Headstrong Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  I pause, my hands gloved. “Take a deep breath for me.”

  She glares but inhales, and I clean a cut on her shin.

  “I see their clothes and phones.” Sulli’s voice carries with the wind. “They’re right there on the rock ledge. We found them!” she shouts at us below.

  “How far down?!” Oscar shouts back.

  Akara answers, “About twenty feet!”

  Still too far for them to climb.

  “Does anyone have a rope?” I hear Winona Meadows ask, like that’s a normal request.

  No.

  See, I already know how this shit is going to play out. They will all turn to Maximoff. They always do. And I’m a torturous distance away. Close but not close enough. He’s my client, my groom—he’s going to be my fucking husband in less than a week, and if I’m not there beside him, to catch him, I don’t know if anyone else will.

  I cut my gaze up to Maximoff while I bandage Kinney.

  Don’t, wolf scout.

  “There’s no rope,” Akara tells Winona—their voices sound far away and I fight to hear.

  “I have some,” Maximoff says, at least that’s what I pick up. But I’m not sure how he has rope. He only grabbed our baby boy when we left the villa.

  I finish Kinney’s bandages, and I strain my eyes, barely making out Maximoff unbuckling…his paracord bracelet. Fuck. Tonight, I thought he’d have more use of the tactical knife strapped to his calf. Never did I think he’d really need the paracord.

  That rope isn’t twenty-feet long either. I know because I bought it. Which means, he’ll have to jump and then free-solo climb back up.

  Do your motherfucking job, Farrow.

  I concentrate on Audrey, cleaning and bandaging the cuts on her knee. “Anything else hurt besides your leg?”

  “My back.” She winces. “It stings.” Charlie, Beckett, and Jane hover close.

  I dig in my med bag.

  Jane holds tight to her sister’s hand, and Thatcher shines a flashlight on Audrey’s spine. Small spots of blood soak through the blue cotton shirt between her shoulder blades. She most likely scraped her back on the cliffside.

  My ears pick up the voices on the cliff.

  “Look, it’s an easy descent,” Winona explains. “My dad taught Sulli, Moffy and me.” She deepens her voice to mimic him, and I barely catch the next part. “You may find yourself in a fucking situation where you have no other gear besides a rope. And it’s useless unless you know how to fucking use it.”

  “Fuck.” I hear Sulli, her voice an echo. “I was going to offer to do it, but I’m out.”

  Why?

  I glance at Oscar nearby. He’s watching them on the cliff, and I can’t. “Oliveira?”

  “Sulli just looked over the ledge,” he tells me. “It must be too steep to repel or climb.”

  Shit.

  Shit.

  I move faster, taking out scissors. “Audrey, I’m going to cut your shirt—”

  “Is that truly necessary?” Audrey whispers to me. “I love this shirt.”

  Jane gives me a knowing smile. It’s Oscar’s shirt—and Audrey has had a crush on him since forever. Oliveira pretends he didn’t hear, but he definitely did.

  I’ll give him shit for it later. Right now, I’m preoccupied.

  I wait to rip her shirt. “It’s either that, or you’re going to have to take it off.”

  Her face turns beet-red, eyes flitting to her brothers. “The first option.”

  My brows rise. “That’s what I thought.” I snip part of the fabric.

  “Maximoff is unwinding the rope,” Oscar narrates.

  No.

  Someone has to tell him this is a bad idea.

  “The repel is dangerous,” Akara says, his voice carrying. There we go. “We can just remotely wipe the phones, so no one can access them in case they get in the wrong hands.”

  “Please no!” Audrey overhears. The two girls on the cliff and the two on the rock terrace all shout their disapproval of wiping the phones. How they have personal shit on the cells. Memories that they didn’t back up into the cloud for security reasons. And if their phones survived the drop, they want them back.

  I finish cutting a portion of the shirt. “Audrey, stay still.”

  “Moffy can just rappel!” Kinney shouts.

  “Yeah, Moffy can do it!” Vada exclaims. “He has the rope. He’s done this a million times.”

  “Please, Moffy!” Audrey calls out.

  My blood is ice. Numb. I’m fucking numb, and I need to be beside him.

