He’s never had a sip of alcohol in his life.
It takes all my energy not to amplify the protect-mode to the highest dial, but I don’t want to freak him out. Casually, I reach down to his hand that hangs at his side, a glass of lemonade loose in his grip.
I’ve tasted one glass out of…I can’t say how many he’s downed. I wasn’t here to count, and this looks like a new cup because the dick straw swimming in melted ice is green. The cup I tasted, the one that was nonalcoholic, had a blue straw.
“Can I have a sip?” I ask.
He gives it over. “Thirsty? I just have that effect on you.”
“Yeah. You’re hot shit.” I keep a hand on his waist and put my lips to the rim. I take a swig.
I taste mostly lemonade, but I’ve had enough mixed drinks to detect the hint of vodka. Without hesitating, I finish off the rest of the drink.
I don’t want to tell him. It’s my first thought. But I can’t keep something like this from him, even if it’s going to tear him up.
My second thought: I’m not letting him out of my grasp. Not tonight.
My third: I wish I’d been here. I cradle so few regrets, but I’m going to regret this. I could’ve sipped all of his drinks. I could’ve asked Jane to do that. I could’ve protected him better.
“Maximoff, how many—” I start to ask him how many glasses he’s had, but his focus shifts towards the lantern-lit corner.
“Janie’s back.” Maximoff is more aware. “I have to tell her what happened before someone else does.” His siblings are ready to take a break from dancing, and he’s a bulldozer, already leading the way to the back.
Following at his side, I catch his hand and ditch the empty glass on a high-top table.
Maximoff doesn’t seem plastered or drunk. If he were, I think he’d realize the drink was spiked. He’s probably just tipsy.
But for someone who’s never had a drop of alcohol in their life, that might as well be the equivalent of hammered. My muscles tense.
At the back of the bar, bodyguards reestablish a perimeter. Shielding the famous ones, and here, we discover a very in-love Thatcher and Jane.
Not going to lie, I didn’t foresee them being such a PDA-intensive couple. No judgment. Thatcher just never struck me as the public ass-grab type.
I actually love that he is because Jane seems to want nothing less, and they just look perfect together. Like a couple that makes sense on sight.
Thatcher has Jane hoisted up around his waist. Holding her, his hands are planted firmly on her ass, and Jane keeps tucking his hair behind his ears. Over and over. At eye-level, their gazes sink into one another like they’re the only two in this bar.
Maximoff sees their “moment” and rotates back to me. “Maybe we should wait, man.”
I clutch his muscular waist and skim him head-to-toe.
“Moffy!” Jane calls out, and Thatcher sets her feet on the ground.
We end up nearing.
Facing us, Thatcher’s arms wrap around her shoulders and she eases back into his chest. “Are you having a good time?” she asks her best friend. “Oh, you’re out of lemonade. Let me get you another—”
“That’s okay,” I interject.
Maximoff grimaces. “Janie, I have to tell you something.”
Jane frowns deeply.
Thatcher’s strict eyes tighten on me for answers.
I can get this out faster than Maximoff right now, so I just peel off that fucking Band-Aid. “When you radioed me, we picked up a background noise on comms.”
“What does that mean?” Jane asks, but she’s already ashen.
“How much? Of who?” Thatcher questions.
“One second,” I answer. “Just a moan.”
“My moan though.” Jane touches her cheeks, red suddenly staining them. “This is—it’s interesting. I suppose it was worth the slip—the sex was top shelf, one of the best.” Didn’t need to know that, Cobalt. She speaks too fast for anyone to cut in. “There are seven of you who heard? Right? Just SFO?”
I feel like shit.
Thatcher and I share a look. We were on the same channel as Epsilon and all the temps tonight. There were definitely more than seven bodyguards who heard.
“I’m so sorry, honey.” Thatcher’s voice is low, deep and raw. She stares up at him while he looks down. “It’s my fault—”
“I’m to blame just as much as you,” she says adamantly.
Maximoff has gone quiet. I keep checking him. He rubs at the sweat by his temple. Leaning into his ear, I ask, “You feel okay?”
