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

by Krista Ritchie

  Charlie blinks. “You’re twisting this. You know I don’t take drugs regularly.”

  “So just because I’m careful with coke every day, I’m the addict.” He nods. “Okay, sure, I think Mom and Dad will buy that logic. How about we have a meeting when we’re home? They can hear what you’ve been up to.” He counts on his fingers. “LSD, ecstasy—”

  “You wouldn’t,” Charlie interjects, casual and unconcerned. “I’ll call your bluff every time, brother.”

  I jump in. “It’s every day, Beckett. But what happens when you grow a tolerance and you have to start using it twice a day just to achieve the same high? Then three times. Four. Then you’re doing meth—”

  “No.” He rubs his temples with both hands. “Why aren’t you listening to me? Hear what I’m saying. I’m not using any more than once a day.”

  “Did it start out like that?” I counter.

  He goes quiet, but his glare intensifies. It burns me up. I feel Thatcher’s presence behind me, silently telling me he’s here. And I’m strong. I can do this.

  Plan Z.

  “Substance addiction runs in the Hale and Meadows families, Beckett,” I say, fighting back tears. “You say you’re not an addict. Fine. But I can’t just sleep soundly knowing you’re in New York using cocaine every night just because you believe it helps you dance better. I won’t do that.”

  He shakes his head, pained.

  My throat swells but I keep talking. “I’ve imagined what happens in a year or two or three. I’m going to receive a phone call from Charlie or god-forbid Eliot or Tom. And they’re going to tell me that it was an accident. That maybe it was laced with something or you just took too much that night. And you’ll just be another rich kid killed too early from a drug that caters to the wealthy and bored. A sad statistic marked in your Wikipedia page. While our family has to mourn you every day for the rest of our lives. Because you will leave a gaping, miserable hollow hole. Toujours.” Forever.

  Tears roll down his cheeks, matching mine.

  With reddened eyes, he says, “You can’t make me stop.” It’s the truest thing he’s ever said. Addiction is a wretched monster, and the only one who can truly defeat addiction is the addict.

  We’ve learned well enough from our family. We can do everything in our power to help Beckett, but at the very end, he has to want to help himself.

  And he’s not even close to that point yet. So we are fighting the greatest losing battle with our brother.

  But we’ll still fight for him.

  “I know,” I breathe. Admitting that is a pain to my heart. I know.

  I know.

  I know. And even with that knowledge, I’m going to try anyway. Because I’ve failed far too many times in my life to be terrified of failure now.

  “So here’s what’s going to happen.” I wipe the rest of my tears from my cheeks. No return, no going back. “If you don’t promise me here, today, that you’re going to stop using, then I’m moving to New York. I’m going to live in an apartment on the same hall, and every day that you snort coke, I’m going to do the same.”

  His eyes flash hot. “Jane—”

  “If you’re going to destroy your life, your body, then I’m going to destroy mine.” I add in French, “Ton destin est mon destin.” Your fate is my fate.

  Charlie steps forward. “Ton destin est mon destin.”

  “You’re insane.” He rubs away his tear tracks with the heel of his palm. “You’re both insane.”

  “We’re Cobalts,” Charlie declares.

  Beckett extends an arm. “So being a Cobalt is now synonymous with insanity? That’s great.” He plants a look on me. “You’re not taking coke. You freaked out when you ate a pot cookie. I call your bluff.”

  Charlie reaches into his back pocket. “We thought you’d say that.” He procures a small baggie. Filled with white powder.

  36

  THATCHER MORETTI

  13 Days Snowed-In

  Charlie waves the small baggie of coke. Which he bought in town before we were snowed-in. I knew—I fucking knew this part would be like a swift kick to the gut.

  It’d throttle me to move. To come to her aid. To sweep Jane protectively in my arms and pull her from immediate danger. I watch this play out in real-time, and it’s fucking unbearable. Tendons in my neck pull taut, searing inside out. I grit down on my teeth and stay frosty.

  Focused on her.

