“Maybe,” Farrow repeats, but comms suddenly reignite.
Oscar speaks. “I think you should come to Hell’s Kitchen, Redford.”
Goddammit.
Farrow and I exchange a serious look. This isn’t news I like delivering to Jane.
“What’s wrong?” Maximoff asks his future husband.
Farrow has to respond to the team first. He clicks his mic at the collar of his V-neck. “How critical?” To Maximoff and Jane, he says, “Something’s going on at Charlie’s place.”
Jane unfreezes. “We need to hurry.” She collects the shopping bags off the counter, says a quick thanks to the pink-haired girl, and then I hear more through comms.
“I’d say not too critical,” Oscar says in my ear. “Charlie isn’t letting me in the apartment, but I heard broken glass and groaning. Just to be safe, a doctor should come here with Jane.”
Farrow relays this to our clients, and I radio my brother to come fill Farrow’s position as Maximoff’s bodyguard.
I speak to Banks in my mic. “I’ll text you the address.”
“Right on,” Banks says. “I’ll be there soon.”
Maximoff sets his green eyes on Farrow. “You’re not waiting around for Banks just for me. I can have one of the temps on my detail until he arrives. You need to go to New York now.”
Farrow’s jaw muscle tics. He sweeps our extra security standing at the entrance. He has to trust the temp guards, who are heavily vetted and trained for these situations. They have less direct access to our clients, but they’re still our men. I’ll defend them, and their mistakes in the end are my mistakes.
I’m about to reinforce this out loud, but Farrow already tells Maximoff, “Okay. I’ll leave you here.”
Jane is antsy. Ready to go, and she asks Farrow, “Are you riding with us?”
“No, I’m taking the other Range Rover.” He clasps Maximoff’s face in a loving hand. “Please wait here for Banks. Don’t go outside. Don’t do anything impatient as fuck.”
“I’ll wait.” Maximoff cups the back of Farrow’s head, and they kiss before they leave one another. Their love is palpable—and I’m not some Scrooge. They’ve found something rare in a profession where all the odds were against them.
It can’t happen twice.
I hear the leads warning me in my fucking head. Can’t happen again.
I take Jane’s hand in mine, and as much as I love being able to hold her hand like this. I’m thinking about the best advantage to protect her.
So I draw her behind my back while we reach the door where screaming fans and paparazzi remain. “Stay behind me.”
“If it’s too hard to push through the masses, is the plan to go to the rear?” she wonders.
I assess the crowds. “Affirmative.”
She inhales, preparing, and she clasps onto my waist for a second, her grip similar to someone bracing themselves for a free-fall. I reach back and keep hold of her hand again. Tighter.
You’re safe with me, honey.
That’s a lasting promise I’ll always make.
25
THATCHER MORETTI
Charlie isn’t letting me inside his apartment.
I stand silently on guard in the wide hallway of the 21st floor. Walls painted deep red, industrial lights lining the stretch of hall.
I narrow my eyes on the dark wooden door with a gold number: 2166.
About five minutes ago, Charlie cracked the door open but only for his older sister. Jane slipped in and slid me an apologetic look. Right before the door shut behind her.
Being next to Jane would’ve been the best option. What I prefer.
What I want.
But setting aside personal feelings—which I shouldn’t fucking have for my client—I also would’ve taken the second-best thing and been satisfied with one SFO bodyguard in there. Just to have eyes on the situation.
But Charlie shut out all of security.
Farrow drops his black trauma bag next to security’s apartment, which is right across the hall from 2166.
The luxury apartment complex in Hell’s Kitchen is the best housing for a bodyguard. But most on the 24/7 roster would take the worst housing without a fucking complaint.
We’re all here for the ugly, painful realities of what these families go through.
To carry them out of ditches. To unfuck whatever is fucked. Not being able to help clean up whatever the hell is going on is one of the hardest orders I have to obey.
And not just for me.
Oscar and Donnelly stand near the ajar door of their apartment. Waiting with Farrow and me to see if Jane or Charlie will call us in, but the air isn’t that tense.
