Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(30)

I shake my head, my smiling forming. Wolf scout. I know what he did before Akara explains the rest.

“He predicted the profit loss for every extra week that we’d hypothetically close the raffle early. If we were to take fourteen days to background check the attendees, the event would lose about ten million.”

That’s not a little sum of money.

“Their lives are priceless,” Donnelly says. “Did you tell them that?”

“I did,” Akara says to all of us, “but you know Moffy.”

“He’s stubborn,” Oscar says.

“Selfless,” I add. “H.M.C. Philanthropies helps people.”

Quinn’s brows knit together. “Don’t the families just contribute their wealth to the foundation? Raising more money is chump change in comparison. He could even cancel the event and it’d be fine—”

“No,” the rest of us say in unison.

Akara leans towards Quinn. “All of the H.M.C. money is allocated to four areas: education, environment, LGBTQ issues, and mental health. Within those categories, Moffy built specific programs and initiatives, and not every one is given the same sum. Some programs rely completely on these events.”

“Like the Camp-Away,” I chime in. “All of the earnings go to One More Day.” Everyone knows the program Maximoff created. One More Day provides aid to low-income individuals in need of addiction rehab.

Oscar swishes his water. “Do we really want to deny people-in-need ten million? Just to have an extra week to weed out the hecklers, glitter-and-flour-bombers—possible murderers and rapists?”

Donnelly wants the extra week to ensure everyone’s safety, but I’m ready to tackle “murderers” and “rapists” every day, every hour.

“Tri-Force already made a decision,” Akara says, “and we agreed to Moffy’s terms. Seven days for a background check.”

Donnelly groans.

Oscar curses.

Quinn falls into deep contemplation.

I’m smiling.

Akara leans back on his hands. “It’s not the end of the fucking world. Any threats that get into the event, we’ll detect and isolate there. The Hales, Cobalts, and Meadows trust us for a reason. We make few mistakes, and we never fail.”

Before they talked to Maximoff, the Tri-Force was adamant about changing the raffle. Now they’re gleefully content with his plans.

The guy has a way with people. I’m so impressed, my cock actually pulses.





11





FARROW KEENE





Declan left his replacement—which turned out to be me—a short note. I hadn’t thought hard about Declan’s words, his warning, until the end of September. Until today.

Until Maximoff invited his three siblings and five of his cousins to mini-golf. Until everyone except Jane cancelled when they saw social media: paparazzi and crowds amassed, jumping onto the putt-putt green, like they caught sight of rock stars or English dignitary.

And then Maximoff firmly and concisely said, “We need to leave.”

We’d only been there for a half hour, and he’d spent the prior three hours coordinating the mini-golf outing for his family.

Being forced to drop set-plans that quickly would piss off most people.

Maximoff just pivoted and created a new one in seconds. He signed the golf balls and putters for the mini-golf facility to sell, and then he spent the next hour taking selfies with fans and Jane. I spent that time detaching overwhelmed, sobbing girls and guys off his waist.

When we finally climbed into his Audi, I expected Maximoff to sigh in exhaustion. Maybe express frustration. His mom would’ve been tired, a little upset.

Instead, he seemed just as prepared for anything, and he said, “Let’s find a pub. Jane will meet us.”

Declan should’ve written: Maximoff Hale will barrel through every circle of hell and come out unscathed.

He actually wrote: everything in Moffy’s life is short-lived.

9:12 p.m. we shake off paparazzi and discover a hole-in-the-wall Irish pub around South Philly. After I ensure the place is safe, we order our food and drinks at the bar. They say they’ll bring it to us shortly.

We claim a low wooden table in the very back. Cigarette smoke clouds the cramped, dimly lit area, and a soccer game airs on the only TV. Engrossing several old bearded men at a high-top table, plus the bartender.

I lean back on two legs of my chair and casually examine our surroundings, but I find myself looking at him.

Maximoff reads a text. “Jane and Quinn are still fifteen minutes away.”

I open my mouth to reply, but a voice infiltrates my right ear. “Omega to Farrow.” I drop on all four legs of my chair and press my mic. “Farrow.” My eyes lift to Maximoff who watches intently. Like he’s never even overheard his old bodyguard speak to security before.

Maybe he hasn’t.

I’m not about to excuse myself from the table to speak to Akara. I don’t care if Moffy listens to a conversation that’s about him.

In fact—I pop my earpiece out, hang the cord over my shoulder, and then I swivel the volume knob on my radio. Increasing the sound.

His brows furrow, confused.

My smile stretches. Just wait, wolf scout.

Akara’s voice crackles over the earpiece speaker, audible to me and Maximoff. “I need to know if Moffy plans to go to a drugstore or grocery within the next week. We’ll have to put extra security on him.” With the Camp-Away approaching and its annual popularity, he’s been in entertainment news almost nightly.