Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(67)

Hey, I’m fucking my bodyguard!

Or hey, I’m just good friends with my bodyguard.

Alright—the first one sounds like pure paranoia with a dash of overreacting. Before I step towards Farrow, Sulli places donuts next to the chips and curses, “Cumbuckets.”

“What?” I ask.

“I forgot the salsa.” She rests two fingers to her lips: the famous Sullivan Meadows concentration face. And she’s using it for a salsa crisis.

“Sulli,” I snap. “It’s fine.”

“Do you have anything in your fridge? I could make some.” She can’t offer to make a grocery run since that’d entail needing a sober Akara Kitsuwon.

“Forget the salsa, Sulli.”

“Uncle Lo says that it’s not a party until there’s salsa. It’s a party rule. Right?” She looks to Jane.

“Well…” Jane muses the idea for too long.

I cut in, “My dad could also eat five hot sauce packets for brunch and nothing else.”

“Famous ones,” Farrow calls out, and our heads turn to him. “There’s no salsa rule for parties. Not normal.”

Christ, the fact that we needed clarification from Farrow makes me pinch my eyes and groan. He smiles wide into his swig of beer.

“Come here, Sul.” Akara waves her to sit on the green beanbag beside him, the bowl of chips on his lap.

Sitting, she holds her legs to her chest but leans towards him.

“These are perfectly fine without salsa.” He demonstrates and tosses a corn ship in his mouth. “Delicious.”

“You’re just saying that,” Sulli refutes.

“Am not.” Akara playfully pulls the bowl against his chest. “These are mine now, thanks.”

She smiles bright, and then tries to grab a chip. He hoists the bowl over her head. Teasing.

Teasing?

I dazedly walk over to Farrow. Not taking my gaze off that exchange, and I sink down next to him. “What’s up with that?” I whisper to him.

“It’s called a buddy-guard, wolf scout.”

I’ve heard security use the term before. Buddy-guard (noun): one who protects a very-important-person while also being their close friend.

I’ve known that Akara understands everything about Sulli, her habits, her likes and dislikes—I just never really honed in on their “friendship” until…

Until I started fucking my bodyguard.

Great. Is my perception of every bodyguard-client relationship going to skew on the side of they’re copulating now? My mind is a rabbit hole that I didn’t ask to fall into.

“Lean back,” Farrow says, sipping his beer.

I do, and we’re shoulder-to-shoulder. But my narrowed eyes remain plastered on my cousin and her bodyguard. I lower my voice, ensuring only Farrow can hear. “Do they look super close to you? More than a buddy-guard?”

“No.” He sips his beer, at total ease right now. I observe my cousin. She shoves Akara’s carved bicep, laughing as he hides the bowl behind his back.

I grimace—are they flirting? I try not to even touch my mixed feelings. I’m a hypocrite if I dislike the mere idea of Sulli with her bodyguard, but some part of me tramples through the “Hulk-Smash Akara” territory. “You sure?”

Farrow turns his head to whisper in my ear. “I’ve known Akara a long time, and he’d never cross that line with Sulli. He’s a security lead. He’s too professional. And he knows Ryke Meadows would kill him.”

My dad will kill you. My jaw tenses, and he must sense my sudden thought.

He whispers up against my ear again. “If your dad scared me, I wouldn’t have kissed you.”

That reminds me…I haven’t regretted crossing a line with Farrow. Not once.

My shoulders lower a fraction, and Farrow bites into an English muffin, sandwiched with egg, bacon and cheese. Which he made at his townhouse after showering and brought it here. Even though we bought snacks for tonight.

His love of breakfast foods has no bounds. Farrow will literally order sunny-side up eggs and sausage seven days in a row for every meal.

Farrow extends the half-bitten sandwich to me.

“I thought you don’t share.”

He licks his thumb, lips lifting. “I share with you, only.”

I grab the sandwich. “Because I’m your client.”

“Try again.”

Because I’m your… “You tell me.” Are we labeling this relationship—I don’t know? This is my first relationship—when do the labels come? Maybe Farrow has like a six-month minimum before he considers a person his…

I watch him survey the room out of his peripheral. Farrow being subtly alert of our surroundings—I love. I’m more obvious. Staring straight on.

Janie uses the remote to find a horror movie on Netflix. Akara and Sulli are chatting quietly, and she’s stacking chips on a donut. Quinn plays with Ophelia, the white cat scurrying beneath his muscular legs.

“Maximoff.” Farrow captures my gaze. He stops himself from speaking more, and I can’t feel disappointed. Because I know he sees someone watching us. He stares straight ahead at the television.

I take a bite of his food before handing the sandwich back. Then I unscrew my water bottle and swig.