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

by Krista Ritchie

  What happens next is history.

  My history.

  Maybe they never explained these dinners because you can’t. I’m twenty-eight, but here—no person is older or younger. Time is frozen, and a soul-bleeding feeling sings and screams—an experience that philosophers and mathematicians would fail to encapsulate.

  I’d try.

  But then again, I’d rather carry their secrets to my grave.

  44

  THATCHER MORETTI

  “SKY! SKYLAR!” I yell out and drop my bike. I bolt into pitch-black water. Soaked up to my waist before I swim, and I reach the facedown floating body, turning my brother over—our gold necklaces snag. My strong pulse beats in my ears, and gripping him, I swim and pull. I drag him to the graveled shore.

  My strong pulse beats.

  Water drips down my eyelashes. I lie him down, chained at the necks, forced to stay close.

  It beats.

  I pump on his chest.

  It beats.

  I blow breath into his mouth and compress his chest—Skylar jolts up and grabs my arms in panic. “Thatch!”

  My eyes snap open, a cold sweat coating me. Nightmare—just a fucking nightmare. I stay still and blink a few times, my pulse on a decent. Fuck me. I blink and gather spatial awareness. I’m in Jane’s bedroom.

  Our room.

  She sleeps peacefully beside me, tucked under a purple blanket. Naked, both of us, except for the cornic’ around my neck and my dog tags around hers. Quietly, I grab my phone off the nightstand and check the time, squinting as the screen lights up in the darkened bedroom. It’s zero three hundred hours.

  Early. Too early for sunlight.

  I lie back, head to pillow, and I smear a hand over my eyes. My nightmares are always related to my time in the military—I can’t remember ever having one about that night in the quarry.

  Back when I was twelve and Sky was fifteen, my brother—he never woke up.

  I try to think about other things. Like how it’s nearing the end of March, and we’re only three days away from Tony’s transfer to Charlie’s detail. And him becoming the Omega lead.

  Yeah, that’s not making me feel any better.

  To slow my heart rate, I take a few deep, measured breaths, and I smell something…

  I sniff the air.

  My pulse shoots back up, and I narrow my gaze on the door.

  Filmy lines of smoke billow underneath and spill into the room.

  I’m on my feet in a split-second. “Jane.” I tug on my drawstring pants, then I jostle my fiancée. “Jane!”

  She flinches awake. “What, Thatcher?” Panic strikes her eyes as I leave the bed to cross the room and swing open the closet.

  “Oh my God.” She sees the smoke pooling inside, and while I grab the fire extinguisher behind a shoebox, she hurriedly puts on panties and my black crewneck. And she glances at the wall. “LUNA! WAKE UP!”

  Her cats—our cats. They barrel to the front of my mind.

  I sprint out. Smoke skates across the second-floor landing and narrow staircase, stinging my eyes. I cough into my bicep and yell up towards the attic, “MAXIMOFF! FARROW!”

  The fire isn’t coming from their room.

  I slam a fist on a second-floor bedroom. “LUNA!” She’s a heavy sleeper. Could take more than that to wake her—but I run downstairs to stop the fire.

  Heat is pouring from the first floor. The cracking sound is as violent as the sweltering temperature, and I enter an absolute fucking horror scene. Fire spreads to the ceiling, eats the floorboards, attacking the wood foundation, and it tries to crawl up the brick walls.

  Pink loveseat in flames, but the kitchen—the kitchen is engulfed, maybe in seconds. I extinguish the living room, protecting the front door exit.

  “BANKS!” I yell at the adjoining door.

  My brother.

  SFO.

  They’re asleep in the other townhouse. The door opens, and Donnelly almost blows back. “Shit.” He’s been crashing on security’s couch. I remember Akara spent the night here too. He hasn’t moved back to the gated neighborhood yet.

  I throw the empty extinguisher, abandoning the task.

  We can’t put out this fire. I spot a gray cat cowering beneath the rocking chair, tail on fire. Sweat drips off me as I run and snatch up Licorice, putting out the flames with my hand. Fur singed.