If this were life-or-death serious, Jane would’ve come back out in a second flat.
“See, this is why I try to stay out of Cobalt Empire drama,” Farrow says, leaning a shoulder casually on the wall and looking from Oscar to Donnelly. “It leads me to an empty hallway with you two motherfuckers.”
Oscar grins, only wearing gray sweatpants. Inked script lines his golden-brown skin along his collarbone, and his curly dark-brown hair is disheveled like he just passed out for an hour. “You’re just pissed because the Fiancé isn’t here.”
Farrow tilts his head. Not denying.
“Don’t be sad, Redford.” Oscar squeezes his shoulder. “I’m sure Maximoff will give you a pity blowjob later.”
Farrow smiles. “You’ll have to explain to me what a pity blowjob is, Oliveira. Never had one before.”
“Donnelly can explain it to you. It’s all he ever gets.”
Donnelly laughs hard. He’s eating a bowl of cereal at 10 p.m.—in nothing but black boxer-briefs, a sleeve of tattoos and pierced nipples in view.
I weave my arms over my chest. Stoic. Staying quiet. I’m not someone who usually joins in with them, and Oscar and Donnelly won’t be quick to include me, not after I punched Farrow.
It’s my fault.
My mistake.
But I’m not cowering or shying away from them. I’m here. Quiet—but here.
“Pity blowjobs are better than fake fucking a girl.” Donnelly shovels a spoonful of cereal in his mouth.
“Thatcher would know,” Farrow says. It sounds too easygoing to be a real dig at me.
My brows knit, surprised and somewhat confused as to why they’re including me all of a sudden. My expression hardens. They could be fishing. Just to see what’s going on with me and Jane. I didn’t think they would because they don’t care about me personally.
But they do care about her.
I fix my gaze on the door across from us. “I’m not going to talk about my client and sex.”
Farrow puts a piece of gum in his mouth. “I think you mean ‘fake’ sex.”
My muscles burn, tendons straining in my neck, but I manage to nod in agreement. Stoic. Walled-off. Focused on the fucking door.
Donnelly wipes milk off his chin. “Why not talk ‘bout it? We already know you’ve had sex outside a Walmart.”
Because of drinking games. I don’t care that they fucking know this. “That wasn’t about Jane, who’s my client.”
“He doesn’t fake-fuck and tell,” Farrow quips. Unknowingly saving my ass.
Donnelly smirks. “What about real- fuck and tell?”
I shake my head.
Oscar fixes pieces of his ruffled hair. “If Moretti really fucked his client, there’d be consequences.”
My pulse solidifies like cement in my veins. I’m not looking at them.
Farrow blows a bubble and pops it in his mouth. “Yeah, we’d have to get Donnelly to tattoo hypocrite on his ass.”
If that’s what it took to make things right with him, I’d fucking do it.
The elevator along the hallway dings. The three of them go quiet.
We all watch a few women in their late-twenties spill into the hall. Wearing business-casual dresses like they work for some upper crust law firm in New York.
They laugh loudly, and then the tall
brunette asks, “What’s Talia’s apartment number?” They’re visiting someone. Can’t be residents then.
Slowly, they begin to walk past us and their chatter dies down. Most of the women are checking out Oscar.
The Oliveira brothers probably get the most ass of anyone on the team. I’m straight, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see that they’re good-looking men.
They keep moving past, and their eyes start to dart between Farrow and me. Recognizing us.
Donnelly calls out to them through a mouthful of cereal, “Hey, wanna be my Valentine?”
The brunette glares. “Go fuck yourself.”
Farrow sucks in a breath. “You’re too late. He already did that last night.”
Donnelly grins, then sticks his tongue out with half-chewed cereal to the women.
They all cringe.
“God, uh,” a blonde grimaces.
“Wait a sec.” The shortest girl with a red bob points to Farrow, then to me. “Aren’t you two dating Maximoff Hale and Jane Cobalt?”
Protocol: do not engage more than necessary. I’m about to brush them off, but Farrow does it first.
