Sinful Like Us

by Ritchie, Krista

  “You can,” I reinforce.

  Xander nods more, then hops back on the skateboard. “Hey, can you not mention to Donnelly that I’m worried he thinks I’m boring?”

  I hold back a small, fleeting smile. “Yeah.” Donnelly might actually be good for him. Even if Xander goes outside just to impress a bodyguard, it means he’s braving the world.

  We chat more about the twin swap, and then Donnelly arrives with hot hoagies from Wawa.

  For lunch, we stay professional and keep quiet near the desk. Xander slouches on a red beanbag, reading a fantasy paperback and biting into a meatball hoagie.

  I peel the paper off mine. “Where’d you rack out last night?” I whisper to Donnelly. I heard Epsilon threw his luggage on the lawn, and ever since he hooked up with Luna, I feel accountable for what happens to them. Almost like a fucking accomplice, and I can’t report him to the Tri-Force.

  I wouldn’t risk his career.

  I just want to make sure they’re both safe in whatever they’re doing. Just like Jane does.

  He sips a fountain drink. “Couch in security’s townhouse.”

  “You can room with my brother.”

  “Nah.” Donnelly picks up his hoagie. “He already offered, and Farrow even said I could crash in his room. But the couch is fire.” He takes a huge bite and mumbles, “Just like this hoagie.”

  I lean on the desk and lower my voice. “So you didn’t sneak into Luna’s bed?”

  He chokes a little, then shakes his head. “Nah, man.” He glances quickly at Xander, then back to me. “It was just that one time—”

  His voice slices in half as boxing gloves topple off the desk. Probably from my weight against the wood, and as he picks them up, more shit starts falling. I set down my hoagie and crouch.

  I start gathering items, and I move slower as I find a Celebrity Crush tabloid and three Famous Now magazines.

  Donnelly frowns. “I thought he’s not supposed to read that.”

  “He’s not.” I fan open a Famous Now, worried he’s hiding something. I land on the Alphas Like Us column series—the one that documents Maximoff and Farrow’s life.

  Their couple pictures are haphazardly cut out. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing.

  Donnelly flips through the Celebrity Crush, the tabloid also clipped and sheared. He pauses on an article.

  The Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts—they’re like us! They read books. They love movies. They go shopping!

  The title: Sexy Like Us

  This photo isn’t missing. I’m with Jane. We’re leaving a cat shelter, and I’m putting my brown leather jacket on her shoulders.

  She was cold.

  I wish I could just drink in us, but my eyes instantly narrow on Tony. In the photo, he’s out in front with a shit-eating grin. He was an asshole that night.

  It’s starting to become routine, and I don’t want to be desensitized to his bullshit. Because I don’t want him to stay her bodyguard.

  Get your head on straight.

  We sift through the other tabloids. Only pictures of Maximoff and Farrow are cut out.

  “I can explain.”

  Our heads swerve to our client.

  Xander stands close, breathing hard. “Those aren’t mine. They’re Kinney’s—she had this great idea for Moffy and Farrow’s Christmas present this year. And it requires that.” He points at the tabloids.

  I frown, confused as all hell.

  Donnelly grins. “You’re making a collage?”

  “Yeah.” Xander cringes. “I know, it’s dumb—”

  “It’s dope, man.” Donnelly rises with me. “Farrow will love this shit.” He laughs.

  “Oh…right. Awesome.” Xander starts to smile.

  I stack the magazines back on his desk. “Why not just use personal photos?”

  “Luna said we should branch out or whatever.” He shrugs. “My sisters just think it’ll be cool to use pictures they probably haven’t seen.”

  They shoot the shit for a second, and I zero in on the cover of Celebrity Crush.

  A tagline: read inside to find out which other Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts are dating their bodyguards!

  Fuck.

  My jaw tenses, and I flip to page twelve. I’m not aware of what the leads know anymore because Akara is sharing jack shit with me. I can only hope they’re on top of rumors.

  Quickly, I read the article.

  HOLY SECRETS, BATMAN!