  “Or I can do it,” Winona rebuts. “Worst case scenario, I slip and break an arm.”

  “No, squirt,” Sulli retorts loudly. “You’re not breaking anything.”

  “I’ve climbed harder rock than this.”

  Maximoff chimes in, “You’re barely clothed, Nona. You’re not climbing in only a shirt.”

  “Give me your pants—”

  “No. I’m going to do it.”

  I’m going to do it.

  Those words sucker-punch me. But I’m not willing to half-ass any job, especially medicine. I just wish I could be fully here and fully there right now. Carefully, I wipe the bloodied abrasion on Audrey’s skin. She winces.

  “You’re doing splendidly, Audrey,” Jane consoles.

  “Really good,” Thatcher nods.

  Audrey blushes at his encouragement.

  Beckett appraises her back. “It’s not that deep.”

  “You’ll live,” Charlie says. “But we can still throw you a funeral to celebrate the death of your common sense.”

  Audrey gasps.

  “Charlie,” Jane snaps.

  I finish bandaging her tender skin. “You’re all set, Audrey.” Fast as lightning, I snap off my gloves and pack up my med bag.

  No one else needs me here. So I move ahead of them. Not hesitating or lingering, I sprint up the narrow steps that lead to the lookout point. This high, wind whirls in harsher gusts.

  And at the top, Maximoff is tying the paracord rope on a low guard rail. I drop my med bag beside him, and his head swerves to me.

  “You forget to read the sign?” I nod to the red circular sign nearby. “It says no climbing.”

  He tightens a fancy knot that I’ve never even fucking heard of. “You’re the one who always says rules are supposed to be broken. Boundaries are like cautionary tales. Go ahead.”

  I roll my eyes. “I said that in reference to being with you.” He was my do-not-enter boundary, my cautionary tale that I wanted to pursue with caution but still go on ahead. “This is a literal do not enter sign.”

  “You’re really going to tell me you’ve never walked through those too?” Maximoff questions.

  He has a point, and I peer over the cliff.

  On a rock ledge, over twenty-feet below, lies cracked cellphones and piles of clothing. My muscles tense, just picturing Maximoff descending this cliffside. Everyone believes he can do anything, all without breaking a sweat, and I believe in him and know he’s capable of a lot.

  He’s capable of doing this, but I also care about him enough to protect his body from harm. When it’s too much, too far.

  Maximoff finishes the knot and slowly rises to his feet. Our eyes latch, and it’s like being slowly asphyxiated.

  Wind whips around us, and for a brief moment, it feels like it’s just him and me. No one else on this cliff.

  “Farrow,” he whispers, hard uneasiness in his voice. “I keep thinking about our son.”

  I swallow a rock. “What about him?”

  He blinks a few times. “I want to be the best brother, the best cousin, but I think risking my life over a bunch of cellphones makes me a bad father…a bad husband.” His face contorts, his head almost hanging—he rarely hangs his head.

  “Maximoff—”

  “Do you think I can do this?”

  Okay, he never asks me that. He’s too stubborn. We’re too competitive. Too much of a lot of shit that makes us reckless fools. But he’s
asking me now, and primal affection twists my gut. I just care a lot about him.

  Fuck, I love him.

  “I think you can do it,” I tell him. “But that doesn’t mean you should.”

  A beat passes between us.

  He bends down and unknots the rope. “Alright.”

  “Alright?” I ask, shocked and overwhelmed.

  Maximoff nods. “If you really don’t think I should, then I don’t want to do it, man.” His eyes are on mine, relief in them like he just wanted me to help him stop. His mind was already there.

  It’s okay.

  He’s allowed to stop.

  “I’m proud of you, wolf scout.”

  He almost smiles. “Don’t be too proud.” His voice lowers. “I’m still afraid of their disappointment.” He stands up, re-weaving the paracord into a bracelet.

  “That just makes you huma—”

  “That’s them!” Vada yells, pointing back towards the main road we hiked down.

  Phone lights are specks in the dark distance as they snap photos or record us, and those pricks are snickering.