He loosely crosses his arms. “Who’s Maximoff Hale?”
“We’re not idiots,” the brunette snaps, coming to a full stop in front of us. “You’re clearly Farrow Keene, and he’s Thatcher Moretti.”
“Why are you coming in so hot, Barbra?” Donnelly asks the brunette.
“Who the fuck is Barbra—and aren’t you the bodyguard to Beckett Cobalt? Where is he?” She stares around the hall like Beckett will materialize out of thin fucking air.
What I’ve heard: Beckett is asleep in Donnelly’s bedroom. He just got back from a ballet performance for Cinderella , and apparently Charlie told him not to enter their shared apartment yet.
Their place must be a mess, and Beckett likes things in order. It boils down to Charlie protecting his twin brother, who has OCD.
Donnelly shrugs. “Never heard of a Beckett Cobalt.”
We need to shut this down. “We can’t talk,” I say, direct. “We’re working.”
“He’s in his underwear .” She points to Donnelly’s boxer-briefs.
Oscar is about to rebut, but our attention swerves to 2166. Something crashes in Charlie’s apartment.
“What was that?” the brunette asks.
The door cracks open. Jane slips out, eyes wide on the group of women, but she’s good at course correcting.
She smiles in greeting. “Hello.”
“Jane motherfucking Cobalt,” the brunette gapes. “We love your mom.”
“She’s our idol,” the blonde says.
“Mine too,” Jane smiles more, and her eyes subtly flit to me. I approach, my fingers brushing her hip, and she whispers rapidly in my ear, “Charlie doesn’t want Oscar to clean this mess. I convinced him to let you and Farrow in.”
Copy that. I wrap my arm around her waist and then motion with a nod to Farrow to enter Charlie’s apartment. He kicks off the wall and grabs his trauma bag. Too nonchalant to cause attention.
Oscar and Donnelly retreat back into security’s apartment. Shutting the door. Jane has an easy time excusing herself from the women.
We’re right behind Farrow.
I lock the door when we’re inside.
“Watch your step,” Jane cautions, the four-bedroom apartment dimly lit.
I’ve been here plenty before. High ceilings, dark wooden floors, and leather furniture—it looks like an upscale bachelor pad, and I’ve never seen a fucking dish, a wine glass, or a pillow this out of place. Now, surveying the spacious apartment, I’d think a fistfight broke out or someone raided kitchen cabinets and smashed every dish and drinking glass for dramatic effect.
And knowing the Cobalts, either one could be likely.
Broken glass crunches under my boots. Further in the living room, bourbon stains a shag rug and leaks onto the floorboards.
I spot Eliot Cobalt.
Shirtless and slumped against the far wall, near a bookcase—red wine bleeds into his white pants.
“I thought it was blood at first,” Jane admits. “Thankfully it’s just wine. He’s not hurt.”
Farrow approaches to check on him. Eliot’s groggy eyes fight to stay open.
Charlie comes out from a bedroom. He runs a hand through his hair. The strands stick up in a thousand different directions. Lean build beneath an opened button-down, spots of wine stain the white fabric. He glances at me. “He doesn’t do this often, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t.” Honestly, it didn’t even cross my mind. I just want to help where I can, and right now, I see sharp, broken glass on the floor. Jane is wearing thin ballet flats. The faster we can get this cleaned up, the faster we can avoid a deeper clusterfuck.
Jane looks to Charlie. “I already told Thatcher about Eliot’s new play.”
She did.
In the car on the way here, she explained how Eliot joined a new theatre company when he moved to New York. Jane said all her brothers were concerned when he was cast as an alcoholic in the upcoming play. Eliot throws himself head-first into his craft. Method acting, she told me.
Jane steeples her fingers to her mouth and watches as Farrow bends down to Eliot. Checking his pulse.
“He’s going to hate himself in the morning,” Jane says. “He promised he wouldn’t get pass-out, sloppy wasted.”
“You actually believed him?” Charlie looks at her like she’s lost her mind.
“I wanted to,” Jane breathes into a sigh.