“I don’t know,” he says this time. The gut-punch is swift.
I squeeze his hand. “Let’s go to the bathroom.”
He nods in agreement.
“Hold on, one second.” Reluctantly, I drop his hand to move to Thatcher. “Can you guard the bathroom door? I don’t want anyone coming in.”
“We’re right behind you.”
He follows with Jane, and I lead Maximoff. He’s letting me lead him. I’m not sure he notices that he’s a couple steps behind me. He’s deep in his head.
We reach the men’s bathroom.
A couple minutes pass while we wait for the two guys pissing in the urinal to vacate. Once they’re gone, it’s quiet, door shut, and I’m marginally relaxed knowing Thatcher is outside the doors.
Maximoff splashes some water on his face. “I can’t believe Kinney is here—shit, Kinney. I should be watching her.” He swivels back about to charge out the door.
I put a hand on his chest. “Easy, wolf scout. Your little sister has all of Omega watching her tonight. She’s fine.” You’re not.
He swallows hard and skates a hand through his damp hair. “Farrow…I feel really weird tonight.”
“Maximoff,” I whisper. Our eyes lock in an intense beat, and I watch paranoia twist his face. I can tell he’s running through the night in his head. He has to be thinking about the drink.
And then he says, “You—you took a sip. So you would know.”
This might be one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. “Yeah.” Breath is imprisoned inside my lungs. Say it. Fucking say it. “Maximoff, there was vodka in your drink.”
He blinks rapidly.
“You’re okay,” I assert.
He turns around and bolts to the nearest stall. Kneecaps skidding to the floor. I follow quickly, bending down behind him. He sticks two fingers in his mouth. Maximoff.
I rub his back in circular motions, and the contents of tonight fill the toilet.
“You’re okay,” I whisper.
His body heaves.
I wish I’d been here earlier.
I’m here now.
Several more minutes pass, he’s white-knuckling the toilet, and he starts puking up bile.
“Relax, there’s nothing left to vomit.” I squeeze his shoulder. “You’re okay. Just back up.” I reach over and flush the toilet.
He falls back on his ass and slumps against my body and the stall. I have a protective arm around his shoulders, and I touch the back of his skull in affection. “You’re okay.”
His knees are bent, palms rubbing over them. Horror-stricken eyes meet mine. “Am I drunk?”
“I don’t think so.” I scan him quickly. “How many glasses did you have?”
“Five.” His reddening eyes fix on the ceiling. “Some temp bodyguards were tasting them for me.”
I’m fucking pissed at these green dipshits. “Not all five cups were spiked. At least one was nonalcoholic.” The one I tasted.
He cringes. “I should’ve been drinking water. I always drink water at bars.” He groans. “But of course, I just wanted tonight to be fucking special and different.” Both hands rise to his head and he threads his fingers through his hair in distress.
“You’re allowed to order a lemonade. The temps should’ve been able to tell the drinks were spiked. That’s their job, Maximoff.”
He keeps shaking his head. “I’m not…I…fuck.” He takes a deeper b
reath, staring at Sharpie on the stall, then right at me. “I’m not sober.”
Those three words stale the air.
“How do you feel?” My voice is deep and soft.
“My head throbs.” He grips my thigh, turning more to face me, and our bent knees knock together. His tongue wets his dried lips. “Everything’s kind of fuzzy. But not like the time I had the pot cookie. I hated that feeling. It was like having the stereo in my head turned up too loud.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “This feels like it’s cranked down. Everything’s soft.” He blinks slowly, his eyes bloodshot.
“It’s okay,” I remind him.
“Farrow…I don’t want to like it.” Fear cracks his voice.
“Hey.” My hand encases his jaw, and his chest rises in a deeper breath and I tell him, “You had, maybe, two spiked glasses, which isn’t much, and you puked up a lot. There’s nothing to like.”
He nods strongly and then he lets out a weak laugh. “I guess you can kiss me.” He grimaces into a pained wince.
