Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(34)

My gaze latches intensely onto his. And his brown eyes plaster onto my green. So strongly that I’m drop-dead positive we’re forcing ourselves not to look lower. Not to our lips, not to our bodies. Not to any forbidden place that’d cause disaster.

I try to master restraint, but my eyes say what my mouth can’t.

Kiss me.

He reads them.

I know he reads them, and our chests collapse and rise in heavy unison. Jesus Christ.

I can’t.

We can’t.

But I think, fucking kiss me.

Just do it.

Farrow moves his hand. To put his earpiece back in, and then he sits his ass down. “They’re coming inside, behind you.”

I turn my stiff neck, and sure enough, Janie walks through the entrance with Quinn out in front. Headed towards the table. She wears a pastel purple tulle skirt and a striped top that put her on Celebrity Crush’s Worst Dressed list this morning. She didn’t care.

I blink once, and they’ve already reached us. Jane collapses on the chair beside me, and I wrap my arm around the back of hers. I push beyond whatever the hell just happened with Farrow. I have no other choice but to move forward.

Janie very subtly glances between Farrow and me, but thankfully says nothing about any lingering tension. “Dis-moi qu’ils ont du café,” she whispers, hands in prayer formation. Please tell me they have coffee.

“Je ne sais pas.” I don’t know.

Quinn takes a seat beside Farrow and says, “Another reminder that I really need to read that French textbook Akara gave me.”

Jane’s eyes glimmer with curiosity and she places her chin on her fist, elbow to the table. “And how is that going?”

“Bien.” Good. Quinn shrugs. “It’d be easier if you two just switched to Portuguese.”

I’d tell Quinn that we don’t know Portuguese like him, but I’m super-glued to the fact that he’s actually learning French. I look at Farrow. “Did Akara give you a French textbook, too?”

“No. Because he knew it’d go straight into the dumpster.”

“I’m glad we’ve found the location of your apathy,” I tell him.

Farrow laughs. He tosses a fry in the basket and then eyes me, mostly.

My neck is on fire, and I keep rubbing my jaw.

Quinn scans the table for food. His stomach audibly grumbles. I slide the basket of fries away from Farrow and to Quinn. Farrow makes a face at me. Like I just passed his cellphone off to a stranger.

“Do you not know what sharing looks like?” I ask.

Farrow slides the fries back between me and him. “Quinn needs to learn how to order his own food.”

Quinn doesn’t let Farrow bother him. “Where’s the waitress?” he asks.

“Yes, please, coffee coffee,” Jane says. “One sugar, dollop of cream, and strapped to an IV.”

“You have to order at the bar,” I tell her.

“Merde.” Her head slumps on my shoulder. She’s exhausted from today’s putt-putt debacle.

“I’ll go for you.” Just as I’m about to stand, Quinn and Farrow motion for me to stay seated.

“I can go alone,” Quinn tells Farrow while I sit back down. “She’s my client.”

“Akara would want you to stay with her,” Farrow says.

Quinn considers this for half a second, and then we all look over at the six-foot bearded bartender who approaches. He stops and towers over the table. Nearer Janie than to me. He fingers his gnarled beard and appraises the length of her body.

Hovering on her chest.

I’m on edge. Anyone who appraises us like we’re cattle—I don’t trust. From experience, they’d rather hurt my family than make cute small talk.

Likewise, Quinn’s guard seems to rise tenfold. He angles his body towards Jane. Sitting straighter. More menacing. Like a boxer about to face off an opponent. If I didn’t know, it’d be hard to tell that he’s new to the team.

“Hi,” Jane starts, but the bartender cuts her off with, “You’re Jane Cobalt.”

“Yes.” Janie’s voice is stiffer than usual. “You wouldn’t happen to have coffee—”

“Your mom is hotter.”

I glower. “What the fuck did you just say?” I see blood red, and I’m already halfway out of my seat. Our bodyguards are right behind me. Where Farrow has an at ease demeanor, as if this is just another normal day, Quinn’s eyes widen and darken. Horrified.

Pissed.

He probably hasn’t gotten used to hearing the vitriol people sling at Janie.

I wish it was something you didn’t have to get used to.

The bartender doesn’t balk. “I said Rose Calloway is a hotter piece of ass than that chubby bitch.”

I charge forward, venom in the back of my throat, but chairs clatter, more than just me shooting up completely from their seats. I instinctively stand in front of Janie. In my peripheral, I notice her hand gripping her watermelon purse.

Where pepper spray and a pink switchblade lie.

I may’ve cut off Jane, but Farrow cuts off my path, his hand on my chest. He says something to me that I don’t hear. I stare past him, hawkeyed on the bartender who watches Jane’s reaction.

“Fuck you,” I sneer, trying to steal his attention away from Jane.