Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(121)

“What?” almost all of us say.

Akara sighs. “We can’t handle major security events. Sometimes even minor ones. Not without Alpha and Epsilon or temp bodyguards. They have to join us at concerts, galas, and any charity functions. Maybe even smaller locations. We need the extra bodies, guys. We can’t do that stuff alone anymore. It’s just the way it is.”

We quiet.

I grit down and rub my jaw. I don’t want to call in reinforcements for a job we’re hired to do, but I’m not about to put my pride above Maximoff’s safety.

After a minute, we all nod. Agreeing.

We’re in the same restless ocean, a boat of six, and luckily, we’re equipped to handle the roughest weather.

Even the bearded dipshit that comes at me with a cue stick. Right now. “If you’re not gonna leave our bar, we’re gonna make you.”

Akara glares. “Really, man?”

He barrels forward in a drunken rage. There’s no reasoning with that.

I stand, Omega stands, and we step out of the booth about the same time his friends swarm us.

“Get outta—”

Thatcher sucker-punches a hefty guy, and the bar erupts into a brawl. Fists fly, chairs clatter. Quinn jabs his knuckles at a guy’s nose, and Donnelly left-hooks a three-hundred pound man who breaks a bottle.

The bearded dipshit swings the stick at my head—I duck. Then I slam my boot on his kneecap, a direct hit. He curses in pain and staggers, falling.

Next to me, Akara kicks another brawny heckler in the chest. He crashes into a pub table.

Oscar is chatting with the blonde bartender.

“Out!” the manager yells at us. “OUT!” Six or seven employees crawl out of the woodwork and start ushering us through the rear exit.

Quinn raises his hand. “I’m cool, bro.”

“We’re going, we’re going,” Akara tells them, and down a flight of stairs, we reach the road together.

Leaving the hecklers behind, we joke and meander down the Philly street like nothing is out of the ordinary. Laughing about the free beer.

But our short-lived time at The Independent isn’t a regular night. That abrupt ending is usually meant for the people we protect.

Not for us.

Slowly, we each grow quiet, hands in pockets and trekking along. Our fame collectively sinks in, adjusting like we’ve been given a new uniform to wear.





43





MAXIMOFF HALE





Cats dart under the pink Victorian loveseat, rocking chair, and up the narrowed staircase of my old townhouse. I’m back home.

I missed the little things: the historic brick walls, all my family photos on the mantel, and how it always smells like coffee and hot tea. I could’ve stayed on the road longer. But I’m not racing to find a way back.

A year ago, the early tour cancellation would’ve just fucking devastated me. I know I hurt people. I’ve seen Twitter. Fans called me an asshole, a heartless human being, a stuck-up celebrity pretending to be humble. That I only wanted the praise. And I don’t really care about you.

I’m done.

I’m done trying to prove anything to anyone. Even you. I am who I fucking am, and the truth will always be that I wish I could’ve done more. But I’m finally satisfied with the fact that I’ve given all that I can. Even if you can’t see it or refuse to believe it.

Now I need to be home.

With all the people who love me unconditionally.

My family and security zip in and out of the townhouse, carrying cardboard boxes, plastic tubs and clothes on hangers. Alpha blocked paparazzi off the street. So it’s been a pretty easy move-in day.

Dear World, don’t jinx me. Sincerely, an unlucky human.

Jesus.

Christ.

I rush down the stairs. “Luna, watch out!”

Dear World, you suck.

Worst regards.

My skateboard rolls out from under the loveseat. Luna cradles four lava lamps and steps on the board. Tripping forward.

I sprint, and the skateboard bangs into the coffee table.

Luna starts tumbling, about to face-plant, and I snag her arm before she goes down. And I hold her upright. She hot-potatoes a lamp, and catches it by the cord.

That was fucking close. I take her lamps.

“Bad start, the usual,” Luna breathes and crouches to pet Lady Macbeth. “I warned you I’d be a shitty roommate, right?”

I untangle the lamps. “And I reminded you that we used to be roommates for thirteen years.”

Farrow isn’t here to voice the technicality, but technically, we’ve never shared a room before. It’s not like we’ll be sharing a room now either. She’s moving into the guest room, her own small space.

Luna rises as the black cat scampers away. “That’s different. We were kids back then.”

I smile. “Yeah, and now you’re a high school graduate with a diploma and everything…” I trail off at her smile that she can’t contain. Luna finished her last homeschool exam yesterday.

Luna shimmies her shoulders. “It’s pretty cool, huh?”

“Really fucking cool.” A few cousins pass us with boxes, and we edge near the fireplace. Staying out of the way.

I stare at my little sister and memories surface of us being just kids. I must’ve been five or six, and I’d constantly ask my mom if I could push Luna’s stroller. Wanting to help out. I buckled her into a car seat and held her hand while we crossed the street. We’d play-fight with plastic lightsabers in Superheroes & Scones and swap comics.