  Back when I first heard the plan, my immediate reaction was to say no.

  Fuck no.

  Hell no.

  Anyway you want to say it—no.

  But Jane loves her family, and she’d do just about anything to protect them. Even put herself at risk. Being the barrier between her and that is like telling her not to be all of who she is.

  So I said yes.

  But seeing the events unfold, I’m questioning my judgment seven ways to hell.

  Beckett has a what the fuck expression as he stares at the baggie. “Where did you get that? How…?”

  Charlie arches a brow.

  “Right. You’ve been to Scotland before,” Beckett remembers. “I’m guessing you knew someone here who could sell to you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Fantastic,” he mutters.

  Among the security team, Beckett is known to be somewhat reasonable, mostly calm and dedicated to his craft—but I’m staring at a twenty-one-year-old who’s so fucking frayed at the seams. I question how many times a day he spends ensuring every thread is hidden, every fucking stitch sewn.

  I want to protect him.

  I want to protect her.

  He glances at Jane. “Sis, you’re not really going to go through with this?”

  “I am.”

  Sickness burns my throat. I blink infrequently, almost not at all.

  Charlie sits on the edge of a red floral couch. He pours cocaine on a glass coffee table and uses a black credit card to separate the powder in lines.

  Beckett looks haunted. He pushes away from the windowsill but he stops short of the table. He turns on me. “You’re really going to let Jane snort cocaine?”

  I don’t answer. My pulse is in my ears. Ever since my PTSD crept outside of a nightmare, I worry I might meet it again.

  Not today, I pray.

  “Seriously?” Beckett shakes his head. “What kind of boyfriend are you?”

  “One who knows how important this is,” I say with severity. “You’re the only one in this room who can stop her.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I glare, and my anger bursts. “If you want her to stop, just fucking tell her!”

  Tell her, goddammit.

  “You tell her!” Beckett points at Jane.

  “I can’t!” I shout. “You’re the only one.”

  His face contorts. “No. I’m getting Moffy.” He heads to the door.

  I side-step to block his exit, and I stare down at him. “Maximoff already knows.”

  His eyes darken. “There’s no way.”

  Jane sinks down to her knees in front of the table. “Well, technically Moffy thinks you’d never let me do this.”

  Maximoff believes in him.

  Farrow doesn’t. I don’t, and I feel like 9 out of 10 outcomes involve Jane using drugs in this room. If we repeated this ten times, I only see Beckett choosing his sister and brother once.

  Is this that one time?

  I doubt it.

  Charlie went a darker route when we planned this, and he said, “We might need to call in Moffy to join us.”

  “No,” Farrow and Jane said.

  But the reality is that Maximoff is sober. He has the family history of addiction, and Charlie thinks that forcing Maximoff to use drugs could push Beckett to quit more than them.

  Maximoff agreed.

  He’s waiting in the hall.

  If Charlie gives me a signal, I’m supposed to radio Farrow, who’ll tell Maximoff to come inside. But I can’t put Farrow in the position I’m in.

  I can�
��t put Maximoff in the position Jane is in.

  Beckett has to choose his sister.

  He stares past me and out the many windows. Confliction tearing up his face—and I just tell him, “Choose her.”

  His eyes redden.

  It’s the easiest call in the book. “Choose her. She’s right there.” I point at his sister, knelt in front of his vice. “Choose your twin brother.”

  Charlie meets Beckett’s eyes, both the same yellow-green.

  He slowly, almost involuntarily, shakes his head. He faces the door. “Let me out.”

  “No.” Acid drips down my throat.

  I’ve never been addicted to anything in my life—not like my twin brother who’s been trying to kick his own habits for years. I understand it can’t be that simple for him. Something in his head is telling him it’s the hardest call of his life.

  So difficult he’s standing here wrestling with himself.

  Jane frowns, then asks Charlie, “So how do I do this?”

  Beckett is turned towards me. Only me. And when he hears that, his face begins to crack, a fissure running through his features.

  Charlie instructs, “Press your finger to one nostril—”

  “Stop,” Beckett says in a whisper that I can only hear.

