Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(118)

“Probably not,” I agree. Crossing off Jason means that I only have two top suspects left. Vincent Webber, the asshole one-night stand who talked shit about Maximoff on social media.

And my father.





42





FARROW KEENE





“Get the fuck outta Philly!”

That heckle originates from the south end of the smoky billiards and darts bar, too packed to distinguish faces. But from the gawking and middle fingers slung in our direction, I see clearly who’s being heckled.

And it’s not Maximoff or Jane or any of the famous ones.

Oscar racks up the pool balls and surveys the crowded bar and pissed off faces. “Donnelly is going to flip when he gets here.”

He’s definitely not the type who’d appreciate someone demanding that he vacate his own city. We all call Philly home, and the jeers began the moment Oscar and I stepped into The Independent. Our go-to spot whenever we’re off-duty and not at the Studio 9 gym.

Becoming “somewhat” famous doesn’t mean everyone loves you. I’ve spent plenty of hours with Lily Calloway and Maximoff, and I’ve seen how unwarranted hate festers out of notoriety.

I grab a cue stick and catch eyes with a bearded, tattooed dipshit. He flips me off with two hands and careens forward on his stool. His attempt to rope me into a confrontation.

I almost laugh and spin the cue stick. I’m not that easily snared. Sidling up to the pool table, I tell Oscar with the tilt of my head, “It’s like they don’t realize we’re all trained fighters.”

Oscar grins. “Idiots.” He tries to align the pool balls perfectly, and his curly hair falls over a rolled bandana that’s tied across his forehead.

My phone buzzes in my pant’s pocket. I pull it out with a piece of gum. New text.

“When my little bro gets here, Redford, tell him you’ve only played pool once or twice.” Oscar grabs a stick off the wall.

I chew my gum, not looking up from my phone. “You want me to hustle your brother,” I say, partially interested. I read a recent message and lean some of my weight on my cue stick. My boot rests on the rung of a short stool.

I’d say this is heaven but it’s missing someone… – Maximoff



He included a selfie that could be part of a Calvin Klein campaign. Fucking gorgeous. Halfway submerged in his family’s pool, his wet hair is slicked back, and beads of water roll down his temples.

My mouth rises.

Luna photo-bombed him, her tongue touching her nose.

Our clients are spending the night at the gated neighborhood, visiting parents and siblings. Maximoff invited me to join him, but since the tour officially ended early yesterday, Omega wanted to go out.

And I need to be with security.

I start texting him back: I’d say you’re missing a comma. Before I hit send, Akara plucks my phone right out of my hand. He wafts smoke out of his face, the bar clouding.

“When’d you get here?” I ask, noticing a beer bottle in his grip. I’m not sure how he managed to push through the hecklers at the bar without causing a fistfight.

Donnelly saunters towards Oscar, beer also in hand. Through the cigarette smoke, I make out his septum piercing, a new thing, and he cut holes in his Studio 9 shirt.

“Five minutes ago,” Akara answers me, his sweaty muscle shirt suctioned to his chest.

I pop my gum. “You smell like a five hour workout.”

Akara rubs my phone on his sweat stains, making a point. “We all agreed not to stalk the stalker tonight. You know Maximoff is safe with his family.”

“I realize that.” I don’t need the reassurance. I’m confident whoever the fuck is behind the sick photos won’t reach Maximoff at his parent’s house. It’s decked out in security alarms and cams.

I extend my hand for the phone.

Akara rubs it on his chest again. “You really want this thing back?”

“Man sweat really doesn’t bother me.” I motion to him. “Give me.”

He slips my cell into his back pocket.

I roll my eyes. “Akara—”

“You can get it back later tonight.” He squeezes my shoulder. “No client, no boyfriend. Just relax.”

I chew my gum slowly. “I’m the definition of relaxed.”

Akara swigs his beer. “You’ve been the definition of hyper-vigilant. I’ll let you know when you’re back to Farrow ‘chilling in hurricanes’ Keene.”

I’m not dwelling on that. Mostly because a brawny fucker yells, “Go eat shit, posers!!”

Donnelly leans on the pool table. “Haters gonna hate.”

“Get outta Philly!” a collective jeer comes at us.

Donnelly suddenly straightens up and outstretches his arms. “I’m from Philly! You get outta here, man!”

Oscar pulls Donnelly back by the shirt before he storms the bar, and then he steals Donnelly’s beer.

“Hey,” Akara says, “let it go. We don’t need to make another headline. Security Force Omega Gets in a Bar Fight reflects badly on our employers.”

Donnelly glowers at the bearded, tattooed guy who’s been staring me down. “What about Security Force Omega Wins a Bar Fight, boss?”