Sinful Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 5)

by Krista Ritchie

  “Really?” I say. “Wesley wasn’t that awful.” I tuck my hair behind my ear—no, never mind, I catch air. My hair is in a low pony. I smile at myself.

  Charlie taps his finger against a glass of Scotch. “You think he wasn’t awful because you didn’t hear the shit he said about you.”

  Maximoff glares at the wall. This must have been in high school, and I don’t ask what rumors Wesley spread or what terrible things he said because I don’t want to award him any space in my brain.

  I try to send my brothers a pointed look, but I’m sure the alcohol has dulled its effect. “Will Rochester isn’t Wesley. The sins of his brother aren’t his own.”

  Charlie takes a hot sip of Scotch. “We all bear the sins of our parents every day we breathe, and so why aren’t the sins of a brother or sister or cousin the same?”

  “Because,” Maximoff says, “being a dick isn’t hereditary.”

  We reach no real conclusion on the subject, and I’m not sure that Charlie or Beckett will ever accept Will, the older brother of someone who has wronged me. Maximoff is far more forgiving, and I see that in how he’s let Thatcher back into his life and my life and his fiancé’s life.

  My brothers go to the bar for new drinks, and like the seas have parted, I have a clear and direct line to the sofa.

  To Thatcher.

  I sip my drink.

  He tries to scout the pub, but his narrowed gaze returns to me in a flash. I’m drawn to him, and I practically float towards my boyfriend.

  “Jane,” he greets deeply. I’m only a few feet away.

  My bones ache for him. I want to feel him inside me. I want the emotion, and I barely see concern tighten his eyes.

  Climb him, Jane. “I want you,” I whisper.

  “Jane.”

  “Thatcher.” I’m a drunken fool, but Flirty Jane doesn’t give a damn. I’m one second from straddling Thatcher when hands clasp my waist.

  Farrow pulls me back, and Thatcher shoots to a stance, his concern still on me. But the world rotates and blurs, and I try to cling to all the voices that pitch around me.

  “Did she just call you Thatcher?” O’Malley asks.

  Tony laughs. “She’s just drunk. Aren’t you, Jane?” He thinks he’s being cute teasing me, but he’s nothing more than a patronizing prick.

  And I hope I’m glaring at him, but the pub is a smear of multi-colored twinkling Christmas lights. Farrow is still behind me, I think.

  Thatcher in front. Isn’t he? I hope.

  Voices pile on each other. I blink for focus.

  “How am I an asshole?” Tony rebuts. “I don’t care that she mixed ‘em up. It doesn’t even matter what anyone calls them. Banks responds to both names.”

  I wish I could defend my boyfriend, but I’m fighting to grasp my bearings.

  My cheeks roast, uncomfortable that I’m too uninhibited and not put-together among people who should meet my iron walls. I’m lost, but I feel hands on me and voices in my ear. “Thatcher?” I trip over my feet and try to right myself.

  I touch something hard. A chest?

  I haven’t been this drunk in a long, long while.

  “Thatcher?” I’m scared. “Thatcher?”

  “Jane—I’m right here.” He cups my cheeks.

  It alarms me, more than anything, that I didn’t call for Maximoff.

  I called for him.

  For a man I…

  I love him.

  I hold onto his biceps, unsure of where my whiskey glass even went. “I’m fine.” I speak, not even sure what he asked me. I try to strong-arm my drunken-self and not slur. “I think it’s just hitting me…harder all of a sudden.” Because I moved. I walked and now I’m speeding rapidly through Sloppy Drunk Jane to Black-Out (SOS) territory.

  God, help me.

  A translation comes through my brain: Thatcher, help me.

  20

  THATCHER MORETTI

  Swiftly and easily, I lift Jane off the glass-shattered ground and into a front-piggyback. She just dropped her drink, whiskey soaking the floorboards, and she almost went down with the liquor. She can’t stand on her own, and right when the glass broke, the team stopped yelling over each other.

  I’ve never seen her this plastered, not even through the six-and-a-half years I’ve been a bodyguard. Jane Cobalt is notoriously composed when she’s drunk. She’ll do cute things like trip over her own feet and call me Mr. Moretti—but she’ll right herself up with some type of poise. When the matchup is Jane vs. Whiskey, I’d put my money on my girlfriend every time.

