Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(101)

My feet carry me to the table of five twenty-year-old bastards. I know their names by heart, but honestly, I’m not using them anymore. To me, they’re just bastards and dipshits.

As soon as I tower above their table, they go absolutely quiet. Their gazes latch onto my plethora of tattoos and my T-shirt that says SECURITY.

“Let’s talk outside,” I tell all of them.

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” one tells me.

“I didn’t say you were,” I say calmly, biting my apple. I can’t raise my voice. I can’t raise my fists. I intimidate without inciting chaos. “Let’s just go outside and have a chat. It won’t take long.” I nod towards the exit.

Just like that, they all agree.

For a few minutes, I lecture them about the importance of being kind and considerate. You know, the bare minimum of human decency.

They nod a lot. Whether they’re really listening to me has yet to be determined.

“Sure,” the blond bastard tells me, “but I think it’s shitty for you to pull us aside and single us out. We paid to be here. You’re taking up our time that could’ve been spent sitting five-feet from Jane Cobalt.” He does a poor job of hiding his smile.

And his friends burst into grins.

I grit down, and off my piercing glare, they immediately stop. “Let me make this very fucking clear,” I say. “She doesn’t owe you a thing. Not her time. Not the air between your body and hers. You paid to be in a raffle. For charity. If you choose to overstep, security will throw you the fuck out. But see, I don’t want that to happen.”

I pause while they hang onto my words.

And I forge past my despise, just to tell them, “You guys seem cool.” As cool as a fucking idiot. “So the last thing I want is for you to miss out on these last couple days. Be respectful. Tone it down.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We get it,” one says. “We’ll try to be nicer or whatever.”

Or whatever. Honestly.

Another one nods to me. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem.” Fuck, I just made friends with these dipshits.

As soon as they all leave, soft static pricks my ear. I turn up the radio.

“Did he hit them?” Oscar’s voice.

“Nah, they’re walking away,” Donnelly replies.

“Hey, guys.” I click my mic. “I’ve made new friends.”

“Nice work,” Akara tells me, genuine.

“You boys taking notes?” I ask them.

“Next time someone should be with you though,” Akara adds. “That could’ve been five on one.”

I could’ve taken all five of them.

“Take that note down, Farrow,” Donnelly pipes in.

I roll my eyes and then watch those five bastards strut down the hill to the lake. I wish I could’ve just kicked them out of the camp. The publicity nightmare of sending someone home would destroy the purpose of the charity event.

So they have to stay.





37





MAXIMOFF HALE





Farrow unlocks our tent after the bonfire gathering ends. No moon out tonight, day two. I point a flashlight at the entrance and watch the way his fingers fiddle with the key and padlock. And the zipper.

Try having your bodyguard a few feet from you all day and seeing him in his element: intimidating the hell out of assholes, medically savvy, badass and smart as fuck. Now try not picturing his cock a million times.

Yeah, that’s hard. Pun intended.

Now try not being able to touch him. To flash fuck me eyes. To clutch the back of his neck and plunge my tongue against his tongue.

I could growl I’m so pent-up. I want him.

All day I’ve wanted him, and I haven’t been able to embrace him.

I’m not about to jump him like he’s my sex toy. He may be exhausted. So as we both crawl into the tent, I try to hang onto other things.

Like how this is the last night of the Camp-Away, and there’s been no broken bones. Not too many tears—most of them were happy. And no Charlie. It’s been pretty damn good, even with the first day ant-allergy attack.

As far as danger goes, it’s been safer than I think the entire security team predicted. After breakfast tomorrow, everyone will start packing up, last goodbyes exchanged, and we’ll all go home.

I stretch my legs out on my orange sleeping bag, and Farrow padlocks the tent from the inside. As much as I love camping, I’m not a fan of these extra precautions. I’m so used to feeling freer in the wilderness. With this many people around and their cellphone cameras—it’s practically the antithesis of why I camp.

I peel my shirt off my head. The December chill nipping my bare skin. Farrow edges back beside me, eyeing me from his peripheral while he slowly removes his earpiece and twists the cord around his radio. He places his holstered gun beneath his camping pillow.

I shut off the flashlights. No more shadows dancing along the tent.

And we’re isolated from camp-goers—private but not that private. More security is outside. “You know,” I whisper, “I’ve never fucked in a tent.”

We haven’t done anything yet because of my allergic reaction. My blood pressure has been out of whack, but I’m fine now.