I grind my gum, my stance cautious and tense.
I consider myself really good at reading suggestions from men. But I replay that, and I have a hard time deciphering the flirtation. It could exist as easily as it couldn’t. Because the “wow, you’re famous” face is adjacent to the “wow, you’re hot; I want to fuck you” face.
Owen whatever-the-fuck ejects from my head about the same time that Maximoff hoists himself out of the pool, the swim class ending.
My mouth curves up. Beads of water track down his carved abs and V-line, and he pushes his soaked hair back, his tongue wetting his lips.
Damn.
What gets to me more: Maximoff is searching the aquatic center for someone. Eager and expectant. His anticipation of me fists my heart in a warm vice. Maximoff Hale wants me more than even humanly possible, for eternity. That soul-deep, soul-clenching feeling will never grow old.
His eyes collide with mine.
“Looking for me?” I chew gum, my smile stretching wider. Just to piss him off, I add, “Obsessed with me?”
Agitation cinches his brows. “No and no.” He walks barefoot across the wet tile. “I was looking for the other tattooed asshole.”
I nod slowly. “The other tattooed asshole.” An acidic taste slips down my esophagus. Maximoff is just playing into our normal banter, but I grind my gum stale as I picture the dermal-pierced, tattooed temp bodyguard coming onto him.
After what happened with Rowin—my ex-boyfriend who made an unwanted pass at Maximoff—I never want to miss these warning signs or make that same mistake again. But I’m not sure if the situation with Rowin is causing me to be a paranoid fuck.
Basically, Owen Erickson could be harmless.
“What’s wrong?” Maximoff asks me, a foot away. The aquatic center is quickly clearing out, the door swinging open and shut. And the lifeguard stand hides us from most nosy fuckers.
“The temp bodyguards that rotated in and out today.” I hand him a pool towel. “Did any of them bother you?”
He towel dries his hair. “I didn’t even know they’d been switching out. I just saw the one from this morning.”
I pop a stale bubble in my mouth and look him over. “Fuck, you really block that shit out.” I didn’t realize his blinders were that tinted when it comes to temps.
He splays the towel over his shoulder. “Paparazzi, bodyguards—they’re like trees. I’m not going to count all of them every damn second. I’d never get anything done.”
I’m a bodyguard, so he thinks I’m part of his little forest. I grin.
“What?”
“You wanted to climb my tree?”
He looks simultaneously aggravated and infatuated. “No, you were never a tree, man.” His eyes dive into mine. “I knew you before you joined security. You always stood out to me.”
I’m surprised he’s admitting that out loud right now.
It reminds me of a talk we had after the car crash. We confessed that we’d felt something for each other earlier—like when I was just the son of his family’s concierge doctor. It’s easier to take hold of the memories now, all the ones where we crossed paths, and feel and realize just how strongly we drew closer.
A magnetic force has been at play between me and him, and I can’t see a scenario where we wouldn’t come together.
“I stood out to you,” I repeat with a teasing smile.
“Yeah. Like a lamppost, you know slightly rusted, flickering out, in need of some triple A batteries.”
I let out a laugh. “Lampposts don’t take triple As, but it’s cute how I lit up your world.”
He groans, but his arms begin to slide across my shoulders. And I slide mine across his. We’re pulled together, chest-to-chest, our bodies rising with our deep breath. The longing embrace has a strong, untiring pulse, like a heartbeat personified.
His chest wets my motorcycle jacket. I clutch his sharp jaw—and his lips crush against mine in rough desire before I can even move in. He’s controlling the depth and force, and he walks me backwards, our mouths devouring and hands gripping. Fuck, Maximoff.
My back hits a corkboard with printouts of swim class schedules and instructors. He grinds his pelvis against mine, and veins throb in my cock.
Arousal clenches around me. I fight past that carnal haze so I can obtain the fucking lead and spatial awareness. I’m still his bodyguard, and we’re in a public area.
I flex and use my strength to rotate us. His back thumps against the corkboard, and my lips rise while we kiss.
When our mouths break apart, Maximoff bangs his head back in sexual frustration. I keep a hand on the wall. Breaths hot and heavy.
