Misfits Like Us (Like Us #11)(85)

It also made me believe that Beckett never wanted me back. Because Charlie would’ve tried to intervene to make that shit happen.

And he never did.

“Finally come to make amends with my brother?” Charlie asks like he knew I’d be here at some point.

New Question of the Day: Can Charlie Cobalt see the future?

“Gotta talk to Beckett, yeah.”

Charlie opens the door wider for me, and he’s leading me inside the bachelor pad. Even though Beckett is on a leather barstool, eating cereal at the counter, my gaze drifts past him. Beyond him.

I see Luna.

She’s on the living room couch. A binder on her lap. Tom and Eliot don’t seem to be around, but she gives me a secret thumbs-up, probably realizing why I’d be here. To go through with asking Beckett for help.

My lips almost lift in a smile. Her silent support means a lot. Seeing as how I haven’t told Farrow anything, I’m glad to have her.

Charlie leans against the stove, arms threaded loosely over his chest, and I go over to Beckett who slowly dunks his spoon in cereal. Surprise arches his brows when I nod to him.

“Can we talk?” I wonder.

Tension is thick. Discomfort isn’t a feeling I’m used to among my Cobalts. I don’t like it.

Beckett simply nods and slides gracefully off the stool, just wearing gray drawstring pants. Leaving the cereal bowl on the bar counter, he’s guiding me towards his bedroom.

I follow and shut the door behind us.

I’ve been in here before. Blue comforter is ironed of wrinkles. I’ve seen him take an actual iron and run the hot metal across his bed. I’ve seen him steam his curtains and obsess over the creases.

I’ve seen him line up pencils on his desk and refold his T-shirts.

I’ve helped him refold shirts before. When he couldn’t even stand looking at them.

We became friends before all that. He trusted me when some drunk shithead in New York was following him. Pestering him to get in his car for a good time.

To get the guy off his ass, I pretended to be with him. I slung my arm around his shoulders. “He’s taken, man. Stop harassing my boyfriend.” The threatening glare I cast got the guy to raise his hands. Got him to shuffle backwards and leave Beckett alone.

We were walking to one of his favorite nightclubs. “You alright?” I asked, dropping my arm.

Beckett pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Better now. Thank you.” His yellow-green eyes were gentle and kind, but there’s a fierceness inside all Cobalts, even him. “You smoke?”

I nod. “Do you?”

“More than I should.” He handed me a cigarette before taking one out for himself. “I think my mom would rather I tattooed my entire body before I inhaled these.”

“Say no more. I can make that happen, man.”

He laughed, then lit my cigarette before lighting his own. “You do a lot of ass tats?”

“You’d be surprised,” I laughed into a grin. So we got to talking about me being a tattooist in an Ivy League town of New Haven, Connecticut. And how he was thinking of one day getting a tattoo, despite the ballet not loving them on dancers. Makeup could cover it.

We ended up at the nightclub, and instead of treating me like a brick wall, Beckett talked to me the whole night and introduced me to some of his friends. I didn’t drink on-duty, but I danced. So that was the start of every good thing we had.

Where I’d be his wingman when he picked up people. He’d end most nights walking back to the apartment complex with me. Talking about life, the world.

I didn’t just feel like I knew him. I felt like he trusted me more than he’s ever trusted anyone. Sometimes, even more than his own twin.

I’d go with him to sex clubs. I’m straight. I’ve seen him fuck. I know intimately what Beckett likes to do, and as a friend, I told him what I like too. As his bodyguard, I had to be there, but no, I didn’t participate. And I’ve never hooked up with him. But I wonder if I were someone else, someone more judgmental, maybe he wouldn’t have gone.

Maybe he doesn’t go anymore with O’Malley protecting him, and he’s lost something he enjoyed doing.

I don’t like that for him either, but I can’t change what happened.

Beckett faces me quietly. His dark wavy hair is virtually curly, his shirtless chest ripped. He has muscles and tendons that sculptors would admire. A body that’s a work of art. One that works too hard.

“Let’s talk,” Beckett says. The words might sound casual to most, but I can hear the subtle bite.

Is he angry?

When Beckett asked for a new bodyguard—when he got me transferred off his detail—we didn’t talk about it. I didn’t tell him it was okay. I didn’t wish him well.

I was devastated. I was losing the person I saw day and night. The person I couldn’t imagine not protecting. Never pictured being anywhere else but with him. Some nights it felt like Donnelly and Beckett Take New York.

It felt like a novel of my life. Not a handful of chapters.

“You pissed at me?” I wonder.

He tilts his head, staring faraway to the left in thought.

I shift my weight. “I’m not the one who requested a transfer—”

“I had to,” Beckett interjects quickly, hurt flashing through his eyes. “You’re the one who never told me about your aversion to drugs. I shouldn’t have had to find out from your friends. You should’ve told me. I would’ve never…” He trails off, his gaze staying on mine.