Sinful Like Us

by Ritchie, Krista

  Akara’s denial has probably confused the shit out of her.

  “You’re really gonna keep telling me you’re not attracted to Sulli?”

  He curses me out. “She’s like my…sister.”

  “Your dick gets hard for your sister?”

  He laughs lightly, the line cracking. “Always with the one-liners.”

  “You’re the one freezing your nuts off for sister-fucking jokes.”

  “Yeah, my bad.” Akara sounds less stressed. “Hey, at least she’s not fucking the Rooster.” He pauses. “If that’s who she loses her virginity to…”

  “I’d lose my shit.”

  “Not before me.”

  “Amen.” I finish off my eighth beer, and then stretch my legs back out. “Are you—” I cut myself off at the sound of shattering glass.

  Distant.

  Coming from the famous one’s townhouse.

  “What was that?” Akara asks.

  He could hear it over the fucking phone. “I don’t know.” The noise alerts my dulled senses. No security alarm is triggered, but I stay deathly still and pick up the squeak of floorboards.

  I whisper, “An intruder.” I grip my cell, shoot to my feet, and smack my toe into the coffee table. I catch a falling beer bottle before it crashes to the ground and causes more commotion.

  Jesus fucking—I swear under my breath. What I hate, more than anything, is that I’ve been drinking. If my brother were here, he’d be dead sober.

  For this reason.

  To catch this fucking intruder.

  God-fucking-damn. With that final curse, I leave my frustration behind. Already moving into action.

  I skulk more soundlessly into the kitchen and grab my gun from a drawer. I pull the slide back to load a round in the chamber.

  “Someone’s in their townhouse,” I whisper more clearly to Akara.

  “Mute the phone, put it in your pocket.”

  I do as told, cell in my back pocket, and I attach my radio as fast and quietly as I can. Adrenaline sobers me more, my blood super-charged.

  The thought of some piece of shit in their house. In their space. It makes me want to pop a bullet between eyes.

  Jane’s cats.

  4 out of 6 cats are at the Cobalt Estate. Audrey is watching them, thank the fucking Lord. But there are still two left in the other townhouse.

  The squirrelly little ones that dart every place—they were too hyper to corral in a cat carrier, so I told Audrey I’d take care of them while I’m here.

  She wanted me to spit on her hand to promise. What the hell—I did it.

  I switch comms frequencies. I can’t let anything happen to those cats. “Thatcher to Price,” I whisper to the Alpha lead. “I have movement and noise in the townhouse. Is anyone supposed to be there?”

  “Not that I’m aware. Check it out and report back.”

  “Roger copy,” I mutter in the mic, then gently—ever so gently—I push into the townhouse through the adjoining door.

  I step on a cat toy, and the foil crinkles beneath the weight of my foot.

  My pulse pounds.

  Eyes narrowed.

  I grip my gun with two hands, and I assess the first floor, the pink loveseat empty. Rocking chair is completely still. Pictures are upright on the mantel, and what little visual I have into the kitchen—it looks and sounds empty.

  I peek into the kitchen archway. Glass litters the sink, window busted out. Enough space for a man to crawl through. How the hell did they cut the security alarm?

  I shelve that.

  First floor clear. I move forward to the staircase.

  The ceiling creaks.

  These stairs are the only entrance and exit, and so I run. Bolting up the second floor, skipping steps with my lengthy stride, and I’m fast.

  Quick.

  I’m on the landing, and I swing open Jane’s door first.

  Thoughts eject.

  I’m on automatic, all action as I see a middle-aged white man with his dick out. He stands at the foot of the bed and strokes his erection, thrusting towards her mattress.

  Two calico cats—Walrus and Carpenter—skirt around his ankles, biting his sneaker laces.

  Right when he sees me enter the room, my gun raised, he freezes with big wide, bug eyes.

  I recognize the target.

  Greasy hair, thin lips. We called him Sneakers. Back in October, we caught him masturbating in his car outside this house.