Our eyes can’t unearth each other fast enough.
Sex has been extremely intense with Maximoff lately. He hasn’t topped in over a month, and as he’s let go completely with me, we’re in an ocean of vulnerability. Where he allows me to bring him to the surface.
He clutches the back of my neck and draws my mouth closer. “Farrow.” His deep voice is encased in love and need.
Fuck. I restrain myself from touching his chest or even palming his dick.
I’d love to take Maximoff in my mouth and see his cum-face, but we’ve only ever kissed at the aquatic center. Per his rules.
I brush my lips over his lips. Teasingly close.
He breathes, “Blow me.”
My mouth quirks, then flat lines. As entertaining as loosening his tight laces is, I’d rather not pull too hard on these ones. I have a feeling he’d regret hooking up at his workplace, and I’d hate that I tempted him there.
I step back from him. “Okay, Bossy. You can blow me tonight.”
He growls in heavy frustration and annoyance.
I know.
He licks his reddened lips. “I said blow me.”
“I heard you, wolf scout.” I fix my earpiece. “And you can’t have everything you want.”
He smiles, liking that I’m not easy on him, and then he checks the clock on the wall. “Fuck.”
I’ve already seen the time. “We have an hour. Relax, we’ll make it.” We have a cake tasting appointment, and neither of us likes the idea of standing up Jane.
He’s fast to put on clothes in the back of the center, and after we leave the locker room, he zips up his gray motorcycle jacket, and I pass him his helmet.
“Wait, for a second.” I stop him near the bleachers.
He’s impatient, but his gaze cements to my fingers as I dig into my jacket pocket.
I smile. “Hold out your wrist.”
Maximoff extends his arm. “What’d you…?” He watches me buckle a gray paracord bracelet around his wrist. The same exact one I gave him a long time ago, after we watched Mad Max: Fury Road.
The first bracelet burned in the fire.
His eyes redden like he’s remembering the moment.
I thought replacing the gift would help heal what the fire tore through, but now I’m not sure. “What we shared together isn’t lost, Maximoff.”
He nods, his cheekbones sharpening. “I’m just…in my head. Thanks, seriously.” He touches the bracelet on his wrist. “It means a ton.”
I smile with my brows raised. “I know.”
He rolls his head back in exasperation. “It’s like you want me to push you in the pool.” He tries to shove me into the water with a firm hand on my chest, but I seize his waist and step into his build. Our hands shift and boots squeak on the tile, playing around. We’re both smiling.
“We know who’s stronger,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Me.” He almost has me at the edge of the pool, each of us still holding our helmets.
“If I go in, wolf scout, I’m taking you with me.”
“Yeah?” His chest rises. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.” Before we can test this, his phone buzzes loudly and incessantly. Cutting into the moment.
“Raincheck?” I tell him.
Maximoff nods, and we back away from the pool and head towards the exit. He’s r
igid as he pulls out his cell, and he stops in place. “It’s Charlie.”
Charlie Cobalt.
I’m not feeling very kind or warm towards Maximoff’s twenty-one-year-old cousin. Not after Scotland. He sandpapered my patience.
Putting up with Charlie constantly attacking Maximoff—and not being able to intervene—has already been a root canal for me. What he did in Scotland to Maximoff and to Jane and Thatcher was too fucking far.
They deserve apologies, but they forgave him without one. The last thing I want is to re-fracture the relationship between Charlie and Maximoff. But I can’t spend the rest of my life standing idly by and watching Charlie beat Maximoff down. Just for Maximoff to sit there and take it.
I’m going to protect him. Even if it means protecting him from his cousin.
I comb a hand through my hair. “Bad or good news?”
“He’s sending me links to apartment rentals in New York.” Maximoff clicks into one. “Four bedroom, four bath, community pool.” He pauses. “He texted, please come.”
I scan his toughened features. “You’re thinking about New York?” He’s been in the Team Philly camp with Sulli and Jane. The only one waving an NYC flag is Luna.
“Maybe…I don’t know.” He rubs his cinched brows. “What if Charlie does actually need help looking after his brothers? And I’ve just left him out to dry.”