  Donnelly shields his nose and races towards the staircase like he’s going to find someone.

  I yell back at him, “Wake Akara, Quinn, Banks, and Tony! Get them outside!” Licorice claws up my chest, and I pull the frightened cat down.

  Donnelly coughs, stops, and reroutes back into security’s townhouse.

  Farrow runs down the stairs. “Fuck,” he curses at the sight and winces. Cringes.

  The heat is un-fucking-bearable. My eyes sear from smoke, lungs burning. “Less than two minutes before it’s upstairs!” I yell. If the fire barricades Jane, Maximoff, and Luna, we’ll need to exit a window. I point to the front door, the better exit.

  The clock is set. Less than two minutes.

  Farrow nods and eagle-eyes something on my six. “Go.”

  I trust him. I don’t wait to look at what he sees. I leave Farrow and sprint back upstairs. Back to the people we’d give our lives to protect.

  Jane is already on the phone with the fire department and corralling Ophelia into a cat carrier. Her eyes widen when she sees Licorice’s singed tail.

  “He’s fine.” I shove him in with Ophelia.

  “I have Toodles!” Maximoff yells from the landing, a tuxedo cat tight in his arms. That cat—he never lets Maximoff hold him, except for right now. Toodles isn’t fidgeting. “Luna, you ready?”

  “Yeah.” Her Thrashers sweatshirt consumes her gangly frame.

  I zip up the carrier while Jane hangs up. Fire truck sirens blare in the distance.

  We’re missing four cats.

  We have no time to search a house that’s going down fast.

  Jane is near tears, but she pushes through the grief and fear. “We need to leave now.” She stands with the carrier.

  “Where’s Farrow?” Maximoff asks.

  “Cover your nose.” I hand Jane a shirt from the floor. Luna already buries her nose in her sweatshirt.

  “Thatcher, where’s Farrow?!” Maximoff screams.

  “Downstairs. He’s fi—”

  Maximoff is already running down the steps.

  I walk out in front of Luna and Jane in case the fire has swarmed the stairs. Farrow is already at the bottom, grasping the furry necks of two calico cats. One in each hand. “The door is clear!”

  Two cats missing.

  Maximoff sees Farrow is okay. Farrow assesses his fiancé, and we all work together to leave. I press against the brick wall, making the girls pass me, and I come up in the rear, my hand on Jane’s hip.

  Maximoff draws his sister closer, protecting Luna while Farrow leads them through the fast-burning, tiny living room.

  One clear path.

  That’s all we have.

  We cough, and through the thick, bright haze of smoke and fire—I stay vigilant and see a black cat in the unlit fireplace. On the mantel, flames eat away and consume family photographs.

  I reroute.

  Jane feels my hand leave her side. “No—wait, Thatcher!”

  “Don’t stop!” I yell. Don’t wait for me.

  Maximoff pulls her forward.

  I barrel through fire, heat licking my chest, and I don’t think. I just collect a scared Lady Macbeth, and I exit behind the four of them.

  We’re on the street. At a safe distance while the old Philly townhouse burns and burns. Flames lick the second-floor windows.

  Our room.

  I cough out a lungful of smoke, and Jane tears Lady Macbeth out of my arms. More so I can catch my breath without a cat clawing me to death.

  “Thatcher?”

  I nod to her that I’m fine, and I sweep her—she’s alive, safe, breathing. And I swee
p the chaotic perimeter. Fire trucks aren’t here yet. Neighbors pool out onto the street. Paparazzi shout, spilling out of their cars. They toss water bottles to us, ask if we’re okay, and take pictures and videos.

  Banks.

  I search for my brother, but he’s already jogging up to me. “SFO is good. Everyone is out.” He glances between me and Jane. “The cats?”

  Jane looks up at me, and agony finally reaches her—she breaks down, tears pouring out. Face contorting. I hold her against my body. My stomach is in knots—I fucking failed. All I can do is comfort her.

  “How many?” Banks asks me.

  “We didn’t find LJ.”

  “What?” Tony hears that last part, walking closer. “You left the kitten?” He combs back his hair, eyeing the opened front door.

