Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(37)

He blinks slowly into wide, sarcastic eyes.

My smile stretches, and I laugh while I chew my stale gum. Easing back a little bit.

“You should’ve been a psychologist!” he shouts over the music. “That way you’d get a certificate or cash or something for psychoanalyzing me other than this!” He gives me two middle fingers.

I roll my eyes, my smile fucking killing me, and I decide to sit on the armrest next to him because he asked. Soft chatter echoes through my earpiece, but it’s not for me.

I tune most out and scan the crowds that keenly fixate on Maximoff. Most people point at him from the neon-lit bar. Then I steal a glance at Moffy, our eyes catching. “Is this position better for you?!” I ask.

His lips pull upward, and a small smile overtakes his agitation. “When I asked you to sit beside me, I meant next to me!” He gestures with both hands to the available cushion.

Since I’m on the armrest, I’m sitting taller than him. Which pisses him off a little bit, but he gets handed things easily. I like making him work a little harder.

As the alt-rock song hits a crescendo, I shout, “I’m technically still next to you!”

“You love your technicalities!” Maximoff tosses his phone from hand-to-hand, his shoulders taut and eyes as alert as the club’s security.

I watch other people fawn over him from afar. Taking photos, gushing with their friends, making come hither signals for him to join. I turn to him, wondering if he will.

Maximoff stays still, his dyed light brown hair thick and unruly.

I chew my gum, trying not to smile that much while I study him. He did an extreme close shave; his jaw smooth like cut, polished marble, and his scent is always chlorine and citrus.

Like summer.

He clicks into his phone, and his brows pinch in firm irritation.

I slide down onto the cushion beside him and spot the pink Celebrity Crush logo. Closer, I can speak without shouting. “I thought you don’t actively check tabloids.”

“That was before I busted my knuckles open and had thousands of people threatening to refund their dollar raffle entries.” Now October, the raffle for the Camp-Away went live this week, and the publicity has been uncontrollable. I doubt a fistfight will seriously hurt the hype.

Because it’s definitely not the first time he’s been caught publicly in one. All to defend his family.

Sometimes the fights are even nastier. He gets hit. Things get broken. Someone ends up sued, either him or the bodyguard. The fact that we evaded all those scenarios makes it a success.

The security team critiqued the video footage from the pub, and the only criticism they could scramble together was Quinn’s sudden outburst.

But I don’t blame him. The first time I heard the shit people said about Lily Calloway—to her face—I almost blew it.

We’re told all the time about the constant harassment these families receive, but until you meet it head-on, it doesn’t seem real.

Glancing at the phone, I say, “You’re trying to see how much damage the fight caused?”

He nods and scrolls through Celebrity Crush.

I take constant surveillance of his environment and him, splitting my attention between the two. “Even if you have several refunds, more people will enter the raffle.” I try to steal his gaze. “You’re overthinking.”

“I always overthink. It keeps me…” Color just drains out of his face, eyes plastered to his phone.

My muscles bind. “Maximoff?” I lean into him, his shoulder taut and firm. Quickly, I skim the screen.

25 Reasons Why Maximoff Hale Is Like Ryke Meadows!

He slowly scrolls down to the first bullet point, and I see words: Maximoff Hale fights with his fists first and talks later. Exactly like Ryke! Compare the most recent video of Maximoff losing his cool at a Philly pub with this old video of his Uncle Ryke Meadows outside a diner.

Maximoff plays the video of his uncle and increases the volume, barely audible in the club.

Ryke must be no older than twenty-five in the footage. Unshaven, tan from the sun, brooding, tabloids like to call him an aggressive jackass.

Ryke grabs his helmet off his black Ducati.

“How’s that Calloway pussy, Ryke Meadows?!” A preppy-dressed man snickers, jumping up on the curb near Ryke.

“Go fuck yourself,” he growls, hardened to stone and white-knuckling his helmet. He cements to that one spot, zeroed in on the man like a predator to prey. The look in Ryke’s eyes feels the same as the look that was in Moffy’s.

The man snickers. “If you don’t tell me how Calloway pussy tastes, then I’ll just find out myself. Starting with the youngest one—”

Ryke lunges and swings— Maximoff abruptly clicks off his phone. The screen blinks to black. Taking a huge breath, he asks me, “Did that video remind you of me?” He stares me dead in the eye. Building defenses against my upcoming response.

I want to be transparent with him. No hoarding secrets, no doling out lies, but this truth will hurt him a little. I suck in a breath through my teeth. Pinching my fingers, I say, “Seventy-five percent.”

Maximoff digests this silently and then he eyes my fingers, obsessed with my hands for some precious reason. “Your seventy-five percent looks a hell of a lot like two-percent.”

I smile, and as the music booms, I have to raise my voice. “Then you’re not looking closely enough!”