  He tries to lift up his blue jeans, dick dangling. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” He deserts the struggle with his jeans and charges for the window against the bed.

  I’m faster.

  Closing the distance, I seize his shoulder before his knee touches the mattress. I wrench him backwards, and I slam the butt of the gun against his head. Light force. The harder hit is my knee in his dick. And he crumples like a rag doll with a guttural noise.

  Walrus and Carpenter dart under the bed.

  He groans, still conscious but too disoriented to do much of anything. I squat down and roll him on his stomach.

  Sick fuck. I fight back the heat that brews in my body and do my damn job. I should touch my mic and call this into the Alpha lead. Price is the one who’ll send backup.

  But first instinct takes hold, and I pull out my phone. Unmuting my best friend, I tell him the target, and Akara asks, “Is he responsive?”

  “Barely.” I sift through his pockets. Wallet, keys…condom. I go cold.

  Thank God my brother didn’t see this. He would have committed murder.

  Thank God Jane wasn’t here. She would have been scarred for fucking life.

  I’ll carry this.

  “Are you good?” Akara asks.

  “Yeah. He’s down.” I explain everything else that happened and then end with, “Don’t tell my brother there was a break-in. Let me do it when he’s back.”

  “That means I’ll have to keep it from Jane, Maximoff…everyone.”

  “Please,” I breathe. My hand shakes a little, and I close my fingers into a fist, then open them to touch my mic. I think Farrow might have some cigarettes in his bedroom…

  “I’ll let you do it,” Akara agrees. “Radio Price. I’m hanging up.”

  “Stay frosty.” I pin Sneakers down with my knee and speak on comms. I’m hawk-eyed, eyes never leaving the target.

  He had a restraining order and broke the thing like it was nothing. This shouldn’t be the price of fame, and now my brother—my family is under that spotlight.

  Fuck anyone who thinks they can hurt the people I love.

  Fuck them all.

  39

  THATCHER MORETTI

  34 Days Snowed-In

  We haven’t taken the ten-hour hike to the inn. But weather calms at dawn, and we thought this morning, again, we’d gear up for the trek.

  Turns out, we don’t have to.

  Roads are being plowed and salted. Which means after over a month in this house, we’re all finally leaving Scotland. Together. No chance in hell any of us are staying a second longer. We were supposed to be home December 20th.

  Today is January 23rd.

  Most of us are just thankful this didn’t last until March. We got lucky.

  Everyone is worn out. Emotionally. Mentally. But the mood is lighter, at least with the famous ones.

  While Jane and her family are already in the cars, ready to move out, security crams in the foyer. We’ve been finishing a house-sweep for belongings, and tension is at a high between Omega and Epsilon.

  Tony knows who I am.

  He’s known for two weeks. And he’s been making off-handed comments about telling the Tri-Force that I pretended to be Banks.

  I don’t doubt he’ll radio the Alpha lead the moment we land in Philly. He’s been working himself up to that point.

  Tony leans on a wall beside an empty coat rack. He has a pompous grin. He thinks he has me cornered, and I can’t help but feel sorry for him.

  I thought nothing could hurt him�
��because he couldn’t see past his own inflated head. That his gold-shitting arrogance made him an invincible toolbag. But more than ever, I see through his annoying fucking bravado.

  He’s just…sad.

  And bitter.

  Jealous. Always feeling like he has to prove that he’s better than me—when here I am willingly admitting to every mistake I’ve made. I’m a low bar for perfection.

  Fucking over me and Banks won’t make him feel better tomorrow. Our family will give him hell for this, and he’ll never hear the end of it.

  I glare at him from across the foyer and adjust the wire to my earpiece. I’m not cornered. I thought long and hard about what Akara said to me at the beginning of this trip.

  “There’s always a way out. You don’t have to fall on a sword because it’s sitting in front of you, waiting. You put together the team that’s going to find the right exit. You sidelined me. That’s on you.”

  This time, I tapped him in.

  I asked for his help. And the takes-no-shit Omega lead is standing beside me, his eyes also locked on Tony.

