Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(107)

I wish they would’ve mentioned my cousins and the work of the crew and security. I couldn’t do this without them, but my spirits are still high throughout the Seattle FanCon. I didn’t need the accolades. I’m just happy with the number.

$150 million will help a lot of fucking people.

A line coordinator guides a lanky boy out after I hug him. Farrow stands several feet off to the side, and a few fans gift him portraits they drew. Bodyguard Fame is alive and thriving.

But weirdly, it’s not bad. So far, they’ve all been able to ignore the attention. Mostly thanks to my mom and dad. It’s easier for Omega without a giant, all-consuming paparazzi presence.

Our FanCon banners are erected on the Seattle concert stage, and velvet ropes section all five lines. In between greeting fans, I look around at the excited crowd, the overwhelmed smiles, and I think about the first meet-and-greets. How we smoothed out a lot of kinks.

How no one bailed.

I’m fucking proud of this tour. Of my cousins. Of security and crew. I’m already planning an end-of-tour party for everyone.

A line coordinator ushers the next fan forward. Up a set of stairs. On the stage. Towards me. The girl has chopped, dyed pink hair, and a black Superheroes & Scones T-shirt swallows her thin frame. She can’t be older than fifteen.

Before my eyes even hit the girl, she’s crying.

And by crying, I mean bawling her fucking eyes out. I’ve met a billion tears from fans on this tour, happy and sad and pained, but something about this girl slams at me and tries to rock me back.

Maybe because she has the same wiry build as my sisters. Maybe because she looks around Xander’s age. Maybe because she stumbles over her feet, and when I catch her, she crumples in my arms.

“Hey, hey, I’m right here,” I say strongly, and I mortar brick and steel inside of me. I don’t rock back or sway.

She sobs and rubs at her cheeks. I support all her weight, holding her up so she’s on two feet. If I let go, she’ll sink to the floor.

I wipe her tears with the hem of my green shirt. “What’s your name?”

She tries to stop crying, breaths ragged. “B-B-Britni.”

My lips pull in a small smile. “That’s a pretty name.”

She cries harder.

Goddammit.

I look over my shoulder. At Farrow. He’s fixated on this interaction, and I mouth, parents. We need to find her parents or whoever attended the FanCon with her. A family member, a friend, a goddamn adult.

Farrow waves over my assistant and speaks quickly.

I concentrate on Britni. “Want to sit with me for a second?” I ask.

She nods over and over.

So I slowly kneel on one knee and bring her down with me. I let go of her waist, and she sits on the stage, her legs splayed to the side. I rub her back and ask as gently as I can, “Want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

She sobs into her Superheroes & Scones shirt.

Like guttural sobs. Each one tries to dagger my ribcage and lungs. My bones grind to a halt, locked, muscles tensing. My jaw sharpens, brows scrunched.

I’m not as soft as some fans think. I care wholeheartedly about these people, these fans I’ve never met, but tough love comes easier for me. And that’s not what she needs.

I lick my lips and swallow a pit. I rub her back again. “Britni, everything’s—”

“I’m s-s-s-sorry,” she whimpers.

“I promise, it’s okay.” I nod to her, but she can’t meet my gaze. “You’re doing great.”

“I-I just…I’m having a hard time in school and at home and my life is over. You’re the only thing I need to make it better.”

I go numb. Pressure tries to compound, but I fight off the heavy, heavier, and heaviest. I’m aware that I have such a short amount of time with this girl. Anything I say could make or break her, and I never take this responsibility lightly.

“Life can be hard sometimes,” I say. “My mom and dad taught me that when you’re not sure if you can keep going, you just need to take it one day at a time, one step at a time. Can you do that with me?”

She breathes heavily, and tears leak silently.

“You’re here, today,” I say, reaching for something in my soul to give to her, but it collapses my chest. “There are good things in this fucking world. It might not seem like it yesterday, maybe not even tomorrow, but it gets—”

“It’ll all end,” she cries and then clutches onto the collar of my crew-neck, grip frantic. Tugging.

Farrow nears, and I side-eye him, silently saying not yet. I even hold out a hand so he’ll stay back for a fucking second. Just hold on.

Hold on.

You don’t know that I used to cry myself to sleep at nine-years-old. Hearing bad shit about my family. About myself. Wondering what the fuck was real. I was a happy kid, but there were hours, days, weeks where I used to think every cruel, heartless bastard would break the people I loved.

I can’t fathom the kind of lows my brother goes through. What this girl may be going through. Where they just want to quit. But I understand what it’s like to wake up and want to scream.

And my parents would tell me, “One day at a time, one step at a time.” Stand up.

Keep going.

Move forward.

“Britni,” I start, but she twists the collar of my shirt.