Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(35)

I lick my lips. “So you took Bank’s job and that put you on Thatcher’s shit list?”

“Partly.” He uses his left hand to drive. “I wasn’t just the guy that took his brother’s job. I was the son of the family’s doctor, a guy who had little security experience, who hated rules, and who was now the bodyguard to Lily Calloway. In Thatcher’s eyes, I was given the position without earning it.” Farrow chews his gum with a smile. “Little did he know, I’m the best at everything I do.”

My brows scrunch. “It’s like one minute you make sense and the next, it’s Klingon.”

Farrow stares at me for as long as he can, then fixes on the road. “Not ashamed to say that I don’t know what the fuck that means.”

“Let this go on every record that ever exists: I know something that you don’t.”

Farrow glances back. “Enjoy this while it lasts because it won’t last long.”

“I always last longer than you,” I retort.

Farrow whistles. “The last time I made you come must’ve really fucked with your memory.”

“Did you make me come?” I feign confusion and shift in my seat. “I’m not sure you did.”

He smiles out at the road. “Don’t worry, I’ll remind you what it felt like.”

Fucking Christ. My brain, my body—all the Team Farrow pieces of me crave and beg to cash in on that right now.

Then my phone buzzes in my back pocket. It’s late for most of my family to be texting. As I unpocket my phone, I think about how Farrow has already proven himself to the security team by keeping my mom safe.

Alpha may complain about him, but I’ve seen the Tri-Force radio Farrow in high-stress situations. Like during the Hallow Friends Eve incident, Akara turned to him first. When push-comes-to-shove, the entire security team trusts and relies on Farrow. Knowing he’ll be there and he’ll be ready.

If this weren’t true, he would’ve been fired a while ago. And Thatcher would’ve never voted to keep him around.

I ask Farrow, “Thatcher knows you’re good at what you do, so why does he still hate you?”

“Because I haven’t proven myself to his standards.” Farrow rotates the wheel, taking a sharp exit onto a ramp.

Maybe it has to do with Thatcher’s upbringing. “His dad was a Navy SEAL, right?”

Farrow frowns. “How do you know that?”

“Xander mentioned it once.” I click into my recent texts.

I AM SUCH A LOSER!!! – Tom



I straighten up because that doesn’t sound like Tom Cobalt. Before I even reply, another text pops up.

I’m gonna go die now – Tom



Farrow eagle-eyes me while I ditch texting and just call my seventeen-year-old cousin. I put my cell to my ear and unplug Farrow’s phone from the USB. “Call Tom’s bodyguard. Something’s not right.”





11





FARROW KEENE





I keep an eye on the darkened road and use one hand to speak in my phone. “Call Ian Wreath.”

I’m out of radio-range from Epsilon and Alpha while we drive away from Philly and NYC. And I haven’t kept track of the families in the team’s daily logs.

I prop my phone to my ear with my shoulder. Streets begin to narrow now that I’m off the highway.

We’re a little less than five minutes from the hotel to sleep overnight. Which is about a mile from where the convention is taking place. Maximoff didn’t book rooms in the same hotel as the Cleveland meet-and-greet. Because that’d be a security nightmare.

“Tom?” Maximoff lowers the phone, his gaze hardened. “He hung up on me.”

My line clicks. “Ian?” I press speakerphone so Maximoff can hear. “You out somewhere with Tom?” Drums bang loudly in the background.

“Why do you want to know?!” he yells over the cacophony.

I don’t like SFE, and SFE doesn’t like me. It’s been written in stone. “Man, I’m asking for my client. I wouldn’t call you for shits and giggles.”

“What does Maximoff want?!”

Maximoff instantly takes over. “Where’s Tom?”

Bass and guitar strums through the speaker. “We’re at his bandmate’s house!”

“Let me talk to him,” Maximoff says, not shitting around.

“TOM!” Ian shouts, and after muffled sounds, the bang of a drum, crash of an object, laughter and more chatter, Tom speaks.

“Moffy! What’s up, dude?”

Maximoff cups my cellphone. “Have you been texting me? Where’s your phone?”

I picture Tom patting his pockets, and his voice fades. “Which one of you douchebags took my phone?” More laughter.

I put two-and-two together: a kid stole Tom’s phone and texted Maximoff as a prank. I spit out my stale gum. I’m fucking irritated at Ian.

Maximoff keeps shaking his head, and he tries to stretch his flexed arm over his chest.

See, the mistake is on the bodyguard. Ian shouldn’t have let anyone steal his client’s phone. If Tom set it down, his bodyguard should’ve picked it up. Simple as that.

“Sorry, Moffy,” Tom says, voice louder. “My bandmate has a bad sense of humor. Phone’s back.”