  He wouldn’t.

  I look back at the end of the street. For one second, and when I turn, Tony is running towards the engulfed townhouse. To save a cat that’s probably already dead.

  To prove something.

  That he’s worth more than me.

  “TONY!” I growl out. “STOP!”

  He doesn’t stop.

  “What the fuck is he doing?!” Quinn shouts.

  “Saving a kitten,” Banks says, his voice tight like he’s caging breath. Probably hoping Tony will retreat at the foot of the door.

  Farrow jogs closer. “Luna has LJ.”

  “What?” Jane chokes out, unburying herself from my chest.

  Tony. I yell at the top of my lungs, “SHE HAS THE CAT!”

  He doesn’t hear and he disappears into the fucking fire. Alarm triggers a reaction in me. I touch my collar for a mic. I’m shirtless. And no one grabbed a radio. There was no time.

  I have one last instinct that tries to shove me forward.

  Get him.

  I let the reflex take over me, and I touch the top of her head, lovingly, and I run back to the house. My strong pulse beats in my ears.

  “NO!” Banks screams.

  “You can’t,” she cries out.

  If my life means anything, let it mean this: I tried with my whole soul to protect the ones who couldn’t protect themselves, and I loved while I was here.

  I will always love my brother.

  And Jane—I will always, always love Jane. Death can’t take that from me.

  45

  BANKS MORETTI

  I run after my twin—he enters a literal burning building like he’s immune to the flames. That’s my brother. Six-minutes older. Entering hellfire with vigilance and confidence that’d make his men feel safe.

  I follow. To stop him. Lungs fucking ablaze.

  I don’t even reach the curb before Akara tackles me.

  My chest and knees thud to the hot cement. No, no—fucking no! “Get off!” I scream between gritted teeth, and I thrash against Akara. “Get the fuck off me!” Someone stop my brother. My chin digs into pavement, eyes wide-open. Super-glued to this misery.

  Fire lights up the night sky, smoke mushrooming above us, and flames burst through every window on every level of that stupid fucking house.

  I scream out the anger and pain and ruthless agony. I thrash and fucking thrash. Snot runs out of my nose.

  My pulse is ripped out of my veins.

  Akara has a knee on my spine—Donnelly and Farrow are also pinning me down. Three of them restrain me. To save me because my brother is gone.

  Thatcher and I—we were never allowed in the same platoon. Because of a military rule about brothers.

  They don’t put them together in the unfortunate event that one dies. It ensures that the other will survive. So a parent won’t lose two sons at the same time.

  I never understood that.

  Call me a dumbass, a stunad. But to survive my twin brother’s death is worse than being six-feet under.

  I fight them. It’s all I have.

  “You can’t go in there!” Akara yells in my ear.

  “He’s gonna die for Tony,” I choke and spit out into the pavement. But I know Thatcher.

  He’d die for just about anyone.

  I hear Jane behind me, crying in anguish that already slashes up my body.

  “Close your eyes, Banks,” Akara orders, his voice almost cracking.

  I’m watching the house burn down with my twin inside. I can’t feel the flames tearing at his skin—I just feel the pain of losing someone who’s a part of my soul.

  “Just kill me,” I choke.

  Akara covers my eyes with his hand.

  And everything goes black.

  46

  JANE COBALT

  “I can’t…” I can’t breathe. I kneel on the street, our cats—I think Quinn and Luna took them to a car or neighboring house.

  I can’t…

  I just…

  Thatcher is gone. Our house is in flames. In a matter of minutes.

  “Breathe, Janie.” Moffy holds me from behind. His arms wrapped around me, and I clutch his biceps for dear life. I feel like I’m falling and falling into an endless abyss and I can’t reach the surface. Suffocating and suffocating.

  We were going to marry.

  He’d be my husband, and I’d be his wife.

  Breath is strangled in my windpipe. “Thatcher,” I choke.

  Maximoff hugs me, telling me he’s here. Tears flow like broken dams down my face, and my eyes burn from worse than smoke.

