion with my head to the window. Security has sufficiently taped up a piece of cardboard over the cracked hole. Glass cleaned, curtains closed.
I’m trying to visualize the projectile.
“Don’t worry about it,” Thatcher tells me. Evasive. I’ve been reminded tonight that Thatcher is in the camp of Maximoff asks too many questions. Maximoff takes on too much responsibility. Maximoff isn’t part of the security team. Remind him that any chance you can.
“I’m not learning about this online tomorrow,” I say firmly. “Was it a brick, a hammer, a goddamn UFO—”
“A baseball,” Farrow answers.
Thatcher has a stern look that says, he didn’t need to know. Thatcher is used to protecting Xander, who is guarded from facts that stoke his anxiety. But I’m not the same as my brother.
And I’m eight years older.
“I asked,” I remind Thatcher.
He nods slowly. “You’re right.”
Farrow’s brows jump and then he gestures for the antiseptic wipes. “Give me.”
I hand them over, and he wipes the blood and gravel off his forearms, not even cringing. His pain tolerance has to be high. Evidence: every damn tattoo.
Thatcher sits forwards, hands cupped. Eyeing me. “The team has a few questions we need to ask you.”
“Alright.” My shoulders square. I rip packets of gauze open for Farrow. He seems out-of-the-loop on this pre-planned debriefing. Probably because he hasn’t been tethered to a radio.
Thatcher asks, “Who bit you?”
I go completely still. “What?”
Farrow places his hand on my shoulder blade and examines my back.
Thatcher clarifies, “Who gave you the two bite marks?”
I glower. “That’s none of your fucking business.” I’ve never shared my sexual history with the whole security team. Not when Declan was my bodyguard. And definitely not now.
“It’s online already.” Thatcher passes me his cellphone, the screen popped up to Celebrity Crush’s homepage.
The first photograph shows me only in dark-green boxer-briefs on my street. In a second panel, they zoomed in on two reddish bite marks. One near the back of my neck. The other on my waist above the band of my underwear.
The headline: Maximoff Hale Caught with Sexy Bite Marks! Is He Into Kink?!
Before I even digest this, I spot another headline, another photograph from tonight. And then a photograph from over twenty years ago. I don’t blink as I read: Maximoff Hale Wears Green Underwear Like Ryke Meadows!
Great.
I’d been so damn careful about wearing green. I didn’t exactly plan to run outside in my underwear tonight. Or ever.
I return the phone to Thatcher, not faltering. “Regardless of the article, you don’t need to know who bit me or who I’m sleeping with—none of that is your business.”
Thatcher turns to Farrow. “Where are the NDAs of everyone he’s been intimate with while you’ve been his bodyguard?” Fucking Christ. “Because you’ve filed zero.”
“There are no NDAs.” Farrow doesn’t even miss a beat, taking charge of the situation. “He’s been with the same girl, and he’s wanted to keep it private.”
“The purpose of an NDA is to further protect his privacy.”
“Private from the security team,” Farrow clarifies, maybe lying on the fly. “It’s a girl his parents wouldn’t approve of.”
Thatcher looks to me.
I nod once. Still pissed. I want the whole security team out of my bedroom. Now. Even my fake bedroom with a fake girl that I’m fake-fucking and who’s fake-biting me.
“Maximoff,” Thatcher says, “if she sues you, you’re in for a nightmare. Whoever this girl is, it’s much better to get her to sign an NDA. Your parents are understanding.”
“She won’t sue me. I trust her, and that’s all I have to say.” I’m done. “This conversation is over. If you have something else to ask me, go ahead. If it involves sex, don’t even speak.”
“That was it.” Thatcher stands and then stares down Farrow. “Anything happens to him. It’s on you.”
“Loud and clear,” Farrow says, not breaking their shared glare.
It’s not on Farrow. I’m responsible for my own actions. My own life. If I step into quicksand, I wouldn’t blame anyone but me.