  Akara swings a flashlight on them, and five guys come into view. My blood ratchets up to a boil. They’re not teenagers with baby faces. They look college-aged.

  “Shitsshitohshit,” one curses at being caught, sounding British or Australian. Not even locals. Most likely college students in the area, or maybe backpacking tourists. They turn and sprint back up the road. Laughing—

  “HEY!” Maximoff yells. He storms after these fuckers, fury etched in his eyes.

  Shit. I bolt from the lookout point. Ditching my med bag, I run hard. My boots pound cement as I reach the secluded road, racing up the incline, elevation high.

  What shocks me: Sulli is charging ahead, chasing after these snickering pricks right beside Maximoff.

  And these two are fucking fast.

  I’m a good ten feet behind them. My legs pump, muscles searing and pulse hammering with adrenaline. “MAXIMOFF!” I scream, lungs blistering.

  “SULLI!” Akara runs, catching up to my side with the same scorching urgency. Banks is two paces behind, not as fast.

  I’m not a fucking marathon runner either, and my breath heaves in spastic spurts. Giving everything inside of me to reach him. I literally can’t make up ground. I dig into pavement, tendons screaming as I lengthen my stride. As I push harder.

  Harder.

  I grit my teeth, fighting through my limits. Sweat drips in my eyes.

  Do your motherfucking job, Farrow.

  I have to protect him. I’m not letting the guy I’m with, the only one I love, enter a fistfight alone. He’s never going to be that nineteen-year-old again being beat to shit in a yacht cabin, while I laugh and drink with my friends on deck.

  “SULLI!” Banks shouts.

  “SLOW DOWN!” Akara yells.

  They’re not slowing. They won’t. They’re pissed, and I can’t blame them. The piles of clothes on the rock ledge consisted of jeans, dresses, tees, bras, and panties.

  Security has to apprehend these fuckers.

  “OH SHIT!” one guy yells, seeing the sheer speed and force of Maximoff and Sulli as they close the gap. They even outpace us, their bodyguards. She’s an Olympian, and he could’ve qualified.

  It’s impressive as fuck.

  The road is dark. Beams of flashlights and phones whirl in chaotic directions.

  Maximoff and Sulli suddenly smash into them like a head-on car collision. She shoves a guy to the pavement, and Maximoff slams a fist in a face.

  The other three are about to jump him.

  I see it, and I’m not there.

  I’m not fucking there.

  “MAXIMOFF!” I scream.

  Pain raking through my muscles, wrenching breath.

  One of the worst slow-motion moments of my life, and then I clasp his broad shoulder and time accelerates, triggered to a 3x speed. I wrench Maximoff back, just as a knuckles slice through air. I dodge the blow and force a jab to the bridge of a nose.

  Crack.

  Maximoff wrestles one fucker to the road and yells, “How old are you?!”

  “Get…off me!” he grunts, definitely not Italian.

  “Let me at them!” Sulli yells, and out of the corner of my eye—while I kick a college-aged guy in the gut, pushing him out of Maximoff’s path—I see Banks restraining Sulli, drawing her away from the brawl.

  She elbows Banks in the chest, and he quickly tosses her over his shoulder.

  Akara cups her face between his hands. “It’s over, Sul.”

  I’ve never seen Sullivan fight like this. In fact, there’s a time where I distinctly remember Sulli saying she’s “a lover, not a fighter.”

  “They fucked with my sister,” she says through gritted teeth.

  Maximoff is all hot rage, and I pull him back as another fist flies at him. I slip left, then deck this prick in the jaw with a skilled blow. He groans, three fuckers stumbling to stand. Two pry themselves off the pavement, darkness blurring their features. Deescalate this shit.

  I need to detain them, but I also have to pull my stubborn hot-headed groom to safety.

  Maximoff growls at a blond-haired guy. “You told fourteen-year-old girls to get naked!”

  “It was a fucking joke!” another guy yells, that one sounds American. “Get a fucking grip, you roid-raging asshole!”

  “Fuck off!” I sneer through my teeth, my arm protective around Maximoff’s collarbones.

  Another guy puffs out his chest. “Come at me, cocksucker!” And just then, Thatcher and Oscar run up the road, the security off-road vehicle parked in a safe distance. They didn’t come to chat.