  And I’d lose that bet tonight.

  She blinks a hell of a lot, panic behind her blue eyes.

  I tuck her to my sturdy chest. Protective. One of my hands is lost in her blue skirt. Really, I’m cupping her ass, an effortless hold, and I press my other palm to the back of her head, whispering against her ear, “I have you, honey.”

  She eases into me.

  “Here.” Farrow passes me a glass of water.

  “Is she pale?” Maximoff asks, voice hard-edged but he looks concerned. He’s probably seen her this wasted. Hell, I know he’s held her hair back while she’s puked.

  Before I came along, he’d be the one holding Jane, and the fact that he’s not upset that I’ve taken over—it means we’re making good strides.

  For once I’m not trekking twenty klicks in the wrong fucking direction.

  Is she pale?

  “No,” I answer him.

  Her cheeks are somewhat ashen, but she’s breathing normal and the longer she realizes I have her, the more she smiles and smooths her lips together.

  Blushing.

  I’ve been around harder, more shit-faced partying and seen a fellow infantryman wake up buck-ass naked in his own piss and vomit. She’s nowhere near that level of fucked, but if you saw her best friend, you’d think she’s a foot in the grave.

  “She’s not dying, wolf scout,” Farrow says matter-of-factly. “She just needs fluids.”

  Maximoff nods, then slides off her feather purse that slips down her arm. I nod to him in thanks, and he tells us, “She doesn’t usually go down this hard, this fast.”

  I try to catch her drifting gaze. “She probably didn’t eat enough today. Food should sober her up.”

  Maximoff is already moving out. “I’ll go find some at the bar.” He leaves while Farrow stays to help me.

  “Jane,” I say, seizing her gaze. “Water.”

  “Mmm.” She smiles up at me.

  My lip almost rises. “Drink this.”

  She bats her lashes dazedly.

  “Copy?”

  “Mmhmm.” She nods firmly. “Yes.”

  I put the glass to her mouth and tilt. Her big blue eyes planted on mine, she takes small, slurping sips like a fucking kitten. Even hammered, she’s an adorable drunk.

  While she contemplates taking another sip, I assess the perimeter on instinct. Christmas lights blink in the darkened pub, and ear-splitting chatter and music meld together.

  Omega tends to integrate with the older famous ones like friends—especially after the FanCon tour—but we’re all on.

  Alert.

  Always.

  No bodyguards are posted at the entrance or exits, so we’ve all been scouting the pub at various intervals. We’re in a town with a population of 50. I hate to think it, let alone believe it, but the bigger threat to Jane is another bodyguard.

  In my peripheral I see Tony scrutinizing me. He stews behind the sofa and sports an insulted expression. Like him and I are white-collared-wearing, cubicle-sitting employees and I stole his coveted office project.

  My jaw hardens, and I lock eyes with Farrow.

  He exchanges a strong look with me. One that we used to never share, but it comes naturally tonight and says, we’re on the same side and I’ve got you. There’s a chance that Tony will insert himself in this situation.

  And I need someone to have my six so I can have hers.

  I’m not as territorial as Farrow,
but when it comes to my girlfriend being scared or panicked, my spine would have to be obliterated in a hundred places before I let another man carry her to safety. Especially Tony.

  “Done?” I ask Jane after she takes another sip.

  She nods. “You’re…” She hiccups.

  I almost smile, and I hand the glass to Farrow.

  Oscar uses comms, his voice in my ear. “I’m taking a piss. Don’t let Beckett hang around my baby sister.” He stands off the sofa where Quinn and Joana laugh at something. The Oliveira family has been together most of the night, and we’ve all been intersecting Beckett’s path to Jo.

  I don’t know if he’s bored or if he has a fucking death wish.

  Farrow clicks his mic. “Can’t hold your bladder, Oliveira?”

  “I’m trying to save all the adult diapers for Donnelly,” Oscar quips.

  Donnelly laughs on comms. “Appreciation and all that.”

