Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(81)

Not a threat. Not a threat. Not a threat. I yawn after an hour of non-threats. Standing, I search the cupboards for the Ripped Fuel.

“Over here, Redford.” Oscar points to the passenger seat where the jug lies. I sink down and slouch on the seat, iPad under my armpit. I open the jar, kicking my feet on the glove compartment.

I pop three pills in my mouth.

Oscar glances at me, then the road. “Did you just take three at one time?”

“I did.” I tune him out with my earbud.

He rips the cord out.

“I’m working,” I say with raised brows.

“I’m not even clocking your hours, and I can tell you need sleep.” His eyes flit to me again. “Bro, you’re not driving the next shift. I’m waking Akara.”

I don’t care. I put my earbud in, and go back to work.

Thirty minutes pass and I flag an NDA from a celebrity-obsessed girl who’s prolific on Instagram. Another one sticks out to me, a guy whose SnapChat stories include running through traffic.

Then I land on Vincent Webber.

Heir to an oil tycoon. His recent tweet:

@CelebrityCrush Maximoff and Jane are weirdly close. You don’t need to apologize. Shit is true. Seen it firsthand.



Celebrity Crush replied on their real account:

@WebTown333 would you DM us? We’d like to get in contact and ask you some questions.



@CelebrityCrush sure. I could bury that bastard.



My nose flares, and I stare, unblinking, at his Twitter account. Maximoff slept with this fucking dickhole.

“I know that look,” Oscar says.

“What look?” I type Vincent Webber into the Excel sheet.

“The territorial pit bull look you get when someone is fucking with your guy.” He switches lanes.

I type in more info. “I don’t like knowing he fooled around with guys who couldn’t give a shit about him.” I shake my head. “Especially given the fact that Maximoff cares about people.” Even his one-night stands.

“That’s why he’s not researching any of this,” Oscar tells me.

“I know.”

Maximoff doesn’t need to know that a hookup is talking shit about him. It’s my job. Not his. I finish inputting more data.

Vincent Webber just rose on my list. Right beside Jason Motlic, the ex-swimmer.

Find the stalker. My fastest has to be fast enough.





29





MAXIMOFF HALE





A few hours ago, Janie tried to prepare me for New Year’s Eve at a Dallas nightclub. Hands on my shoulders, she said, “Repeat after me, I, Maximoff Hale…”

“I, Maximoff Hale,” I said with crossed arms. Ready for an apocalyptic ending tonight. It’s what Donnelly said: the Hale Curse. What goes wrong will go wrong to the Hales. Now there are two Hales on this trip, and I was alright with catastrophes happening to me. To my sister?

No fucking way.

“…will trust Jane Eleanor Cobalt,” she continued.

That was easy to say. “…will trust my best friend.”

She smiled. “To be the best wing-woman to Luna Hale, which includes copious amounts of fun, a midnight kiss from a stranger, and safety of the highest caliber.”

I scowled. “Janie—”

“It’s a girls’ night out, old chap.” She lifted her chin. “I’m partying with Sullivan and Luna, and you’re not allowed to hover or protect. They’re my responsibility, and that’s that.”

I trust Janie with all my fucking heart. So I nodded and gave in.

Spoiler Alert: I lost sight of the girls within twenty minutes. The nightclub is gigantic. Three-stories of balconies overlook a packed dance pit. Colorful strobe lights stroke the swaying and gyrating bodies. A DJ spins on a table, amps blasting my favorite electronic music.

This could’ve been a disaster zone for security and our bodyguards, but the public has no clue we’re in Dallas. Plus, the strobe lights obstruct our features. Becoming nameless, faceless humans. None of us have been spotted.

Not once.

I’m not even rigid or alert. I’m in the pit, dancing as much as anyone can with jam-packed bodies. Bright pinks, oranges, then purples bathe the club. Light sweeping the crowds.

Like I’m in a fantasy world. Music pumps and magnifies my pulse.

I let go.

A hand slides across my neck. Farrow is in front of me. Pressed up against me as we move to a hypnotic beat. In public. We’re in public.

The fact elevates this euphoric, light-as-air feeling that dizzies me. Heady, intoxicating—and I pull him even closer. My strong hand on his abs, rising up his back.

His gaze drips in a scorching trail down my body. Sweat blisters on my skin, and even with people all around us—someone at my back, my sides—I only see him.

Right here. Now.

NYE sunglasses with the year rest on his hair, pushing back the white strands. He’s fucking beautiful. Blue lights cast over his face. Then red, then fuchsia.

I devour him and this moment. Our eyes dance along our bodies, and when they meet, they caress over and over again. Kiss me, man.

His hand warms my skin and clutches tighter. Foreheads almost touching, we move with carnal force. And my mouth parts in a shallow breath, a raspy noise stuck in my throat. Farrow hones in on my lips, his hand shifting to my jaw.