Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(36)

No one has ever held my hand like that.

He lets go, and we both push through the pub doors. Walking side-by-side towards my Audi parked on the city street. Philly lit up at night.

Paparazzi are here.

I glance at my phone that says:

I saw you leave. I’m in the car, driving home. I’m safe. Text me as soon as you are. – Janie





I text quickly: I’m on my way home.

While I find my keys in my pocket, three cameramen near with their lenses. Asking the same question, “Why are your knuckles bloody?!”

“Did you get in a fight, Maximoff?!”

Farrow pushes a camera aside. “Get out of his face.”

“Sorry,” the paparazzi apologizes, pretty sincere. He takes more than a few steps backwards.

Silent, I unlock my car, and I climb into the driver’s seat.

Farrow is in the passenger, doors locked, and I drive out onto the highway. Like it’s just another day of my life.

I move forward.

I don’t look back.

Flicking on my blinker, I switch to the left lane. Speeding ahead of trailing paparazzi that race after my car.

Farrow reaches across my body. I stiffen, my eyes flitting from him to the road. He seizes the silver buckle by my shoulder and pulls the strap over my chest. Clicking the belt in by my ass.

“You’re not dying today,” Farrow reminds me. “Let me see your hand.”

I grip the wheel with both hands. Skin busted on a few of my knuckles. “I thought we’ve been through this. You’re not my damn doctor; you’re not my assistant. Not a caped crusader or a fortuneteller or my friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. You’re just…”

Farrow.

I swallow a lump in my throat and then I take a chance and look at him.

He wears only the same understanding.

So I say, “It’d break my mom’s heart to hear what he said. You know that?”

“I know.” Farrow was around my mom for three years. He knows. “But it’d break her heart more to see her son get jumped by four men twice his age.” I watch the road as he says, “You don’t want anyone to help you, but you’re willing to put your life at risk for—fuck.” He pops his earpiece out completely and unclips his radio from his waistband.

Hunching forward, he tinkers with the coms.

By the tic of his jaw muscle, I can tell he bites hard on his teeth. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“My radio just died.”

“Well you can’t save everyone,” I say, which makes him smile.

And he tilts his head towards me, pieces of his bleach-white hair falling in his eyes. “Still a precious smartass.”

I nearly smile too, but both of our phones start incessantly buzzing. Family, for me. Security team, for him. It’s going to be a long night of rehashing the same story over and over.

We both reach for our phones.

I’m ready for it.





13





FARROW KEENE





For seven consecutive nights, Maximoff buries his time in charity work. I’d think it’s penance for the pub fight, but he’s drowning himself in work to avoid his old nightclub routine. Where he “finds someone to fuck”. He’s been delaying that since I became his bodyguard.

Except for tonight.

Tonight is the first night. I’m at a darkly lit nightclub. Lights blink and flash, music thudding the floor.

See, I’m a damned good bodyguard. The best of the best. But I’m teetering between doing my job and being a prick. Maximoff is going to ask me to vet whatever stranger he wants to fuck, and my first instinct is to lie.

To tell Maximoff that the stranger is a dipshit.

A liar.

A psychopath or murderer.

Whatever I need to say to terminate the subsequent events.

All night, I’ve been silently convincing myself not to go that route. Not to be a jealous prick. Do your motherfucking job, Farrow.

It’s never been difficult. Not like this.

“Farrow, you can sit beside me,” Maximoff says. “They’re not going anywhere.” He gestures to the three men in black suits that guard the VIP couch, their hands cupped and eyes alert.

I made a phone call to Tidal Wave, the two-story nightclub, before we arrived. I let the managers know Maximoff Hale would be dropping by and he’d need extra security.

It’s been the easiest part of tonight. Seeing him entertain girls and guys with the sole purpose of getting laid—let’s just say I’ve chewed my gum stale.

I focus on the task at hand. Tidal Wave has decent security, but even with the additional manpower, drunk men and women try to snap photos and hop the VIP ropes.

All eyes are on Maximoff.

That, I’m used to. He has an endless sea of people to choose from. Yet, he’s now hiding out on the leather sofa and listening to the alt-rock band one story below.

Heavy bass booming, the metal floor thumps beneath my black boots. I stand above Maximoff, and I rest a hand on the couch by his shoulder.

Leaning closer to him, I say, “You trust them more than you trust me?” I motion with my head to the club’s security. “Or does this position just really bother you? Me, standing. You, sitting.”