  I tune them out as Jane perches two hands on my shoulders. She tries to straighten up and compose herself, drawing out one blink. “I’m…”

  “I have you,” I say strongly. “You don’t need to do anything tonight.” She can be a drunk mess.

  She hiccups into a smile. “You’re…”

  “Moretti!” Tony calls, approaching us. “She’s not your responsibility. Take your hands off my client.”

  Like hell.

  I grit my teeth.

  Stay professional. I need to stay fucking professional on-duty. In Tony’s mind, I’m Banks, and my brother doesn’t deserve a tarnished reputation because of my bad calls.

  Don’t punch him.

  She’s in your arms.

  Don’t punch him.

  I repeat all the reasons why I shouldn’t launch verbal grenades or fists.

  Farrow pops a piece of gum in his mouth. Casual as all hell, and as soon as Tony is in distance, Farrow puts a hand to his chest, stopping him in place. “Man, just let Banks take care of her. She’s comfortable with him.”

  Tony sizes him up. “So you’d rather I switch details with Banks then?” He jabs a thumb to the bar. “I can go look after Maximoff for you.”

  Farrow glares.

  “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You talk like you’re twenty-feet tall, but you look microscopic. Just back up and leave Banks alone. Jane is safe.”

  Tony is about to speak, but Jane brushes her nose against mine, romantically. I try to shift my gaze and shove down any visible affection. I’m Banks.

  I’m my brother.

  …and she’s gorgeous.

  I keep a platonic hand on her head. “She’s comfortable here,” I tell Tony.

  “She’d be more comfortable with me.” He starts to fucking smile.

  I’m gonna kill him. “We’re not testing that.”

  “Afraid she’d like me more than your brother?” He tries to shove forward, but Farrow stops him with another hand-to-chest.

  “I’m so sick of listening to your shit,” Farrow sneers. “Back the fuck off.”

  Tony is about to go in on Farrow, but Maximoff approaches just in time.

  Tony falls back. “I’m carrying her out of the pub when we leave.”

  No way in hell.

  But I’d rather fight him later.

  “What was that?” Maximoff watches Tony trudge heatedly towards the bar. He also eyes Farrow’s lips, and I’m eyeing the plate of food he just brought.

  Looks like a traditional Scottish dish. Nothing I’ve eaten before.

  Farrow cups Maximoff’s head and kisses him. “I’ll tell you later.”

  I scrutinize the plate of brown…balls?

  “Haggis?” Farrow raises his brows. “You do realize the goal is to sober her up, not make her puke?”

  “Thank you for reminding me.” Hale sarcasm is thick. “Let me just swing over to McDonald’s down the street. Order a Big Mac, some fries, a goddamn milkshake.”

  Jane rests her cheek on my chest and toys drunkenly with my mic cord. I have a hard time not watching her. I can’t drown in greed and wish upon every star to kiss her like Farrow did Maximoff. Because I’m here.

  Easily, I could be back in Philly.

  “What else did they have?” I hear Farrow ask.

  “Nothing. The kitchen closed an hour ago, and they ran out of chips. This was it.”

  I cut in, “I’ll try it first.” I take a haggis ball and pop it in my mouth. Cold. It’d be better nuked in a microwave. Grisly. While I chew, I sweep the pub—and I almost choke.

  Unholy…

  Fuck.

  In the darkened corner of the pub, Luna Hale is dirty-dancing with Donnelly. The kind of sloppy dancing you’d see at closing times from trashed guys and girls.

  But her and him—they’re completely sober.

  He cups her ass with two hands, holding her like I’m holding Jane, only she bounces on his lap to the beat of the music, and he sings the blaring song with Luna.

  If Maximoff sees this, he might flip his shit.

  I don’t stare long, and I force a strict, stoic face and wipe away shock. I’m hoping no one notices them. Especially Epsilon.

  “You okay?” Maximoff asks me.

  I swallow the haggis down. “Yeah.” It tastes fine to me, but I doubt Jane will like this meat. “We can see.” I grab more haggis. “Jane.”

  “Mmmh?” She lifts her head.

  I hold the meat to her lips. “Take a bite.”

  She chomps like a tiny animal, then crinkles her nose and spits it off her tongue.

  We laugh.

