Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(71)

Swaying drunkenly, Jane almost falls again, her legs wobbling.

“Janie. Hold him.” I give her Walrus too.

Recognition parts her lips. That two cats ran outside. “Merde.” We have to hope that none of the others sprinted out before Walrus and Carpenter.

Jane holds her kittens in a fiercely protective grip.

Quickly, I pick Jane up. Wrapping my arm beneath her legs, the other supporting her back. Cradling my best friend—the paparazzi go wild.

“RIGHT HERE, MAXIMOFF, JANE!! LOOK HERE!”

Fuck off.

I can move three times as fast. Jane tucks her head into my chest because of the lights. Cameras only flash hotter, more incessant.

And then…the paparazzi begin creating a path. Separating enough for a body to fit through. But not for us. For the towering six-foot-seven Italian-American bodyguard that bulldozes towards Jane and me.

I squint, my vision impaired from the constant flashes, but I distinguish the longish, scruffy hair, unshaven jaw and stern brown eyes of Thatcher Moretti, the lead of Security Force Epsilon.

With his massive height and strong build, he creates a barrier between us and the media. Making it ten times easier to push through the masses.

Thatcher clicks his mic on the collar of his black button-down. “I have them. Clear the street.” He spots Walrus wiggling in Jane’s motherly grip. Thatcher grabs the kitten and tucks Walrus protectively under his arm. Like a furry football.

By the time we reach the front stoop of my townhouse, white lights dance in my eyes. I can count on my hands the number of times I’ve personally used the front door.

Three.

Three fucking times.

Because this insanity happens.

As soon as the door shuts behind me, I register the sheer amount of people in my townhouse. All familiar faces from Alpha. They tape our window and sweep up glass. Speaking into mics, scouring the rest of my home for intruders.

I rest Jane on the loveseat, still pushed against the archway.

And Quinn rushes past towards the staircase. Quinn? “Quinn, where’s Farrow?” I call out. He doesn’t stop. So I chase after him, to the base of the stairs. “Quinn!”

He pauses to glance back, his nose bloodied.

What.

Happened.

Quinn opens his mouth, but Thatcher tells him, “Go, Quinn.”

No. Fuck that. “Where’s Farrow?!” I yell, not fucking around.

Quinn’s jaw muscle tics, but he rushes upstairs. I shake my head, pissed. I rotate on Thatcher, but he towers near Jane while she slowly rifles through a first-aid kit. For her bloodied knees.

Thatcher barks orders, “I need eyes on all the cats!” He already places the calico kittens in their leopard-print carrier. Securing them. “We have Walrus and Carpenter. Where are Ophelia, Lady Macbeth, and Toodles?”

Jane blinks drunkenly at him. “You know their names?”

I glare at Thatcher. “Where the fuck is Farrow?”

Nothing.

No acknowledgement of my question. In the grand scheme of security, it’s unimportant for me to be aware of my own bodyguard’s whereabouts. I’m supposed to sit and let the extra security protect us. I’m not supposed to care about them.

Not even if they get hurt.

It’s their job.

I spot Price by the broken window, the Alpha lead chats to a younger security member. My phone vibrates angrily on the rumpled sleeping bags. All of my family must be freaked.

My mom…

I have to call her.

Thatcher doesn’t even answer Jane’s question. The most strict, no-nonsense guy on the team. I swear, I liked that about him, but now I’m fucking irritated.

Thatcher holds his mic. “Jane, do you have any strays in the house?” She struggles with the gauze packet, and I go to help. He cuts me off and takes my place. Kneeling at the loveseat, he tears open the gauze.

I need to do something, but security loves to impede me from doing anything productive.

I could scream I’m so frustrated right now. I rub my face.

Where’s Farrow?

Where’s Farrow?!

Where’s my… I stare fixatedly at the closed front door.

“No strays,” Jane tells him, trying her hardest not to slur. “I did adopt another yesterday. Licorice. He’s a four-year-old…gray, long-haired. Blue eyes.”

Thatcher speaks into his mic. “There’s a sixth cat—Licorice. Gray.” He presses the gauze to her knees, and Jane rips open a Band-Aid with her teeth. Thatcher tells my best friend, “Lady Macbeth, Toodles, and Ophelia are accounted for.”

Jane nods, barely relaxing.

The door opens, and my chest rises, thinking it’s Farrow. But it’s not.

It’s not him. It’s Luna’s bodyguard.

Fuck this.

I charge over to the Alpha lead. My gait is strong and determined. I’ve never shied from any of these men. Not for a damn breath. Not for a second. And they’re going to answer me now.

“Price.” My firm voice yanks his attention from the younger security member. “I need to know where Farrow is. Now.”

“You should sit—”

“No. You fucking tell me where my bodyguard is. This isn’t up for discussion.”

Price clicks his mic. “Price to security, someone give me an update on Farrow.” Right. Farrow never grabbed his radio before he ran outside. Price can’t contact him directly.