We’re both near tears.
I don’t kiss him. I pull Maximoff against my chest, my pulse drumming hard, and we clutch each other around the shoulders. Not letting go.
He mutters something about leaving.
I’m going to get him out of here.
27
MAXIMOFF HALE
Our Key West rental house has a tiny private beach. Mangroves and orange trees fence the property from neighbors. Grass juts up in the white sand, and the moon casts a bright glow over the water, lapping softly against the shore.
Kayaks and canoes are piled up on a rack, and I’m on a lounge chair on this beautiful beach. Trying to soak in the peace of tonight and how Farrow is straddling the lounge chair behind me, massaging my tensed back. His knuckles run down the tight muscles. His thumbs work fucking wonders on my traps.
I almost loosen up.
And after a while, I look over at him. “Lean back.”
He doesn’t even joke about it. Farrow just eases back against the partially inclined lounge chair, and he stretches out his feet. Knowing I’m not looking to fit between his legs.
We’re pretty much side-by-side. But to make room, his calf is hiked over mine, and our shoulders overlap. Mine atop his.
I’m holding a baby monitor, and Farrow shifts my hand so he can see the screen. Ripley is curled up in a crib. He sleeps through the night now.
I can’t wait to give him a hug in the morning.
Yeah, I’m thinking about everything but what happened.
Farrow runs his fingers through my thick hair, and we stare out at the dark ocean. I fit some of his silver rings on my fingers and slide them off in my palm. My hand tightens in a fist around them.
“Do you want to talk about it?” His rough and silky voice just calms me.
I blink back the sentiment that sears my eyes. “I think…” I shake my head, scrounging up deceased words that I’ve been killing all night. Something wet drips down my jaw. It’s weird being able to cry so easily now.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
I inhale a stronger breath and slide his rings on my fingers. “I’ve always been sober, and I don’t care about some gold card sobriety award. But people will mention it, and I can’t lie and like…” I pinch my eyes. “I’m going to have to tell my family.” I sit up, so my eyes are on his. “How do I keep explaining this night without ruining it? Because I loved so damn much of our bachelor parties, and this is a stain that everyone will see. I don’t want our wedding month to be synonymous with me drinking alcohol.”
“It’s not,” Farrow says easily. “Whoever is thinking that is trying to jam circles and triangles in square holes.”
“I’m thinking about that.”
He lifts his brows. “I know, wolf scout.”
I almost smile, and now I’m just thinking how much I love this guy.
“You don’t have to tell your family right away,” he reminds me.
That eases me too.
I nod a couple times.
And I retrace more of tonight, and my pulse skips. “What happened…something you said—you said you’d tell me later?”
He rolls his eyes at whatever he encountered.
My jaw sharpens. “What was it?”
“This will just piss you off—”
“I don’t care.”
He exhales a breath and then shrugs. “Okay.” He tilts his head. “One of the temp bodyguards hit on me.”
“Wait, what?” I narrow my eyes.
Farrow looks irritated about the whole thing. “It was just a verbal come-on, and he’ll be fired—”
“He fucking better be.” Steam is practically blowing out of my ears. “At your—our bachelor party? Why would he do that? Did he think we’re in an open relationship?”
“I didn’t care enough to ask, honestly.” He smiles. “I wasn’t going to sip hot tea with the fucker.”
I just picture this muscular faceless, no-named bodyguard hitting on my fiancé, my groom, my soon-to-be husband.
Who are all the same fucking person, in case that’s not vitally clear.
“What’s his name?”
Farrow shakes his head. “You’re not torturing yourself with that shit.”
“I’m not asking for a visual. I want to make sure he’s off the team. I’ll talk to Akara.”
“Let me do it, wolf scout. It’s my job.”
I nod, trusting him. I realize too that I’m more famous, so I’ve always been an object of obsession. But the more fame Farrow has, the more he has to deal with these unwanted advances. “You’re okay?” I ask. “He didn’t hurt you?”