  Charlie keeps talking, and I nod Beckett towards his siblings.

  “No.” He battles emotion. “You have to stop her. If my parents hear that you let her do this, they’ll never accept you. Do you want that?”

  I narrow my eyes on him. All I’ve wanted is for her family to fully accept me. Beckett knows that, and I realize what has to be done.

  I click my mic on my collar. “Banks to Farrow, barricade the door. Don’t let Beckett out.”

  “Done,” Farrow responds.

  I leave my post with a determined, assured stride, and I lower next to Jane on the floor. “Make me a line,” I tell Charlie.

  He frowns for a millisecond before smiling.

  I finally look to Jane.

  Her lips are parted, eyes wide. “Thatcher?”

  “We do this together,” I say. “You and me.”

  Tears gather in her eyes. I brush them away.

  “People do stupid things when they’re in love,” Charlie says, but it’s not in disdain. It’s warm, heartfelt and he looks at me like he’s acknowledging that I am stupid-in-love with his sister. And fuck it, that’s the best outcome there is.

  Three lines streak the table. I’ve never done cocaine, but I can’t think of a better reason to. My mind is right. That’s all that matters.

  “You ready?” Jane asks.

  “I’m good to go.”

  She smiles.

  I hold her hand, and we dip our heads down to the table with Charlie.

  “Stop!” Beckett shouts. “Wait, just stop!” He storms over and places a hardback book on top of the cocaine lines. “Don’t ever.” He’s speaking to his sister and brother. “Not for me.”

  Jane tenses. “Only if—”

  “Yes, okay. Yes. I’m going to stop. I won’t use anymore. Not for performances or rehearsals.”

  “Or anything,” Charlie says.

  “Or anything,” he promises.

  “Because if you do, I’ll be your roommate,” Jane reminds him. “Thatcher, Charlie, and I will be using every single day—”

  “I know. The threat still stands, I heard you,” Beckett nods. “I know, sis.”

  We all are on our feet.

  “It’s not just a threat,” Charlie says. “It’s an oath.”

  Beckett surprisingly nods. “Okay. Let’s spit on it.”

  “No.” Jane begins to smile. “This one has to be done with blood.” She turns to me, and I unsheathe my knife, the kind every bodyguard here is armed with, instead of guns.

  The four of us make a blood pact in the tower room. Jane glances at me while Charlie cuts his palm, and we share an acknowledgement that Beckett’s promise could be temporary. The only thing stopping him from using isn’t a pact. It’s not Jane. Or me. Or Charlie.

  It’s himself.

  And the moment he decides this isn’t worth it, he’ll start again. But for now, we all settle with taking his word. Hopefully it means something.

  37

  THATCHER MORETTI

  20 Days Snowed-In

  Akara has called an emergency security meeting, Epsilon bodyguards included—and no one is throwing jabs or backhanded horseshit. We gather around the circular breakfast table in the cold kitchen and carry complete focus and intensity. Committed to the same purpose, the same reason we’re here.

  Our clients.

  These families come first.

  We’ve sworn to put them before our feuds, before our personal problems, before our hunger and aches and pains and needs.

  Akara unzips his wet jacket, the sat-phone on the table. “Here’s the deal, guys. The village’s inn is a ten-hour hike on foot, and the owner said she has enough provisions to house six people if we can make it there.”

  “Scots are dope,” Donnelly says.

  Residents here have been more than friendly. Over a few days ago, a Scottish local trekked here to check up on us. Just in time too. He helped us fix another burst pipe. Without the generosity and kindness of the Scottish residents, we couldn’t stay here long in these conditions.

  “We have two problems,” Akara announces. “1. We can’t leave until the winds die down—and from what she said, it didn’t sound like anytime soon, and 2. Only six people can go.” The change of scenery, getting out of this house—it’ll be like a life raft for some.

  The priority list is unspoken.

  Six clients are in Scotland: Jane, Maximoff, Charlie, Beckett, Sullivan, and Luna. They come first. Along with the little sister of two bodyguards. We take care of our own.

