Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(62)

For three famous families.

For us, and it means more to me than I can ever articulate. I end up smiling, one that courses through my whole body and brightens every fucking piece of me.

We play the next round.

Oscar loses and reads a truth, “Oldest person you’ve fucked? Maybe a forty-year-old a couple years ago.” He shrugs. “I was twenty-eight.”

Another hand, and I’m down a second dice. Here we go. I reach into the hat. Unfurl the napkin.

I read the words silently. “I can’t drink,” I say with the shake of my head. A dare to take three shots of whiskey is a hardline that I won’t let anyone peer-pressure me to cross.

Cigarette between his lips, Farrow tosses the napkin shred back in the hat. “Pick again.” Fuck me and his movements. My blood heats at his sheer confidence that matches and wrestle-fucks mine.

I choose again. “Truth,” I read the neat scrawl that I think belongs to Thatcher. “What’s your greatest fear?” I pause, not needing to contemplate long. “Watching someone I love die.”

Farrow rubs my back beneath my shirt, and we all roll again. Making bets, Donnelly loses his last dice and picks the three whiskey shots dare.

My phone vibrates as the guys start pouring shots. A text message from my little sister Kinney at 3:24 a.m., a witching hour, means only one thing.

I asked the Ouija board if you suck and the ghost told me yes. – Kinney



She’s still pissed that she’s not allowed on tour. I text back: I love you more than the ghost hates me. I pocket my phone. At my choice of words, I instantly recall the past. Something my dad said to me once.

I can practically hear his voice.

“You can hate me for two days, Maximoff, but I’ll love you for a thousand more.” I was almost seven, and my parents grounded me for the first time. I screamed, “I hate you!” at my dad. Not thinking, not realizing how much that must’ve hurt him.

And that’s what he told me.

The memory sticks with me for a while, but I try to retrain my attention on the game. Donnelly downs his third shot.

Farrow swigs his energy drink and studies my expression.

I’m alright. Our eyes meet, and I just move out of instinct more than anything. I wrap my arm around him, sort of clutching the base of his neck and shoulder. My thumb gently skims his skin—

“You shouldn’t be touching,” Thatcher tells us.

Fuck. I drop my arm. Feeling like shit. I don’t value touching Farrow over the jobs of SFO. I don’t.

I’m just juggling a relationship with these major consequences—and I never claimed to be good at any of this.

Farrow snuffs his cigarette on the ashtray. “I was wondering when our chaperone would show up.”

“I never left,” Thatcher retorts. “Remember that.”

“I’m choosing not to,” Farrow says easily.

Thatcher opens his mouth, and Akara says, “Moving on.” Thatcher nods and the game continues with another hand.

Farrow loses. “Dare, let the person you least like write something on your chest.” He already tosses a pen at Thatcher, and then he grips the hem of his shirt. He looks at me with a rising smile that says, try not to get hard, wolf scout.

I glower, my tongue running over my molars. Don’t fucking smile, Maximoff.

He pulls his black shirt over his head, his tattoos and cut muscles in full view, but it’s his unabashed, casual confidence that almost strokes my cock.

Almost.

I can contain a hard-on.

Farrow climbs off the stool and stands in front of Thatcher. “Wherever you can find space to write fuck you, Farrow, go ahead.”

Thatcher uncaps the pen. Without a word, he writes I promise to follow the rules near his collarbone.

Farrow just rolls his eyes, and then he tucks his shirt in his back pocket. Returning to the stool beside me.

Another roll, and Thatcher is fucked on the bet. He loses his second dice. “Truth,” he reads, “how hot do you find your client—no, this is inappropriate, Oscar.”

“I can explain,” Oscar says in a professional tone. “I meant for Akara to pick that.”

Akara shakes his head repeatedly. “No.”

Donnelly lights another cigarette. “On a scale of one to ten, Thatch, how hot is Jane Cobalt?”

“It’s Thatcher,” he corrects Donnelly.

This isn’t that bad. Janie would be beyond fucking curious just to hear the answer. And I’d tell her in a heartbeat.

“I’m not answering this,” Thatcher says adamantly.

“To the surprise of no one,” Farrow declares and then motions for another round to start. When Akara loses next, his dare says to call the 5th contact in his phone and propose to them.

His fifth contact is Banks Moretti, and he has Thatcher’s twin brother on the line in less than a minute. “Banks?” Akara says, phone cupped to his mouth.

“Yeah?” His voice sounds identical to Thatcher’s.

“Hey, you know I love you, man.”

“Uh, yeah?”

Thatcher starts smiling, maybe for the first time all night. I know that look. I’ve worn it before. That’s his family, his home, and it shows.

Akara sips his whiskey. “And you’re my number five, my ride-or-die guy—”