  A second later, O’Malley climbs down the staircase and throws his duffel near the front door.

  “Ramella, O’Malley, I need a word with you both,” Akara says in a way that makes it clear this isn’t a request.

  The Epsilon guards amble over, and the rest of Omega lingers in the foyer, eavesdropping.

  O’Malley’s head is somewhere else because the first thing he says is, “I know everyone says I’m a shit driver, but I think I should at least be in a front passenger seat to navigate.”

  “Sure, that’s fine.” Akara nods. “But we need to talk about what you two are planning to tell Price and Sinclair when we’re home.”

  Tony extends an arm. “I’m not about to lie to my superiors. Sorry not sorry, but I have a good reputation with the old guard.”

  Surprisingly, that’s a fucking understatement coming from Tony. The old guard treats him like Jesus Christ.

  I understand that asking Tony and O’Malley to lie is asking them to break protocol. They won’t. I wouldn’t for them.

  I deserve this. A punishment, a suspension—being fired, maybe, but I love her too much and I want to protect her too badly to accept that.

  O’Malley looks from me to Akara. “I’d rather not rock the boat. It was fucked up, Thatcher, that you told everyone the truth and then lied to me, Tony, and Will—but at this point, you’re still Jane’s boyfriend. I’m Beckett’s bodyguard. It’s a conflict of interest, so I’d consider keeping my mouth shut.”

  “You’re not lying,” Akara says to them. “You’re just not going to say anything about this. Price and Sinclair won’t ask you straight out if a twin switch transpired. Keep quiet, and in return, I’ll make any transfers happen that you want.”

  Tony rocks back with a laugh. “For real?”

  “For real.”

  My muscles contract. Akara is offering power to Tony. I wouldn’t give him a socket wrench, and he’s handing him a fucking jackhammer.

  “I want to be the Omega lead,” Tony says without pause.

  I glare. Give the guy a rope and he’ll take the entire fucking ship. “No,” I say severely. “You can’t be a lead.”

  “Then no deal. Take it or leave it.”

  O’Malley sends him a hesitant look. “Way to shoot for the stars, man.” He shakes his head. “Akara, I like where I’m at. I don’t want a transfer.”

  Back to being fucked. I expel a breath through my nose.

  He looks to me. “But I’d like a promise from you.”

  My brows draw together, and I think of Jane. What would I do to stay in security, to work near her, to protect her day in and day out?

  I tell O’Malley, “Anything.”

  “I’ve only ever been on Epsilon. Before Jane, you had too, and I always considered you one of us. Even after you transferred to Omega. Even after our fight. I guess the moment I realized you weren’t was when I was the one being kept in the dark about the twin swap.” He lets out a laugh. “Shit, I should’ve known it was you, Thatcher. It sucked that I didn’t figure it out. It sucked being blindsided again by a guy I’d die for.” His forehead wrinkles in a deeper frown. “I just want honesty. Just promise me that going forward.”

  My men.

  It’s been a while since Epsilon was my responsibility. Since he was, and like O’Malley, I feel that loss. I’m Omega.

  My loyalty is with those men first. But I won’t give my word flippantly. I have to mean what I say or else I’ve lost all fucking sense of integrity, and I can’t live with that.

  “I promise,” I say seriously, deeply. “I’ll be honest with you going forward.”

  O’Malley gauges my sincerity and then nods. “Thank you.”

  I nod back.

  Genuine feelings exchanged, he grabs the duffel strap and pats Tony’s shoulder. “Good luck swinging lead.” He leaves out the front door.

  I cross my arms and nod to Tony. “You’re not getting lead.”

  “At least not immediately,” Akara says, deadening the air.

  Muttering and whispering and what the fuck is he doing comes from the foyer, but none of the men interject or approach.

  Tony smiles. “When? Because I’m not waiting around a year.”

  The bottom of my stomach drops out. “Akara, you can’t.” Not for me. This is exactly what I feared the first time—back when I was sleeping with a client. I didn’t want him to bear the repercussions for my actions.