  Joana Oliveira is high-priority.

  Which makes seven. But we all know Maximoff will volunteer to stay behind.

  “You only want six people to go on the ten-hour hike?” Oscar asks for clarification.

  Akara nods. “Just six.”

  Quinn frowns. “Why not send bodyguards as escorts? We can go with the clients, drop them off, then hike back here.”

  “We can’t risk it,” Akara explains. “If the weather changes, you won’t be able to return to Mackintosh House, and we have to respect the fact that they’re letting six stay. It needs to be a group of two bodyguards and four clients.”

  Tension stretches in the brief pause.

  Akara peels off his gloves. “Most of them are nearing breaking points. It’s not a secret.”

  Chairs creak as men lean back or shift.

  I cross my arms, my jaw hardened. Bodyguards—we’re used to the grind. Being snowed-in for almost three-weeks with little communication back home is more or less a cakewalk, but it’s not as easy for these families.

  Being useless to the people we protect, especially as they unravel—that’s a hundred times harder than splitting a bowl of oatmeal eight ways.

  Which we did this morning.

  “We have to priority-rank them,” Akara says. “High is critical, medium is urgent, and low is fine to stay. I want an evaluation of your client and a rank. We’ll go around the table, and if anyone has information about the client being discussed, you need to share.”

  Going counter-clockwise, we start with O’Malley. Beckett’s bodyguard.

  “His hands are raw,” O’Malley tells us. “He’s been washing them too many times a day. He needs to go back to PA more than anything.”

  “It’s not an option,” Akara reminds him. “How would you rank him?”

  “Critical.”

  Everyone is nodding.

  Quinn scoots forward, elbows on the table. He brushes a knuckle over the scar under his eye. “Okay, so Luna has been pretty emotional…” He stops himself short. “I’d say she’s critical.” He’s being tight-lipped on his client’s behalf.

  He picked this shit up from Farrow. Who gives half-answers and vague responses duri
ng debriefings. The bare minimum.

  Flat-out, it’s annoying.

  Akara gives him a look. “How does that make her critical?”

  “She’s been crying.” Quinn tries to clarify.

  Oscar pulls on a Yale sweatshirt. “Is she homesick?”

  “No, that’s not really it.”

  My eyes narrow on Quinn. I understand it’s uncomfortable to unleash private information about the clients we’re closest to—but Akara needs this intel in order to make a call.

  I glance at the Omega lead. “She’s the one who ran out of birth control.” This might be affecting her hormones on some level.

  Quinn shoots me a glare. “What if Luna didn’t want everyone to know?”

  “We’re fucking past that, Quinn,” I say seriously.

  Akara nods. “We could be here for another three months, guys. This isn’t the time to censor any shit. You know something, say it.”

  Donnelly smacks a pack of cigarettes on his palm. “She’s been having bad cramps too.”

  “There’s no more pain meds,” Farrow reminds everyone.

  “She’s critical,” Akara agrees with Quinn, and we move on.

  To me.

  But at this meeting with Epsilon, I’m Banks Moretti. Which means that my client is Maximoff Hale, shared with Farrow.

  So I turn to him beside me. “You go ahead.”

  Farrow balances back on his chair legs. “Maximoff isn’t sleeping. He’s probably clocked in two hours in three days, and that’s being extremely fucking generous.”

  “Is he taking Ripped Fuel?” O’Malley asks, actually being cordial.

  “No.” Farrow shakes his head. “He’s just stubborn as fuck, and he feels responsible to help get everyone home.”

  Akara nods. “Where would you rank him?”

  “Urgent, but he’s going to place himself as fine.”

  Maximoff won’t take up a spot that his cousin or sister could fill.

  We continue, jumping over Donnelly who has no client here.

  Oscar sounds deadly serious as he says, “Charlie can’t be here. I’ve never seen him locked in one place for this long. He can’t handle it, and I’ll tell you right now, he’s critical and he’s number one on the priority list.”