Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(43)

I read the texts earlier this morning—and the pictures have been going viral since noon. My little cousins Winona Meadows and Ben Cobalt spray-painted Dalton Academy’s science lab with the words: frog killers!

Those two always send me memorandums on environmental objectives that H.M.C. Philanthropies should complete. They’re thirteen and fifteen. And they get in trouble together monthly.

“Let me know the new day for lunch; I’ll be there,” I tell him. I look forward to lunches with my dad and my uncles, but if one of us can’t make it, we just reschedule to a day later in the week. It’s shitty, but it’s not the worst.

“Drive safe, Moffy,” my dad says, his tone serious.

“I will. Night.”

“Love you, bud.” He hangs up.

I pocket my phone and stare off. Thinking. My dad’s voice lingers in my ears. Being with my bodyguard—there are consequences packed on top of consequences. If I can, I want to avoid all of them.

I train my gaze on Farrow.

He rests his knuckles to his lips, brows raised at me. “Listening to Socrates and Plato again?”

I force an irritated smile. “No.” I lift my jeans to my waist, but I don’t button or zip yet.

Farrow eyes my movements. “What’s wrong?”

I stay near him. Not adding distance or space. “What happens between us—it has to stay secret. All of it. If you want to do anything with me, you can’t treat this rule like it’s flexible or meant to be broken.”

Farrow smiles. “I agree.”

“We agree?” I say, disbelieving. What alternate universe am I in?

“I love my job.” He holds my gaze. “And if the security team or your family finds out that I crossed a line and broke their trust, I’m gone. Someone will replace me as your bodyguard. Which means that the new bodyguard will spend more time with you than I do, and that’s just…not happening.” His voice falls to a husky whisper. “You need to know that I only do exclusive. No fucking around. You want me, you only get me, and vice versa.”

Exclusive.

A relationship.

A secret relationship.

I’ve never had any of those. I wish I could be happy that he only wants me. I wish that I could accept the truth: that I only want him. But I’m concerned about the little annoying details that slip between these facts.

I look straight at him. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. You can’t know.”

He never breaks eye contact. “Then tell me, Maximoff.”

I don’t falter. “I genuinely love sex,” I say the truth I’ve always hidden. “I have a really high fucking sex drive.” It sounds so simple. It’s not. “I’ve never spoken publicly about how much sex I have. Sharing those details—it’s a heavy responsibility that I carry very prudently. For one, my mom is a sex addict.” He knows.

I’m used to this fact too, but the depth that I still need to go pins my tongue down. I pause.

I turn slightly and crack my knuckles. People usually ask isn’t it so awkward that you know your mom’s sexual history? I can handle the awkward.

I can handle everything.

Even the cruelty towards her, but it’ll always boil my blood. If you’re going to attack someone, come at me.

Farrow shifts his arm that’s on the back of the seat. So his forearm lies on top of my forearm. Almost comfortingly.

I stare at the way his fingers clutch my elbow, and then I look up at him. “There’s not enough information or research to claim that sex addiction is hereditary. But if I publicly share how much sex I have, the media will start calling me an addict. Then they’ll say it’s hereditary. Then they’ll start harassing my siblings about sex more than they already do. So I stay quiet.”

The frequency someone has sex is not enough to determine a sex addiction—but it won’t matter to the media. They’ll cling like fucking koalas to the detail and never let go.

“And it’s not the only reason I stay quiet about my sex life,” I tell him. “I war with a stereotype that I know I fall into, something I feel an obligation to break.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Maximoff. That’s not your cross to bear.”

I’m not surprised that he knows what I’m talking about. “It is, Farrow. When I came out as bisexual to the world, I knew people would look at me as a role model for something. I have a fucking duty not to reinforce harmful stereotypes: like bisexuals are over-sexual—that we all just fuck around and fuck a lot.” I rake my right hand through my hair. “You know the minute that I told the world I like guys and girls, a lot of people assumed that meant I like threesomes—that’s not fucking okay.” Quickly, I add, “To clarify, I’m not into threesomes.”

His lips tic upward. “I grasped that by your vitriol.” He tilts his head. “In short, you’re saying that you have a lot of sex, but no one can know. And I’m sure you were always safe since you’re you.”

“Thank you,” I say dryly, not mentioning that I’ve been checked out every week and that I’m clean. I also don’t add how I go to my concierge doctor for the screenings and tests.

And by doctor, I mean his dad.

Thank God for doctor-patient confidentiality.