Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(74)

“Oscar Oliveira,” Jane announces.

He emerges in red silk boxers, and he baby-oiled his golden-brown skin, his abs shiny and more defined.

“Cheater,” Donnelly boos.

Oscar struts down the hall. “You were never going to win, Donnelly.”

I sip my eggnog. I can’t tell if the taste is off or not. Did I give Sulli the right mug? I did…I’m not drinking alcohol. I’m not.

Right?

“…a thirty-year-old Taurus,” Jane narrates, “and Yale graduate, this former pro-boxer likes snack breaks and not very much surprises him. Nothing catches this man off-guard.”

Oscar halts and flexes a bicep.

“Oscar,” Jane says, “if you were a candy bar, what candy bar would you be?”

“Snickers. You’re not yourself without me.”

Laughter, and Donnelly drums the table. I stare at my mug, fixed on the creamy liquid. I drank alcohol blares in my head on high alert.

A lump lodges in my dry throat.

“Maximoff.”

“What?” My head swerves—Farrow is right next to me. On the couch. Jesus Christ. I didn’t even see him walk over here. It’s not like he had far to go but…I’m fixating on stupid things. Avoiding my reality. I drank alcohol.

I go rigid.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers.

“Quinn Oliveira,” Jane announces, drawing my attention for a second.

Holy shit. My eyes widen. Quinn is only wearing a red bow. The plastic kind used for gift-wrapping, but it’s large enough to cover his package. He holds the bow so it won’t fall.

He must’ve drawn the worst style.

Sulli’s jaw unhinges. “Fuuuck.”

Quinn laughs and walks more stiffly than the other guys. Farrow and I take our eyes off him at the same time. My head is spinning.

I hand Farrow my mug. “Sip this.”

“The youngest bodyguard is a lovely Gemini and vegetarian,” Jane narrates. “He’s Brazilian-American, a former pro-boxer and the little brother to Oscar. You’ll want to bring this stud home to your parents.”

Oscar and Donnelly clap, and Akara drums the steering wheel.

Farrow takes a large swig of eggnog. “It tastes fine.”

“What?” It can’t. I motion for him to sip again.

He frowns, confused. I’m fucking confused, and I need Farrow to solve this riddle, mystery, whatever-the-fuck I’m dealing with because I can’t see the answer.

“Quinn,” Jane says, “which bodyguard in Omega inspires you the most?”

He hoists the candy cane. “Akara Kitsuwon.”

Akara waves in thanks from the driver’s seat.

Oscar claps. “My little bro, a kiss ass.”

Quinn lets out an aggravated sigh, and he ends up sitting next to Jane.

Farrow swigs the eggnog and says, “He’s joking with you, Oliveira.”

“I’m over it,” Quinn mumbles.

Jane clears her throat. “And lastly, we have Thatcher Moretti.”

Farrow takes a third sip. “It’s not spiked.”

I lean back. Trying to relax at that news, but I still feel weird. I take off my beanie and pull my sweatshirt off, boiling hot.

Oscar whistles.

I turn my head. Thatcher walks like a six-foot-seven brick wall in a red jockstrap. The fabric cups his dick. Nothing left to the imagination.

“Um,” Jane loses thought, “Thatcher…Moretti is a twenty-seven-year-old…and he’s quite tall.”

“The end,” Farrow says.

“No,” Jane rebuts, but Thatcher has already stopped at the counter. “Merde,” she mutters. “Thatcher, if you were stranded on an island, what would you bring?”

“A knife.”

Farrow rolls his eyes.

“Spin around, Moretti,” Oscar says.

Thatcher hesitates, but then he spins, elastic bands framing his bare ass. Sulli and Jane cheer, and the guys golf-clap. Except for Farrow, who couldn’t care less.

My cousins start marking their scores, and Thatcher takes the driver’s seat, letting Akara return to the lounge.

I rest my elbows on my knees, hunched.

“What are you feeling?” Farrow asks me.

“Lightly spinning,” I tell Farrow. “It’s not that bad right now…” I lose track of my thought as Charlie appears. He drops down from his bunk and determinedly beelines for the driver.

I can overhear him through the music and chatter. “Stop the bus at the next exit,” he tells Thatcher. “You need to park at the Dairy Queen.”

What? I call out to Charlie, “It’s Christmas Eve. Dairy Queen isn’t open.”

Charlie ignores me.

I bottle whatever weird feeling sits in my stomach and head. My shoulders more squared. Alert.

Thatcher turns the wheel, the bus coasting along the exit ramp. “Is there a reason?” he asks Charlie.

“You’ll see in a second,” Charlie says, more concerned than usual. His arms crossed over his chest. He even stays at the front of the bus.

Beckett shuts off the music and stops video-recording. Everyone is quiet.

Oscar pushes to the front and speaks hushed to Charlie, who barely responds. Chatter escalates again, and I give Janie a look. “I wish he’d share something with us.”