Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(70)

My raging pulse hammers in the pit of my ears.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Farrow sneers at me. “You can’t follow me.” I spot the briefest flash of concern, of trepidation, before his gaze mortars hard and hot again.

I clench my teeth. I need to help. I have to fucking help. The intrinsic need bangs at my head, my ribcage, my heart, and I don’t know how to turn away.

I don’t know how to hide in a bathroom and wait.

“I see him!” Quinn suddenly yells. He charges towards us. Storming through Farrow and me to fling open the door, he runs urgently into the pitch-black night. Paparazzi who’ve been camping out on my street awaken like dormant fireflies and hornets.

Bright in the dark. And ready to sting.

Quickly, Farrow warns me, “Don’t. Follow.” Then he bolts outside, tracing Quinn’s hurried footsteps. Farrow’s caustic voice scalds my fucking ears.

He’s trying to protect me. It’s as simple as that.

My hands stay balled in fists, but I turn to find Jane and Sulli, to keep them safe—

“CARPENTER!” Jane screams bloody-murder, the sound lancing my heart. Everything happens fast—she tears back downstairs and out of Sulli’s grasp.

“Jane!” Sulli yells, almost falling down the staircase after her, but Akara grabs Sulli by the waist. “KITS!”

“You have to stay here!” Akara shouts. “JANE!”

“MOFFY! CARPENTER!” Jane screams, alarmed tears already soaking her cheeks. I try to shut the door, keeping the cats inside, but she shrieks, “HE’S ALREADY OUTSIDE! HE’S OUTSIDE!”

Walrus, the other kitten darts past my ankles, and I reach to catch him, but he scampers into the night. I don’t waste time. I chase the fucking animal down.

Running outside.

These indoor cats are her babies, and we live in the city. Where cars constantly speed by. If one dies—she’ll be gutted. It’s all I think.

All I know.

I fucking run. Onto the sidewalk, towards the street parking. I see Walrus scampering beneath a parked car.

And then I’m swarmed by paparazzi. Cameras in every fucking direction.

“CARPENTER!” Jane calls out, panicked. She’s outside? My head swerves, squinting in the harsh flashes. I can hardly see in front of me.

“JANE!” I shout and then shove paparazzi to work my way towards where I think Jane went. I spot her wobbling and tripping over her bare feet but determinedly chasing after another calico kitten. She’s drunk.

She’s fucking drunk.

I forgot.

I’m the only sober one here.

“I got him! I got him, Maximoff!” a cameraman yells at me and then suddenly hands me Walrus. I have no time to express my full relief or gratitude. I nod once to him, and then set my entire damn attention on reaching Jane.

“Let him through!” paparazzi start yelling at one another. “Let him through!”

“JANE!” I shout. I push through bodies. I push through voices that yell questions. I push through groping hands.

“CARPENTER!” she wails bloody-murder. I’m barely able to see the kitten. Bounding into the goddamn road. And Jane runs right after him.

I body-slam my way through the fucking paparazzi. Being accidently clocked in the cheek by a hefty camera. I don’t stop.

I can’t stop.

My feet hit the cement road, and with Walrus in one hand, I wrap my arm around Jane’s waist the same time that she has a death-clutch on her tiny calico kitten. Headlights blare at us, coming fast down our street. I rapidly steer her towards the sidewalk, and we reach the curb just in time, the car speeding past.

Jane is shaking and slightly limping. She must’ve fallen.

I try to discern where we are—I think we’re twelve or fifteen houses down from ours. I guide my best friend towards our townhouse.

“Maximoff! Why are you in your underwear at eight at night?!” is the only question that snaps my attention. Reminding me that I’m nearly fucking naked on chilly October 30th.

Great.

Cameras flash in fierce frenzy, and I just fixate on getting Jane home. Getting us home.

“Moffy,” Jane says, voice firm and wide-eyes on Carpenter and only Carpenter. “He almost…he…did you…?”

“He’s alright. He’s okay.” I don’t think she even realizes Walrus escaped too. Or that he’s in my arms. She’s blurry-eyed wasted, fighting to keep her heavy-lids open. I glance down. Blood seeps through the fabric of her flannel pants, both kneecaps bloodied.

My jaw locks. “Come on, Jane.” I try to quicken our pace. Where there’s this much commotion, there may be hecklers not long after. Although, a heckler with firecrackers started all of this—maybe he has friends coming for a round two.

Maybe he wasn’t a lone wolf.

Maybe they’re planning to hide in our house.

Goddammit.

Walrus squirms in my left arm. Digging his claws into my bare chest and trying to crawl up my shoulder. I yank him back down, not caring about the scratches.

Paparazzi push into my face when I wrap my right arm around Jane’s shoulders. I have to let go of her just to shove them out.

“Back up!” I yell, not joking around.

A lot do shuffle backwards. And then some don’t give a shit about us.