He smiles like I’m roaming aimlessly around in Arkansas and he’s in Florida. “No, he didn’t hurt me, and I’m able to fend off bad pickup lines and shit come-ons easy enough. Definitely better than you.”
Annoyance stabs me, my competitive brain screeching. “Yeah?” I want to combat him, but really, I’m not that great at brushing people off, and I’m curious how he does it. “What do you normally say to bad pickup lines?”
He lists off his fingers. “Get out of my face, no—I don’t want to suck your cock. Take a hint. And you must really want a knee in your groin. Then I walk away, every time.”
I picture that. And I don’t know why I’m smiling. I’m trying not to question its existence because I’d rather it stick around.
Farrow suddenly slides off the lounge chair. I see him stand up, and instinctively, I rise to my feet. Almost the same height.
His smile stretches wider and wider. “Will he follow me?” He walks backwards towards the ocean.
I run after him, and in seconds, we’re step for step, splashing into the water. Uncaring about our damn clothes.
“Pretty sure I ran faster,” I say confidently, wading in the cool ocean. “You might need a hip replacement after how badly I smoked yo—”
He splashes water at my face.
I flip him off with two hands, and he laughs.
I sink lower. Until the surface of the saltwater skims my lips. Farrow is drawn towards me as much as I’m pulled towards him. His eyes caress my eyes, and I wrap a strong arm around his tattooed shoulders under the water.
“Hold your breath,” he whispers.
And then we go down together. I snapshot every cinematic beat, even as we come up for air.
28
MAXIMOFF HALE
3 weeks until the wedding
“Where are Maximoff Hale and his tattooed dreamboat getting married? Little birdies around Center City have been chirping, and rumor is, the wedding is coming soon. Less than a month away, and if you’re in Greece in July, get your binoculars and cameras out. We’ve heard the ceremony and reception is being held in Mykonos. No word on their honeymoon yet, but the bigger question is whether Maximoff is becoming a Keene, or is Farrow becoming a Hale? Or maybe they’ll hyphenate their names—but in which order: Keene-Hale or Hale-Keene? Mull this mystery over while you listen to a hit from Farrow Keene�
��s favorite band, Third Eye Blind. This is 97.2, the Fix—”
I slam a palm on the digital clock in my childhood bedroom, the radio shutting off. I don’t remember setting the alarm to a radio-wakeup call—especially not for 10:30 a.m.—but it’s old and clearly possessed.
My neck is hot, but I resume packing baby stuff into a cardboard box. Ripley rattles a toy on a yellow play mat while Farrow empties the dresser, folding clothes into suitcases. I’m doing my best not to acknowledge the fucking radio station that just unearthed rumors and the name thing.
The name thing.
Alright, we haven’t really brought it up after the last time. Where I literally self-combusted as soon as he said so casually, so easily, “You want to be a Keene?”
That’s it.
That’s as far as we got. I just kept nodding, and then I said, “Raincheck?” I’m not scared of the conversation, I promise.
It’s just overwhelming. Like my heart is exploding inside my chest and shattering my ribcage, and I haven’t been in the mood to give Farrow that kind of satisfaction.
Across the bedroom, a smile edges along Farrow’s mouth. “You have something to say, wolf scout?”
“No.” My voice is stubbornly firm, and I feel his eye-roll from a mile away. I tape up the box and tickle Ripley’s soft belly. He giggles, and I smile. “You ready to see your new place, Rip?”
He rattles his toy at me and babbles.
We’re moving out of my parent’s house tomorrow. It’s a big deal, even bigger change, but at least we all finally came to a consensus.
We’re staying in Philadelphia.
Charlie called me after the bachelor party and said, “Don’t move to New York.” He didn’t say why he had a change of heart, but Farrow told me about their whole conversation in Key West.
I think maybe Charlie needed to feel needed, and I’m proud of him for sticking around for his brothers.
I stand up. “I’m going to get tools to take apart the crib.”
Farrow nods, and I leave the bedroom.
Stopping at Luna’s ajar door down the hall, I knock on the wooden frame. “You need any help packing?”
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