My jaw tics. “Look, I don’t care where we end up, but the likelihood of Charlie disappearing if you move to New York is high. Especially if he’s guilt-tripping you this hard. When has he ever pled for you to be around him?”
“Never.” He exhales a heavier breath. “It’s been the inverse.” He’s pushed Maximoff away.
Jane even believes Charlie could want to use her and Maximoff as babysitters for Beckett, Eliot, and Tom. He’d be shirking responsibility onto them, just so he can travel the world with no burden.
It’s impossible for Maximoff to say no when someone needs help, and he loves gathering all the responsibility. So I understand why this is eating at him, but Charlie needs to stop blowing up his phone. It’s manipulative as fuck.
He shoves his phone in his pocket. “Even if I said yes to New York, we all agreed that the majority vote wins.”
But Charlie knows that if Maximoff decides on NYC, all the girls will want to follow. He’s basically the leader of these families.
We drop the topic, and as we go to leave, I spot the swarms of paparazzi through the glass door. Maximoff prefers that we walk side-by-side, but I’d rather be out in front. “Compromise: how about I lead us out of here, and you can drive.”
I toss him the keys.
“The motorcycle?”
I nod. “Yeah, I’ll sit behind you.” Where he loves me. I fit on my helmet to block out camera flashes, and he’s already doing the same.
“Deal.”
6
FARROW KEENE
Maximoff slows the Yamaha in deadlocked traffic. Shit. I lower my feet to stretch, and I hang onto the back of the seat. Craning my neck, I try to see past an SUV. Looks really backed up.
I lean forward again, my gloved hand on his waist. He turns his head back, careful not to smash helmet-to-helmet. With Bluetooth intercoms built into the helmets, we don’t have to yell or flip up our visors to communicate.
“Let’s switch spots,” I tell him. “I’ll lane-split.” It’s illegal for a motorcyclist to drive between two lanes of traffic in Pennsylvania, but I’m willing to risk the law.
“I can do it.” He’s about to turn around, but I catch his bicep, stopping him.
“You haven’t even had your license back for a year yet.” If he’s ticketed, they might revoke it again.
In the past seven months, Maximoff has actually let me behind the wheel about forty-percent of the time. Which is more than I thought he would.
“If I’m pulled over and lose my license, it’s a win for you.”
He’s not wrong.
“Fair enough.” I let go of his bicep and hold his waist. He turns forward, revs the throttle, and drives between stationary cars.
Vehicles honk at us as we squeeze past their parked asses. I flip them off, and Maximoff speeds up and veers onto the nearest exit ramp.
Free of traffic, we’re back in the middle of the road, and we reach the bakery on time. But we drive into another issue.
At least a hundred rabid, screaming fans are congesting the parking lot. Some even hoist homemade signs. Maximoff slows so he doesn’t run anyone over, but hands are all over us.
I’m not getting used to the “I touched a celebrity” pet. I’m not letting this be normalized for me. I want to always protect Maximoff from ass-grabs and dick-grabs and caustic hands, and I’m not resigning to the fact that this is just a burden of fame. That this is his life and my life and the only way to rise above is to say have at me.
My lips lift at a thought:
I’m going to be his Winter Soldier.
For decades.
For life.
Keeping one hand on him, I motion the overly emotional boys and girls to stay back, most of them tear-streaked and screeching. I lower my feet, my boots lightly scraping the pavement, and I gently push some fondling hands off Maximoff.
I shake my head as they stand in front of the fucking bike. Quickly, I tear off my helmet. “Back up! We’re trying to park!”
Some teenagers pull their friends out of the way, and they create a path for us.
Thatcher Moretti is in my ear, and surprisingly, his strict voice isn’t as grating as it used to be. “Thatcher to Farrow, the bakery’s location has been leaked.”
Obviously.
Maximoff parks, and girls bum-rush us. A few ask us to sign their posters, and I hand Maximoff a pen. But I’m not participating.
I have a cold-shoulder reputation, and most fans don’t expect me to do anything but protect him.
