Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(70)

Our lips meet with hot power, and everything bursts inside of me. His skilled tongue parts my mouth, and I bear more weight on him as he drives the kiss deeper. Like he’s reaching for the center of my soul.

And then a five-note jingle bell chime interrupts the most cinematic moment of my entire life.

“Shit,” I curse and sit up but I’m still straddling him.

“What was that?” he breathes hard and props himself on his elbows.

I take my phone out of my pocket. “I set that noise for notifications.” Specifically for the @maximoffdeadhale account.

Maximoff rubs his lips like he still feels me on them, and he watches me unlock my phone and pop open Instagram.

I frown at the two new pictures. Mentally, I push past the photoshopped gore, and I fixate on the locations. The first pic is clearly set in Nashville, a sign in the back, and the second city landscape is recognizable to me.

Boston.

A rock lodges in my throat, and my muscles tighten. Nashville and Boston are the next two tour stops. And both haven’t been publicly announced yet.

It can’t be a coincidence anymore, and if I woke up Omega, I’m certain they’d all say the same.

“What is it?” Maximoff asks.

My jaw tics. “You have a stalker.”

He’s not afraid. “Officially?”

“Officially. Whoever’s running this account knows about the tour before the public.” It’s someone close to the families, to security or crew, and if they have this kind of inside information, I wonder what else they have access to.





24





FARROW KEENE





“I’m going to ask you this once.” Thatcher confronts me on Christmas Eve. All of SFO—except for Oscar who drives us to Atlanta—are secluded in the second lounge. Not for a meeting.

Not for a lecture or a pointless fight.

We’re all undressing.

For a Hot Santa Underwear Contest. Our clients are the judges, waiting for us in the first lounge. We randomly picked underwear styles out of a hat. From tame to nearly-naked. Akara dubbed tonight “chill” and “fun”, but everyone forgot Thatcher has no concept of either.

As I pull my black shirt off my head, I try to suppress an eye-roll. “Okay, ask me,” I say. Multi-colored bulbs flash to the beat of a holiday jingle, and more lights are strung throughout the bus.

Thatcher unbuttons his charcoal shirt. “Did you tell Jane and Maximoff about the stalker?”

I unbuckle my belt, a bitter taste in my mouth. I can name a hundred other topics that deserve anger, and keeping my client and his client in the loop isn’t one of them.

Akara, Quinn, and Donnelly undress around us, listening and watching a shit storm brew. I can already tell Akara is pissed. His eyes pierce me as he wads up his muscle-shirt in a fist.

“Yeah, I told them,” I say easily. “I assume you overheard them talking about it.”

“I did.” His voice is strict. “There are rules, Farrow. Rules that protect the mental well-being of Maximoff—”

“He’s desensitized to this shit,” I cut him off. “It’s more helpful keeping him informed—”

“No it’s not,” Thatcher retorts. “We can gather intel without him. We know everything about his relationships, his life. There’s nothing he can give us that we can’t learn ourselves.”

That truth bothers the hell out of me. I can consume his past without even speaking to him or asking for permission, and that’s not what I ever want to do. I prefer a less invasive route.

I extend my arms. “I told him the truth. I don’t regret it. I wouldn’t change it, and if you’re looking for something different, I can’t help you.” I understand the rule about keeping demented shit secret.

I followed that rule when Lily was my client. It applies to her and kids like Xander. Anyone who may get anxiety.

But Maximoff hates being kept in the dark, and I don’t tell him every tweet, every bullshit internet post. This was a real threat, and he’s the last person who needs water wings.

Thatcher steps forward. “I don’t care how you feel about the rules. They exist for a reason, and like I told you in Cleveland, for every single one you break, there’d be consequences.”

I glance at Akara as he tells me, “We’re deducting your pay. You’ll be fined a grand for every infraction.” He shoots me a no-nonsense look. “Starting with the one you just broke.”

Meaning, I just lost a grand.

I tense.

If I calculate all the times I slip between the rules, I may be fined to the point where I’m working for free. Or worse, I could owe them more money than I make.

I grew up fortunate. My father paid for my undergrad and medical school at Yale, but I don’t have a trust fund. His money is his money, and I haven’t accepted a dime since I changed careers. My salary is entirely from security work.

I can live on less than I have right now. The Hales, Cobalts, and Meadows pay for security’s housing. I don’t own a car, and I already paid off my motorcycle. I just need to be careful about spending. Because I’m not changing how I do this job.

“Fine,” I say. Merry Christmas to me.

“That’s not it,” Thatcher says as he removes his button-down.