Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(96)
Those two words embody Maximoff Hale more than any other. And for as long as I’m alive, he’ll be wolf scout to me.
He places a hand on the wall. Beside my shoulder. I unbutton his jeans, and his other hand already dives down the front of my black pants, stroking me—fuck, a groan scratches my throat.
I watch his gaze drift for the slightest second, then focuses more clearly on me.
I rub his very-far-from-barely hard cock. “What were you just thinking?”
He licks his lips. “That I fucking love how you smell.”
This is the first I’ve heard this from him. “What’s the scent?”
His muscles flex, as I change grip. He curses beneath his breath before he says, “Mint…fresh water and man.”
I could push up against him, but the timer beeps and cuts us off. We retract our hands, trying to ignore the unresolved tension for right now. Within maybe a minute or two, he’s buck-naked in the shower, rinsing out the hair dye.
While I wait for him, I grab a Celebrity Crush magazine out of the drugstore bag. He bought the tabloid to see if they mentioned the Charity Camp-Away that begins in five days.
I rest against the sink and flip through the glossy pages.
Showering, Maximoff rakes his hands through his dark brown hair, watching me while water douses him.
I look up at him and flip another page. “Something you want to say?”
“It’s fucking weird seeing you with a tabloid.”
He doesn’t realize how often I have to search social media and tabloid comments for potential “chaos” and threats.
I turn one more page.
And I land on a Like Us article. I scan the giant photograph of Luna, Xander, and Kinney, the Hale siblings congregated at a booth inside Superheroes & Scones. A fan must’ve taken the photo.
The Like Us articles have been printed in this magazine for years, and they’re relatively harmless. The subtitle is always the same: the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts—they’re like us! They read books. They love movies. They go shopping!
I remember years back seeing the headline Smart Like Us with a photograph of Jane competing in prep school mathletes.
The one I clutch zooms in on Luna, Xander, and Kinney’s new ear piercings. The title: Cool Like Us.
Maximoff asks, “Why are you smiling?”
“They called you uncool.”
Maximoff rubs water out of his face and then reaches his arm out of the shower to clearly shoot me a middle finger.
I almost laugh, but my phone rings on the tiled floor. I already see the caller ID: Alpha Asshole.
Shit.
There’s an 85% chance he’s going to chew me out for shutting off my radio. Coms aren’t even on me right now. So I bypass that headache and just text Price: I’m not on SFA.
He replies fast.
From cams, we can tell that Moffy is home. You need to come help vet Camp-Away entrants. – Price
I reply even faster: I already spent six hours vetting entrants today. I purposefully signed up for a shift while Maximoff was working at the H.M.C. office.
We need more eyes on this. You’re available, so get over here. – Price
I could easily shut off my phone and act like I didn’t just receive that fucking demand. But if the worst happens at the Camp-Away—just because I didn’t take an extra three hours to vet the raffle entrants—I’d be more than pissed at myself.
I’ll be there. I send that one text and slip my phone in my pocket. “Maximoff.”
He cracks the shower door. “Yeah?”
“I have to go. Security needs me.” I pull on my black V-neck.
Looks like he’s not the only one giving out rain checks.
35
FARROW KEENE
Sprawling green fields bleed into a bright blue horizon, oak and spruce trees jutting to the sky. Leaves are orange and red as the fall season nears an end. From a hill, I spot the glittering lake and canoes stacked on a rack, inner-tubes tied to a wooden dock.
Maximoff uses the acres and acres of land from Camp Calloway, his aunt’s summer camp in the Poconos Mountains, for his December CampAway event.
It’s majestic, serene, but I’m also very much on-duty. I’m not about to be swept up by nature. Not when there are three-hundred raffle guests ranging from eighteen to forty-five in age.
And they’re all playing the first group activity that Maximoff scheduled: a massive game of capture the flag.
Hundreds of people are split into four teams, denoted by red, green, blue and yellow shirts and bandanas. While they run around the field and forest, screaming out strategies and searching for other team’s flags, security meanders through the crowd.
We all wear black T-shirts with SECURITY in bold neon-green letters.
My arms haven’t uncrossed. For the past twenty-minutes, I concentrate solely on Maximoff, my guard not lowering. Earlier, I confiscated a knife that someone tried smuggling into the camp. Apparently they believed they’d be “fishing” and cleaning their own dinner.
Okay.
Sure.
My earpiece buzzes with nonstop chatter.
“I saw where Yellow Team hid their flag,” Donnelly says. Even though Beckett Cobalt is his client, the Tri-Force enlisted most of the seasoned bodyguards for the event. The Meadows, Cobalts, and Hales without their regular 24/7 bodyguards have temporary ones for three days.