Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(102)

“Next time she calls, I’ll pick up,” Jane says with a determined nod. “I will.” She smiles up at me. “Can you believe we got through a horrendous rumor unscathed?”

“Are we though?” I ask.

“Lightly scratched,” she amends.

“Gently used.”

“We’re in the bargain bin now,” she agrees. And we both smile.

“This tour—it helped, right?”

“Most surely,” she says. “I don’t think I could’ve stayed in Philly, and the money you raised, Moffy…it’s incredible.”

“We raised,” I correct Jane.

Her big blue eyes say that I’m wrong and I’m the one who deserves the credit, but I’ve had too much help from too many fucking people to accept it.

Loose pavement crunches beneath my Timberland boots. “What’s been the worst part?” I ask.

Jane doesn’t even hesitate. “The sexual frustration. It’s strong, and I can’t even commiserate with you.”

I actually feel bad about that. “Why don’t you call your AWB? He can tag along for the last part of the tour.”

Shock arches her brows “You want Nate on the bus?”

I grimace. “Not really, but I also don’t want you to be sexually frustrated.”

“And I don’t want nine guys grilling him,” she says into a sigh. “My options include me, myself, and my vibrator.” She brightens her phone light. “Nate and I have sexted some, so I’ve had that.”

I kick some gravel. “You could always ask your new bodyguard to help you out.” I start smiling. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Jane snorts. “Oh yes, in your life, bodyguard duties include giving head.” She narrows her eyes at the dark road. “God, could you even imagine? What would I say? Hello Mr. Moretti, I’m in need of some oral assistance. Would you be so kind to spread my knees?”

Someone clears their throat behind us. “Maximoff.”

That’s not Farrow.

Fuuuck.

Jane and I suddenly freeze, her eyes about to explode out of her head. She flushes, fumbles with her cell, and the light blinks on and off. She curses in French before we both turn and face Thatcher Moretti.

“Yeah?” I answer him and glance over his shoulder. The others are further back. Not matching our pace.

Thatcher doesn’t acknowledge Jane. Just speaking to me. “There’s a small town a mile up. We’re all heading that way.”

“Alright, sounds good.”

Jane is radiating embarrassed heat. But where other people tend to shy from it, she steps further into the light. Like that will be better.

“Thatcher,” Jane greets. “I’m just going to come out and ask. Did you hear what we were talking about?”

His brooding, stern face is exactly the same. But he finally looks at Jane. “I did.”

Jane crosses her arms, not breaking eye contact with him.

I’d like to make some posters, hoist them high, and they’d have an arrow to Janie and they’d say: that’s my best fucking friend.

“And?” she asks him.

A gust blows through.

Thatcher unrolls the sleeves to his red flannel shirt. “And if you need any kind of oral assistance,” he says, using her words which just entrances her more. “Then I can call someone for you. Nate or—”

“I can make my own phone calls, thank you,” she says breezily. “That’s all.” She rotates on the tips of her toes, facing forward, and only I’m able to see her wide eyes that pretty much shout what just happened?

Thatcher looks to me. “You good?”

“Yeah.” I nod.

He stays an awkward beat longer before leaving.

When I turn back to Jane, she says, “He offered to find a guy to go down on me.” She pauses. “It’s actually sweet. Why do I think that’s sweet?” She touches her forehead like she’s running a fever. “Merde.”

I think a lot. How Farrow can’t stand Thatcher. How Thatcher can’t stand Farrow. How I’m always going to take Farrow’s side in that rivalry.

But if Jane is into Thatcher, it’d complicate everything. So I just need to know… “Jane, do you have feelings for—”

“No,” she denies quickly. “No.” She shakes her head. “We’re on a smooth trajectory, Moffy.” She clasps my hand. “Don’t you feel it?”

There’s a leaker and a stalker out there, and I’m still on a bus with Charlie. “If by smooth, you mean an asteroid is headed our way, then yeah. We’re on the smoothest trajectory there ever could be.”

Jane laughs, but the noise fades fast and she points at the wheat field. Orange speckled light in the distance. “That must be the town up ahead.”





37





FARROW KEENE





We cut through a dirt path in the wheat field, leading us towards a small Kansas town.

Notifications ping and buzz on multiple phones. Cell signal must’ve returned. As we walk, I check my texts since I sent one to my father this morning. The first time I’ve texted him in years.

I said: if you’re harassing Maximoff in the belief I’ll return to medicine, tell me now. We can talk about it. It took me an hour just constructing that text. Because my first draft said fuck you.