  “I’m the Omega lead. I can do whatever the fuck I want.” Akara says this while staring at Tony, and he tells him, “Price and Sinclair love you. They’ll be fine with the promotion as long as the recommendation comes from me. Short term: you should stay on Jane’s detail until I have the transfer approved. It’ll probably take a couple months.”

  I grit down so hard my jaw feels like it’s splitting in two. I could fucking scream at the top of my lungs—but I stay quiet. I scowl and glare—and this can’t be right.

  We’re losing everything.

  Akara as SFO lead.

  And Tony was supposed to be off Jane’s detail weeks ago. His probationary period has been over, and all the confetti-popping parties I planned to have just fade away.

  I turn my head. “Akara—”

  “It’s two months.” He pulls a beanie over his head. “You and Jane can handle it.” To Tony, he says, “Long term: you can’t stay on her detail. So pick someone else.”

  “Charlie,” he says. “You all say he’s the most difficult client, but he just hasn’t had me on his detail yet.” Fuck.

  “Done,” Akara says. “We good?”

  “All good.” Tony nods. “And Akara, if this doesn’t happen in two months, I’m going to tell Price and Sinclair what I know.”

  “That’s fair.” Akara slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Everyone move out. We need to get on the road.” He leaves out the front door, a gust of snow flying in before it shuts.

  Tony trailing right after.

  The rest of SFO come up from behind me and stand on either side.

  Farrow.

  Oscar.

  Donnelly.

  And Quinn.

  We watch Akara leave, and Oscar says, “Either Kitsuwon is the smartest motherfucker here or we’ve all just been fucked raw.”

  “Tony as our lead,” Farrow says the unbelievable reality. “Count me out, boys.”

  “You’re quitting?” Quinn asks.

  “No.” Farrow slings his duffel across his chest, and walking backwards, he says, “I’m just not listening to a thing that fucker says.” He spins around, raises his fingers in goodbye, and exits into the cold.

  Quinn grabs his backpack. “Me too.” Strap on one shoulder, he heads out.

  Donnelly stuffs his hands into his pockets and saunters out next.

  It’s just me and Oscar left.

  I take fault for the cards he’s been dealt. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.�
� Oscar ties a bandana around his forehead, curly pieces falling over. “We’re all glad that you and Banks switched.”

  Confusion hardens my face.

  Oscar is already telling me, “She needed you here.” He clasps his duffel by the short handles and follows the SFO bodyguards.

  I’m last.

  I stare around the quiet Mackintosh House that isolated our frustration, anger, feuds, fistfights, hurt, and rage—but I’m going to remember the good.

  The laughter, the love.

  Growing closer to Jane. Growing closer to her family, to Farrow and this brotherhood of men.

  I smile.

  And I lock the doors on my way out.

  Right now, I want to see one person. Rental cars are lined up in a row, and I spot Jane in the first one. She sits in the backseat, Maximoff already in the front.

  Swiftly, I slide in beside her and shut the door before cold air blows inside.

  “How’d it go?” She takes my gloveless hands, rubbing my palms to warm them.

  I’m entranced by Jane for a second. Her wavy hair flows out of a cat-eared beanie, a purple puffy jacket zipped up, even in the heated car. Cheeks rosy, she looks warmed. I wrap my arms around her shoulders, and she leans her weight into me.

  I find the words to explain everything.

  When I finish, she takes a sharp breath. “Akara said not to worry?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “Then we shouldn’t worry.” Her confidence is palpable.

  But unsaid sentiments still claw at the fucking air. Two more months of Tony Ramella is sixty days too long.

  40

  THATCHER MORETTI

  The townhouse smells of garlic and tomato sauce, a familiar aroma that should be comforting. On any other night—maybe.

  But it’s the first night we’ve been home.

  Hours ago, I learned about the break-in from my brother. I just stared at him for a long…long time, and I shook my head. I should’ve been here in Philly.

  He should’ve been in Scotland. But I remember what Oscar said—and I know we were right where we were supposed to be. If I confronted the target, he’d be dead.