Eliot squints like he’s trying to open his eyes. They land on me first. “Is that my…fake brother-in-law?” He barely gets those words out before he heaves onto the floor, missing a bowl at his side. Farrow grabs it and puts it under his mouth.
Brother-in-law. This is Eliot’s normal humor, and I know it’s not just a drunken joke.
Jane edges nearer to me like she’s called to be closer. “Eliot, I’m not fake married,” she corrects him. “Thatcher is my fake boyfriend . He is of no fake relation to you.”
Eliot wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. “I’m losing track of your deception, dear sister.”
“I’m losing track of my patience,” Charlie says as he crosses the room to right a tilted painting on the wall. “I leave you for one extra second and you’re smashing wine bottles now?”
“It was…an…” Eliot’s eyes slowly close. “Accident.” The word comes out breathy and soft. He leans over like he’s going to slump down on a pillow.
There’s no pillow. Just hard floor.
Farrow catches him by the shoulders before he thumps his head hard into the ground.
“Charlie, watch your feet,” I call out as the other Cobalt brother almost steps onto a large broken shard. He’s wearing a pair of fucking flip-flops.
He glares at the floor. “This is—”
“Fixable,” Jane cuts in. “We’re going to help.” She motions from me to her. “We’ll do the glass and stains. You do all the little things that we’d miss but Beckett would notice.”
Charlie nods in agreement and then sets his gaze on me. “Fake boyfriend or not, you don’t have to be here. But you are. So thanks.” It’s a curt thanks . To the point. But sincere. Before I can reply, he zeroes in on the mantle and crosses the room to collect an empty wine bottle on it.
At that, we split up. I take one last glance back at Farrow before Jane and I head to the kitchen. Farrow is rolling Eliot onto his side and asking Charlie for a washcloth. These are the days I’m glad he’s on the med and security team. I have no reservations or concerns when I leave the living room.
Warm light from above the stove bathes the kitchen, and now alone with Jane again the air seems to still and thicken. There’s a lot I haven’t said. That I want to say, still. Especially the stuff that I almost told her at the costume shop. But I’m not sure if there’s a right time. If there ever really will be.
Jane bends down to gather cleaning supplies. Sh
e’s been tense since she got Charlie’s phone call, but being here has eased her worry. She breathes easier. Less stressed.
Still, I ask, “Jane, you okay?”
“Oui,” she says. “It’s a situation than can be solved.” She hands me a brush and dustpan set and then rises to her feet with a clear container. Bottles of cleaner, trash bags, scrubbers, and more all meticulously stashed away inside.
“It is,” I agree.
Her lips lift, thinking of something. “I always wondered how Charlie would react if I introduced him to a boyfriend.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “He’s the most unpredictable of my brothers.” She sets the container on the counter and unclips the lid.
And all of her brothers never met any of her friends-with-benefits.
She pulls out a pair of elbow-length yellow rubber gloves. “He was very quick to let you in,” she tells me. “That rarely ever happens.”
“Probably because I’m on security.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “Probably.”
I don’t know another reason, and I can’t worry about it.
We return to the living room with the supplies. She takes the hardwood while I focus on the rugs. Sweeping up the glass and removing the stains.
Five minutes later, Jane says, “Thatcher.”
I glance over from my area, a few meters from hers. Jane still has on the gloves, the rubber wet with wine. But she forgot to put her hair up. A tendril sticks to her lip and her arms are outstretched, trying not to touch herself with the gloves.
She tries to blow the strand off. “I made a fatal error.”
“Not fatal,” I tell her and come to her side. She’s kneeling on a clean patch of floor by the fireplace. We both avoid glancing to the window where her brothers and Farrow sit.
They can see us.
They can hear us.
They think we’re fake dating. Fake fucking. It’s so far from the truth that even being in this room feels like wading in a lie.
But I’m here. Beside her. And there’s really nowhere else I want to be.
I squat down to be nearer to her height. They’re watching us. Can’t think about that now. I brush her hair from her lips. Natural. It looks natural.
Tangled Like Us Page 24
