Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(71)

Quinn and Donnelly undress to their underwear and mutter under their breaths to one another. Looking grateful that they’re not under this spotlight.

“You’ll be asked to do a series of physical activities as punishment.” Thatcher nods to me. “Right now, drop and give me fifty push-ups.” He’s serious.

I don’t blink. “No.”

Thatcher is now two feet from my face. Towering, glaring. “This isn’t negotiable.”

This is bullshit. “I’m not a green bodyguard. I’ve paid my dues, and I’m not dropping to my knees every time you’re pissed at me. No thanks.” I take a seat on the couch just to put distance between us, and I untie my boots.

He’s fuming.

Akara is more at ease since I agreed to a pay cut. He’s down to his boxer-briefs, and he digs in the shopping bag for the contest’s underwear.

Thatcher scratches his unshaven jaw, his gaze narrowing on me. “When doctors told you to do something, is that what you said to them, no?

I yank hard at my laces. See, I listen to authority. I respect authority like Akara, but I’ve lost some respect for Thatcher the more he comes at me. This personal vendetta is getting old.

“Did they even let you see patients,” he asks, “or were you a liability for them too?”

I glare. I’m not wasting my breath boasting about doing rotations. When the hospital was short-staffed, some attending physicians treated me more like an intern. Like an asset. Because I wasn’t afraid to listen to my gut. I knew my shit.

I thought quickly, and I didn’t treat textbooks like the know-all, end-all. And that’s exactly how I am now.

Here.

I kick off one boot. “If you think I’m a liability, then fire me.”

“I should’ve,” Thatcher says coldly. “And I still can—”

“No,” Akara interjects. “We need Farrow.”

Quinn nods strongly. It almost makes me smile.

Donnelly opens his mouth, but he catches my gaze that says, don’t. He’s not a lead of a Force, and they’ll just yell at him for interjecting. Donnelly doesn’t give a shit. “You fire Farrow, I’ll walk out.”

I cringe. “Man, be smarter than that.”

“You die, I die—”

“Oh my God,” I mutter and pinch my eyes.

“Stay out of this,” Akara says to Donnelly in his harshest voice, then to Thatcher, he repeats, “We need Farrow.”

Thatcher shakes his head once, but he knows I’ve never made a mistake that’s truly jeopardized the safety of a client. I’ve just done things differently than the status quo. And it unnerves him.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” I ask him and kick off my last boot.

“Be committed to this profession.”

I clock two hours a sleep a day trying to track a stalker. I spent the last four tour stops, including Nashville and Boston, securing the convention space just on the chance that they would appear and attack Maximoff.

And what’s worse: I’ve added my own father to the short suspect list. Because he has access to the families. To security. Knowledge of the next meet-and-greet stops.

And it makes me physically sick to think he could be harassing my boyfriend.

To hear Thatcher say that I’m not committed is a slap in the face, but I want to know why he thinks that I don’t care. Especially when my actions say I do.

I stand up with a deep frown. “Tell me why I’m not committed.”

“Since the start,” Thatcher says sternly, “you’ve had one foot in, one foot out. At any minute, you can leave for a hospital. So leave if this isn’t what you want to do. Go.”

“Hey,” Akara snaps. “He’s staying.”

My nose flares again. I’ve been in a cold war with my father over choosing this career. I’m fighting against a generational legacy just standing here. But if he can’t see that, then there’s only one way to prove that I’m serious about security. The team, this job, this lifestyle, my client.

It matters to me.

As much as I can’t stand Thatcher, I drop to a push-up position, and I say, “I’m not going anywhere.”





25





MAXIMOFF HALE





“What are the judging parameters?” Sulli mutters to herself and uncaps a pen with her teeth, blank paper on her lap.

I zip up the back of Jane’s reindeer onesie.

“Merci,” she smiles and drops on the floor in front of Beckett. She could sit on one of the two gray couches in the first lounge, but Beckett pops open a sewing kit. Planning to attach antlers to Jane’s hood.

He already sewed Sulli’s, who wears an identical onesie. Now she sits cross-legged on the opposite couch. In deep contemplation.

My lips start rising.

This is our first Christmas Eve away from our families. It’s weird, but not bad. Beckett and I sport ugly holiday sweatshirts, winter beanies, and camping socks. We decorated the bus with Christmas lights, candy canes, and plastic ornaments. Bought gingerbread cookies and made eggnog, Janie’s favorite, and now the air is light-hearted.

No tension.

Maybe because Charlie refused to participate tonight. He’s holed up in his bunk.