Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(43)

I think about last night. I think about sex. Did I hurt him? Was I somehow selfish? Is that it? No…no, that can’t be it.

Even assured about that, something raw and cold impales my chest. Like an iron fist banging against my ribs. I solidify to stone.

Dear World, did he just bring me a “break up” breakfast? Is that even a thing? Worst regards, a broken-hearted human.

My guards skyrocket.

I mortar my face with nothingness. Pushing out the hurt. Preparing myself for anything and everything. Bones rigid, shoulders squared.

I can handle this.

Farrow scoots around to face me, his knees casually bent. He keeps a hand on my leg. I can’t tell if it’s in pity or comfort.

“Generally,” I say in a flat voice, “when someone says they need to talk, they talk.”

“I’m getting there.” He’s not looking forward to this conversation. That’s for sure.

Appetite lost, I wrap up the chicken biscuit and shove it into the Wendy’s bag. I can’t sit in tense silence. “If you want to break up, just do it—”

“Whoa.” He raises a hand, eyes narrowed. “I never even considered breaking up with you. It’s not what I want.” Farrow sweeps my blank face. “…do you want that?”

“No, no. Not at all.” I’m fucking confused. “We’re still good together.”

“Really good,” he says, his confidence fortifying those words.

“Then what?”

Farrow stretches forward to put his oatmeal on an end table. “That Instagram account that I showed you back at the lake house.” He seizes my gaze. “It turned out to be a real threat.”

I shake my head. “No, there’s no way.”

“We traced the IP address to Philly. The entire security team is treating the user as a high risk to your safety.”

I stare off, processing this fact with little to no emotion. “Who is it?” I open Instagram on my cellphone.

Farrow hangs his arm on his bent knee. “We’re still trying to identify them.” He’s quiet. “I’m not supposed to share any of this with you, but I know you’d rather be aware.”

I nod a few times. Even before we got together, he always kept me in the loop. Even at the cost of disobeying the security team. “Thanks,” I say. “You know I won’t share with anyone but Janie.” I’m not about to scare my younger cousins.

I click into the @maximoffdeadhale account.

Farrow watches me, our silence more uneasy. I thought that tension would disappear.

“You don’t need to worry,” I tell him. “I’m not afraid of stalkers.”

“I didn’t think you were.” He combs a hand through his white hair. “There’s more.”

I frown at him before looking at the account. 52 photos. Most recent one shows me lying bloodied on a neon Cleveland sign, their Photoshop skills top-notch.

My first and only thought: I’m happy it’s me and not Farrow, not Jane, not my siblings, not my family, not anyone I love.

And I think about that. How I’m staring at dozens of pics where I’m dying or already dead and the only thing I feel is gratitude. Happy that the user didn’t choose to mock-kill someone else.

Farrow adjusts his earpiece, gaze drifting like another bodyguard is speaking. When his attention returns to me, he says, “It’s likely the account belongs to someone you personally know. Someone who hates you. Someone you’ve intentionally or unintentionally pissed off, and since I’m closest to you, I need to narrow down a list.”

I think back. Who did I piss off? “Most of my fistfights with hecklers made the news, so those names are somewhere online. That should help.” I stare faraway. “I can’t think of anyone else who’d want me dead besides anonymous trolls.”

Farrow slowly edges into the next question. “What about any of your hookups?”

Blood just drains out of my head. I’m not an idiot. I rapidly connect all the pieces and fully comprehend his reservations.

He needs to search my old NDAs for possible suspects.

And by search, I mean discover the names and number of people I’ve fucked.

I start shutting down. Brick upon brick upon brick. I climb off the bed and grab a pair of boxer-briefs.

He stands. “Maximoff—”

“I’ll go through my NDAs,” I say confidently, pulling my underwear to my waist. “I’ll give you the names of anyone that I think could be capable of creating an account like that.”

His jaw tics. “That’s not how this works. I’m your bodyguard. I protect you, Maximoff. You can’t do this yourself—”

“Why not?” I shake my head, my neck stiff and hot. “I’ve met these people. You haven’t. I can filter out the ones who would never—”

“How the fuck do you know they’d never hurt you?” he snaps, not backing down. “You were only with these people for one night. How much do you even know about them?”

I cast a glare at the wall. Not much.

“Omega wants to research all of your NDAs, and I agree—”

“No,” I say out of impulse and step back from him. Two feet. Three and four. Hands up. “You don’t need to know the faces of every person I’ve ever slept with.”