  I barely notice the fire truck arrive. Firefighters roll out hoses to contain the blaze—and right as they approach the townhouse, the roof collapses.

  I can’t even hear my own blood-curdling wail.

  Maximoff picks me up. He carries me further away from the fire, but the pain follows, attached to me like a parasite. I bury my face in his shoulder, and when we’re behind a parked SUV, I vomit.

  Gravel digging in my knees, I puke until nothing else comes out, dry heaving, and Moffy tries to help me stop. I dazedly touch the shirt on my body. Baggy, a men’s crewneck.

  I’m wearing his shirt. And his dog tags.

  I fall back into Moffy. He catches me, and I curl up into a ball.

  “I love him,” I cry. “I love him…I love him.”

  My biggest regret is not saying it enough.

  47

  JANE COBALT

  It feels like eternity that he’s gone.

  I can’t count the seconds, the minutes. Every passing moment extends into utter oblivion, and I calm behind the SUV.

  Enough to stare blankly at the road, numb and hollowed.

  “Janie!” Maximoff pulls me to my feet.

  “What…?” I follow his gaze to the collapsed, burning townhouse. As firefighters hose down the battered structure, the garage door slowly begins to open.

  Is it…?

  Thatcher emerges with an unconscious Tony. He’s cradling him in his arms.

  I run towards him. Air pumping into my crying lungs. I feel out-of-body, like I’m floating, and to my left, the SFO bodyguards release their weight off Banks, and he races towards his twin brother.

  First Responders pry Tony out of Thatcher’s clutch—taking him to an ambulance—and Thatcher nearly stumbles forward, but I come beside him.

  I hold his waist.

  Banks holds his other side, and we bring him to the second ambulance. Soot is smeared across his face and body. Skin eaten on his right shoulder. He’s badly burned.

  Thatcher coughs, “I found him like that…a rafter knocked him out.” It must’ve taken him a while to carry Tony to the garage. He hacks up a lung. “I’m fine.”

  “Like hell,” Banks says.

  I can’t be upset at Thatcher for risking his life for Tony. It’s engrained in him, and to tell him to do differently would be to tell him to be less of who he is. I’m angry that it had to happen.

  I’m angry at the circumstances.

  I think Banks is too.

  Thatcher takes a seat on the back of the ambulance. His hand—his hand is in mine. He seizes my gaze like he’s implanting me in his memory.
<
br />   I’m crying all over again. “I love you, I love you. Don’t go anywhere. Please.”

  “I won’t.” He brings me closer to hold me, but I won’t let him with his third-degree burns. I don’t want to hurt him.

  “No. You need a hospital.” I flag down a paramedic, but I keep my hand in his.

  Light touches his serious eyes.

  Banks huffs at him. “You’re a fucking gabbadost’. I fucking wanna kick your ass right now and hug you.”

  “I had to,” Thatcher coughs lightly. “Tony is family.”

  “Yeah, and we all would’ve mourned you more than him.”

  Thatcher shakes his head. “You’re just making me feel badly for him, Banks.” He suddenly doubles-over in a coughing fit.

  We need to go.

  Farrow jogs over to us, med bag slung across his chest. “Tony is alive and conscious.” He sweeps Thatcher. “Get your ass in the ambulance, Moretti.”

  He straightens up, done coughing, and we’re about to help him. But he dips his head down and kisses my cheek, his lips brush my ear as he whispers, “I love you. Always, always.”

  My heart swells. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Good. I don’t want you to.”

  I climb into the ambulance right behind him. We steal glances in every beat.

  He’s still here.

  48

  THATCHER MORETTI

  I put her through hell. I put my brother through hell, and I hate that I dragged them down into that inferno. I understand too fucking well that what they endured was worse than smoke inhalation and third-degree burns.

  It weighs on me at Philly General.

  I’m on my feet in the hospital room, gripping my IV stand. Abandoning the bed. I can’t sit. I’ve already had to be motionless for hours while a nurse dressed my burn, applying moist, sterile gauze on my right shoulder. I’m lucky that I don’t need skin grafts.