Maximoff quickly scrawls his name in the corner of a MARROW 4 LIFE! poster and another one that reads: please invite me to the wedding! 267-555-8898
Sorry not sorry, the guest list is set.
We bought out the bakery today, but Thatcher and I guard the glass entrance for a few extra minutes. Partly to ensure the locks aren’t completely worthless and that no fans, hecklers, or paparazzi can crash inside.
Mostly to give Maximoff and Jane time to catch up before we taste cake samples.
They’re in view, seated around a horseshoe, peach-hued booth. The bakery is very Jane Cobalt with pastels, dainty doily cloths, and crystal chandeliers. Cake is cake. I’m not that picky.
I scan the emotional crowd outside the door, then Thatcher. “Have you met Owen Erickson? He’s one of the new temps.” He’s been on my mind, and if anyone is all-knowing about the ins and outs of security, it’d be Thatcher or Akara.
Plus, as it turns out, Thatcher isn’t that bad. He hasn’t made my job harder in almost a year, and his personality outside of work isn’t grating. He’s actually unintentionally funny. Last month, he told me he made Ben Cobalt vegan pancakes, and in his words, “The kid spit it out like I served him cow shit.”
I couldn’t stop laughing. The Cobalt who would eat dirt-covered cardboard couldn’t stomach Thatcher’s cooking. Which is above average. Back when we lived together, he used to make meals for the townhouse, and I’ve tried some of his chicken parm.
Thatcher is easy to be around, and that’s how I like my friends.
More than that, the way he’s staring at Jane—before he turns to me—is what she deserves.
Just incomprehensible love and devotion.
“Erickson?” Thatcher has a hand on his radio, half his attention on the entrance. “He has a military background. Navy.”
I heard most of the temps for Akara’s new company were referrals from Loren Hale’s bodyguard, Bruno Bandoni, who’s also Navy. “Who trained Owen?”
“Me and Oscar.” His brows pull together. “Did he make a mistake on-duty?”
“Eh.” I tilt my head. “I’m n
ot sure.” My jaw tightens, and I explain the entire situation at the aquatic center before saying, “If I have a choice, I’d just prefer that Owen not be on Maximoff’s detail.”
Thatcher nods. “I’ll let Akara know.”
“Thanks.” I laugh when I glance at the bulge in the breast pocket of his black suit jacket. Thatcher breaking security rules is one thing, but seeing him break bakery rules by bringing a kitten inside this establishment is entertaining as shit. “I’m surprised you’re okay with having a mascot on the job.”
His features harden. “LJ almost killed Ben’s new cockatiel last night.” LJ is the kitten.
I let out a whistle. “Damn.” Since he’s living at the Cobalt Estate with Jane, he’s also living with the teenage Cobalts like I’m living with the teenage Hales. “You ready to move out?” I watch Maximoff laugh with Jane, their faces bright and happy, and she points to an item in the wedding binder.
His gaze is on his fiancée too. “Not until she is. You?”
“Not until he is.” My lip rises, and I dig into my jacket pocket. I’ve been meaning to give Thatcher something.
He eagle-eyes the door. “As a reminder, you need to read Akara’s handbook.”
“I’m getting to it.” The thing is mammoth and could be used as a doorstopper.
“Get to it faster.” His strict tone is my bigger reminder that he’s now classified as the Omega lead of Kitsuwon Securities. Thatcher ranks above me again. But Akara is at the very top. He’s the boss. The captain of this seven-man bodyguard fleet.
“Okay, Mom.”
He sends me a stern look. “I know you have a lot going on, but it should be a priority. The only way fresh blood will be trained correctly is if we learn Akara’s rules. I don’t care what the fuck you chuck out right now, but the temps need to cross every T and dot every fucking I.”
That, I understand. “I’ll read it tonight.” Let’s be honest, I’ll skim it. “This is for you, by the way.” I pass him a business card.
He looks confused at the Philly Aquatic Center logo.
“Flip it.”
Thatcher turns it over and reads the scribbled words: be my groomsman? He’s unblinking and hard to read, but finally, he meets my gaze. Questions in his. “Why?”
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