  They’re pissed. And they join the brawl, throwing skilled punches. Letting these guys eat the asphalt they requested.

  I smash an elbow in a face, his nose crunches. Blood gushing out of nostrils, and I capture Maximoff’s shoulder after a set of knuckles bash his ribs. He does sink a right-hook.

  We see them crumple, and Maximoff and I start pulling each other back. Last glimpse of the fight, I see Thatcher and the others pinning the guys to the ground. Oscar is zip-tying their wrists—but we’ll have to let them go. Can’t press charges unless the girls want the events of tonight to be public. It’s not happening.

  The brawl is the only real justice. And I would’ve landed another kick in, if I didn’t have to protect a prince.

  And that prince keeps pulling at my arm, trying to lead me towards the parked vehicle behind us. I can’t stop smiling at how he’s trying to draw me away from the street fight.

  My eyes brush over him, my smile fucking killing me.

  “What?” His arm curves around my shoulder.

  I hook mine around his shoulders too, but I turn us towards the vehicle, walking down casually. “The untrained fighter trying to protect the trained one.”

  He’s doing his best not to smile. “I held my own, man.”

  “You’re getting better,” I agree. “Still not as good as me.”

  Maximoff shakes his head, his lips upturned. “Christ, I can’t believe I’m smiling right now.” He stares deeply into me. “Thanks.” His voice is encased with sincerity and love.

  He acts like I lifted the weight off this night. But he’s the reason this weightlessness exists inside of me, the reason I smiled in the first place, and I’m not sure he realizes it.

  39

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  4 days until the wedding

  Sun is out. Birds are chirping. Just another beautiful afternoon in paradise.

  Really though, it’s gorgeous in Capri, and I’d probably wish we could stay longer if we weren’t counting down to the day. A day that I’m too stupidly eager for, and I’m trying so damn hard not to smile each time I swig my water.

  Right now, the small outdoor café is packed for lunch. Plaid light-blue cloths line square tables, shaded by a bright yellow awning, and the click, click, click of paparazzi cameras are almost drowned out with café chatter.

/>   Banks Moretti and a couple temps do a good job barricading the media.

  Cameras are usually in my peripheral. Out of sight, just background, but after what happened at the coves, I think about them more.

  How SFO obtained the phones that belonged to those guys. How they ensured no one captured any pictures or videos of the girls.

  How you’ll never know that the skinny-dipping dare happened or the fistfight. Those assholes won’t file assault charges, not when they coerced underage girls to take off their clothes.

  You’ll never see just how livid SFO were at the college-aged guys. Seething on the way back to the villas, and I’ve never heard that many men curse on comms. (Farrow let me listen in.)

  It always feels good knowing they care. Especially when it’d be so easy to place all the blame on the girls—or on me, for being hot-tempered and charging after the guys. I probably, definitely, should’ve waited to run, but that’ll always be hard.

  My parents, aunts, and uncles praised Omega the whole night, and I was in Akara’s villa when SFO cracked a few beers, winding down after the intensity. They raised their bottles a hundred-and-one times. Toasting to every damn thing.

  “To the girl squad being safe.”

  “To the captain, my captain.”

  “To the zip ties in the car.”

  “To Farrow’s med bag.”

  “To busted earpieces.”

  “To Maximoff’s paracord bracelet that didn’t come in handy.”

  At the end, seriousness returned, and Oscar lifted his beer bottle and said, “Kitsuwon Securities 1 – Triple Shield 0.”

  So yeah, that’s where my mind descends, but it’s easy to be in the here and now at the café. Farrow is bouncing Ripley on his knees, and with alluring casual ease, he lifts his aviators to his head, the sunglasses pushing back his black hair.

  I’m super-glued to his new hair color, probably as much as the tabloids.

  I had no clue he planned to dye his hair for our wedding. But he surprised me this morning and said, “I know you have a giant, overwhelming thing for my hair this color.”

  Yeah.

  But he has no idea why—no idea that the first time we met, he had black hair and that my brain has tied a neat ribbon around the memory and planted lipstick kisses all over the damn thing.