  Security Force Omega is a total sham. We’ve learned from a reliable source that the bodyguard hotties, hired to protect the famous families, are nothing more than a front hiding their real purpose.

  Two bodyguards have already come clean, and we’re waiting for the rest—but it’s clear to Celebrity Crush and our source that every bodyguard is actually the boyfriend to who they protect.

  The couples:

  Sullivan Meadows & Akara Kitsuwon

  Charlie Cobalt & Oscar Oliveira

  Beckett Cobalt & Paul Donnelly

  Luna Hale & Quinn Oliveira

  They’ve forgotten about Banks, and I have to grab hold to this useless fucking fact or else I’ll burst a blood vessel in my neck.

  This isn’t good.

  This is bad.

  Really bad. We’d been speculating fan theories to come to light if I stayed with Jane past October, but not this theory about SFO as a whole. The media believes we’re pretending to be bodyguards.

  For fuck’s sake.

  I read more.

  Clearly these couples are trying to hide their tracks! Thatcher is no longer protecting Jane just to throw us off, and Paul is no longer protecting Beckett. But our source says they’re all still together.

  I hang onto that last line.

  We’re still together. Jane and me.

  I breathe out, not realizing how good it’d feel to hear the media change their position on my relationship. Even if the rest isn’t true.

  I decide to text Akara rather than use comms.

  Did you see the “holy secrets” article? I press send.

  A minute later, I get a reply.

  But instead of answering me by text, he responds to everyone. “Akara to Omega, if you see the article in Celebrity Crush about SFO, ignore it. Protect your client and keep your heads up. Prove that this means nothing.”

  Roger that.

  14

  JANE COBALT

  I’m afraid.

  I’m so very afraid that I’ll be too soft on my brother. I’m afraid that Maximoff will have to be the strong-hand and it’ll create unnecessary tension between him and Beckett when that should be my burden to bear.

  I’m afraid that I won’t be enough to help him.

  That I will fail in epic glory, as I always seem to do in the end.

  Fears commandeer my mind and rattle my core. We’ve packed our bags and left them in the Range Rover outside the Hell’s Kitchen apartment complex, the world quiet and still at 3:30 a.m.—our flight for Scotland departs today.

  And we’ve come to gather a passenger.

  The ritzy elevator feels compact and ominous as we ascend the floors to my brothers’ bachelor pad, and I know my apprehension is apparent. Concern spills out of Thatcher, Farrow, and Moffy. I sense them looking at me as the numbers tick and we rise.

  At least I was able to convince Tony to take another elevator. Most likely because Banks stayed behind with him. Before we leave Hell’s Kitchen, the Moretti brothers plan to swap clothes in a restroom, and when they come out, Thatcher will pretend to be Banks and Banks will be Thatcher.

  Igniting the twin switch.

  But right now, only the four of us are in the elevator, and Thatcher is still entirely himself.

  I blow out a controlled breath. Hot beneath my cheetah-fur coat and pastel jeans.

  “We’re right here with you, Janie.” Maximoff has squared shoulders and these tough green eyes that say, we can power through anything. And with Farrow at total ease next to him, that resilience doubles.

 
; Thatcher is behind me, his sculpted arm protectively wrapped around my collarbones while I lean back against his chest. I look up, and he looks down.

  His narrowed gaze carries unadulterated confidence that washes over me. Like we’re standing beneath a steaming shower in a faraway land, alone together. Like we’re naked.

  Bare.

  Vulnerable, and I’m syphoning his assurance and composure. My chin rises, my shoulders lifting. I’m a leech, I realize.

  I’m leeching his strength, and I don’t want to rely solely on him. Or anyone for that matter.

  Not my parents, not Maximoff and Farrow, not bodyguards, siblings, cousins, or strangers—I need to offer something and be of use and value. Yet, I can’t move.

  I can’t push Thatcher away. It hurts even thinking about stepping out of this embrace. I inhale and reach behind me, gripping his waist.