  “Did you pack any lunchmeat on you?” Farrow asks me seriously. Which surprises me because Farrow and SFO have been ribbing me about the ham and turkey I bought when we landed.

  I’m six-seven.

  I’m fucking hungry during long travels, and yeah, I stuffed a package of lunchmeat in my winter jacket and kept pulling out slices to eat.

  Which is why they were losing their shit in laughter. And I caught my lip rising a few times. Receiving the wise-cracks and light-hearted jabs with no malice attached—it feels unreal, and I’m not sure I deserve the brotherhood that I hurt. But every day I plan to prove them, and myself, that I do.

  The only bad thing: it dawned on me too late that Banks would never carry lunchmeat in his jacket.

  And now Tony thinks he does.

  I hate that.

  “I brought some on the drive here,” I confirm. “It’s in my jacket.”

  After Maximoff finds a pack of turkey in the pocket, I roll a slice and feed my girlfriend. She takes tiny nibbles and chews with a smile.

  The pub suddenly quiets.

  Everyone stares at the television that sits above the fireplace.

  Jack Highland raises the volume, and a haunting cover of the song “What A Wonderful World” plays over a montage of clips.

  Ryke Meadows and Loren Hale are running at dusk.

  Lily Calloway stares strong but tear-streaked in the camera.

  Rose Calloway’s iconic black heels clap along a sterile hallway, and the image pans back to show another pair of feet. Sandals. Daisy Calloway walks with Rose, the sisters holding hands.

  It cuts to Connor Cobalt in a crisp expensive suit. He opens a door, and on the other side are flashes of images that I remember.

  Some, I was a witness to. Some, I’m in as background. As a bodyguard.

  Charlie stands on the orchestra stage during the celebrity auction. Back in May.

  Sullivan peels off swim goggles in a pool.

  Eliot falls to his knees at a theater performance, pain in his face.

  “No, no, no.” Lily’s voice, lurched with fear, bleeds over the images.

  My chest tightens.

  They show a shot of Farrow as he runs his tattooed fingers through his hair, and his eyes hit the camera. We all tense because this is the first time in history a bodyguard is close-up in the docuseries and not just nameless background.

  Luna is buried in her shirt.


  “It shouldn’t have happened like this,” Rose Calloway says emotionally, angrily, gut-wrenchingly as they show Jane screaming into a sob outside the hospital after the car crash.

  I have my hand in Jane’s, leading her to a vehicle.

  Professional.

  I was just her bodyguard back then. But what I felt for her…

  I see my narrowed gaze. I’m glaring at the off-screen paparazzi and yelling at them to get the fuck out of her way, but my words are muted as the music intensifies.

  Jane’s sob is silent on-screen, but I can still hear the pained sound in my ear. I can still feel the forceful push to bring her to safety.

  “Just when you think you know what’s coming,” Daisy Calloway says, “life drags you back.”

  Rain beats asphalt, littered with car pieces.

  The crash.

  And then they zoom in on Maximoff diving off the bow of a yacht. Picturesque clips from the summer trip to Greece start playing. Gradually leading into a brighter tone as they linger on Farrow and Maximoff embracing in an intimate hug.

  Title font appears.

  WE ARE CALLOWAY

  Returns in April

  A car commercial cuts on after the docuseries trailer. How did the production team land footage from the crash? It’s less of a question. More of a disturbing fact.

  Paparazzi.

  It reminds me that fucking cameramen were on-site filming the event.

  Footage in We Are Calloway mostly comes from the production team, but they also use videos from the media, paparazzi, and fans who posted shit online.

  And that emotional trailer just sobered the pub. Maximoff has his arms crossed, and Farrow has a comforting hand on the back of his neck.

  I hadn’t thought much about what it must be like for Jane, her cousins, and siblings to watch the docuseries. But it must be hard to see their parents so emotionally raw about situations that involve them.

  This season will be difficult for most of the team. The car crash was one of the worst events we’ve all been through together.

  In my arms, Jane is blissfully unaware. Half the pub would love to be as drunk as her right now. She chews turkey slowly with a soft smile.

  “You could’ve made that a little happier, Jack,” Farrow teases.