  Eyes still fixed together, his lips lower and meet mine. In an upside-down kiss, brief and explosive. Detonating an emotional meteor in my heart, my body swells, and I breathe and breathe.

  We break, and I look ahead.

  Eyes wide in the same thought.

  I’m a leech.

  But is it so bad to leech another man’s confidence?

  Yes.

  No, because possibly he leeches a great deal from me too.

  Does he?

  What if he leeches nothing, Jane?

  I don’t know anymore. I’ve never questioned my confidence so deeply, and these insecurities weigh a fifty-ton pressure on my chest that I don’t need today.

  Think of Beckett.

  Think of your brother.

  Think of your goal.

  I drop my hands off Thatcher, and I find strength to move. Whether it’s the right kind of strength, I’m not certain. I’m so confused, but I step out of his hold anyway.

  His arm tears off my collarbones.

  It hurts.

  I can feel the air slice painfully, and I struggle to even look him in the eyes. I glance over at my best friend, and Maximoff shakes his head with a wince. Feeling my unease, possibly.

  Farrow is eyeing Thatcher, then me. I think he sees a strain that my leech-insecurities just created.

  “Jane?” Thatcher says.

  I clear a pained knot in my throat. “I hate that we’re forcing my brother to join us.” I adjust the strap of my fuzzy mint-green purse, the unusual contents inside weighing on me. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this.” But none of us could formulate a better solution.

  Silence thickens, the floor-numbers still increasing.

  I finally look up at Thatcher.

  He rubs his mouth, brows knitted. “Do you not want us to be here?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “Not at all.”

  “Do you not want me to be here then?”

  “No,” I emphasize, my stomach lurching. “You have no idea how much…” I exhale, my pulse hiking to devastating speeds. “…how many times it’s dawned on me and overwhelmed me—that Moffy and I have fallen for two men who fight to help us protect who we love.” My eyes burn. “Not just half-heartedly or out of loyalty to us, but because you deeply love our siblings and cousins. And if we weren’t here, you’d still fight for them as deeply as we would, and that is priceless to me.”

  I love him.

  Say it, Jane.

  His eyes cradle mine, offering comfort from afar. His chest rises in deeper breath.

  I open my mouth. “I—”

  Ding.

  The elevator doors slide open. We’ve arrived.

  * * *

  “Try not to wake Eliot and Tom,” Charlie whispers, letting us inside the lavish and sleek apartment. Dark, no lamps or lights turned on, I skulk ahead of everyone and reach Beckett’s bedroom.

  I tie my wavy hair back with a velvet scrunchie.

  Don’t let up.

  Confidence.

  I pull back my shoulders and gently open the door. Quiet, I tiptoe on the dark hardwood and into the cleanest, most organized space. Books sit in neat rows on a polished shelf, pencils perfectly lined on a desk, and a fern is situated in the precise corner, near ironed curtains where navy fabric is pleated in straight lines.

  Beckett sleeps soundlessly beneath a tucked-in, blue comforter. He holds the pillow beneath his head, colorful floral tattoos sprawling down his right arm. Donnelly inked every single one of Beckett’s tattoos, and all are flowers from roses to daisies to lilies and poppies, as homage to our mom and aunts.

  It reminds me that he loves our family so greatly, despite having such little time to spend with us.

  I walk closer to the bed. He looks peaceful.

  And I hate to wake him. But I must.

  “Beckett,” I whisper. “Beckett.” I reach the bed and lightly jostle his arm.

  He jolts and flinches, eyes snapping open. But he instantly relaxes when he sees me. “Sis,” he exhales, rubbing his tired face. “What are you doing here?”

  “You’re coming with us, little brother,” I remind him.

  Horror freezes him, eyes like saucers. “No.” He notices Thatcher, Farrow, Moffy, and Charlie filling the bedroom, then his head whips back to me. “No. Jane, I told you I can’t go—”

  “And I told you that if you used, we’d force you.”

  “You can’t.” He uses his elbow to prop himself up.

  “Are you naked?” I ask.

  His face scrunches like what the fuck. “No—”

  I fling the comforter off his body.

  “Jane.” He’s just dressed in gray Calvin Klein underwear. And for his privacy, I keep my gaze above his neck, thank you very much.

  “Get up. Get dressed. Pack a bag. Let’s go. You have an hour.” I perch my hands on my wide hips. Please, Beckett, make this easy.

  He glares. “I’m not goin—”

  Charlie flicks on the lights.

  Beckett squints, hand shielding his eyes. “I’m twenty-one. I control my life, and all five of you need to get the fuck out of my room.”

  None of us move a muscle. No one speaks.

  Beckett lies back down, smoothly like silk resting on an idle lake. Even in his anger, he’s graceful.

  I peek over my shoulder. “Thatcher.”

  My boyfriend rips the rest of the bedding off, piling sheets and the comforter on the floor. Farrow comes closer and snatches the pillows, dumping them too. Charlie rolls in a suitcase, and Maximoff is careful with Beckett’s clothes as he opens each drawer. He tries to maintain the crisp shape of each folded item.

  They pack his things.

  Slowly, Beckett sits up against the headboard, aghast. He rests his elbows on his bent knees, fingers interlaced on his neck. Staring down at the bare mattress. If I pushed him over, he’d be in a fetal position, and it makes me terribly sad.

  “Beckett, please,” I whisper. “We just want to help you.”

  He pushes back curlier strands of his hair. “You’re hurting me.” His eyes are raw and red.

  “I’m sorry.” I am.

  I am.

  Don’t cower.

  He wipes his mouth before sliding off the bed. He’s finally cooperating.

  I let him pass. “Can I help with your toiletries?”

  He ignores me and nears the dresser, squeezing beside Maximoff. We all watch him collect gray sweatpants from a drawer. He tugs them over his waist, and then he grabs his leather wallet.

  “You’re not leaving without us,” Charlie says hotly.

  Beckett lets out a pained laugh. “You’re one to talk, Charlie. How many times have you ditched this family?”

  Charlie looks to me, needing an assist.

  I hike over to Beckett and tear the wallet out of his hand.

  He tilts his head. “How am I supposed to fly without my license, sis? I need that.”

  “So you do plan to come with us?” I question.

  He stays quiet. Fuming.

  Maximoff treks past us towards the bathroom. “I’ll get his toiletries.”

  Thank
you.

  I unzip my purse.

  Beckett pinches his eyes. When he drops his hand, he zeroes in on Thatcher and Farrow who block the doorway. I can tell he’s hurt and confused. “You plan to have your boyfriend drag me onto a plane? Is that it?”

  I slowly shake my head. “No.”

  He frowns. “You can’t force me—”

  I snap a fuzzy blue handcuff on his wrist, and the other end, I lock onto mine. “Congratulations, you’re now very much attached to me.”

  Beckett looks slightly impressed but mostly resigned and upset. He sighs. “Jane…”

  I smile a sympathetic smile. “Time to go to Scotland and be with family.”

  15

  JANE COBALT

  By the time we board, my brother is still shirtless, just in sweatpants, and sufficiently handcuffed to me. With disheveled brown hair and his arm tattoos in view, he looks more unkempt than usual and more like the “bad boy of ballet” the media often portrays him as.

  Beckett holds up his wrist, displaying the fuzzy handcuff that links me to him. “You can take this off now,” he says pointedly, but annoyance clings to the words. “I’m obviously not going anywhere.”

  “The plane hasn’t taken off yet,” I note.

  Our parent’s private jet is slowly filling with SFO and the two Epsilon bodyguards: Tony and O’Malley. Plus, Jack Highland, Maximoff, Charlie, Luna, Sulli, and Sulli’s boyfriend Will Rochester. They became an “official” couple last night, but only privately.

  Sulli said she’d rather eat fertilizer than publicize her relationship. That it’s easier for the world to believe she’s with Akara. Just like the world thinks the rest of SFO are dating their clients, and I saw that most clearly when we were heading to the airport.

  Paparazzi and fans were yelling at the top of their lungs.