Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(90)

Christ, I need him. Even selfishly.

Luna looks up from the laptop. “What’s a Hale Curse?”

“A made up thing,” I say and my phone vibrates in my clenched hand. I’ve spoken to lawyers, every uncle, every aunt, my parents, security, the board of H.M.C. Philanthropies, publicists, tabloids, journalists—exhaustion tries tooth-and-nail to tug at my limbs and sink me.

I barely blink.

I stare in a hard daze.

Thinking, thinking, and I feel three reactions rip at me in different directions.

One part of me says keep everyone safe, be resolute, resilient. I stand still.

One part pleads swim, run, go outside and taste the fucking air. I almost tilt my head back, shut my eyes and feel cold water with each forceful stroke, then tree branches slapping my arms and legs, running untiringly until my lungs fucking pop.

The last part of me screeches, drop to your knees and scream. Heavy pressure bears on my chest, but I’m not dropping.

I’m not screaming.

“Merde,” Jane says. All three girls look wide-eyed at the laptop.

I head to the bed. “What is it?”

Jane rotates the screen.

GBA News, a primetime station on par with ABC, picked up the story. The headline: Media and Fans Congest L.A. Streets to Spot Bodyguards of the Hale, Meadows, Cobalt Families.

I bend down and use the track-pad to read the article.

A “Hot Santa Underwear Contest” video featuring the famous families’ Security Force Omega has gone viral on Twitter and other social medias. The hashtag #HotBodyguards has been trending for over 24-hours, and Facebook shares are quickly growing over a million.

The overnight fervor and fame has had a serious impact on L.A. traffic. Multiple roads are currently shut down including…



I straighten. We were all hoping it’d be fleeting. Like fifteen minutes of fame. But if GBA publicized the story, it’ll air on the 7 o’clock news.

“Say something,” Jane says to me, a pink sleeping eye-mask on her head. But like me, she hasn’t slept. Guilt clouds her blue eyes.

“It’s not your fault, Janie.”

She narrated the Christmas Eve video. Beckett filmed it, but neither of them leaked it.

“But you talked to the security company,” she says like she’s filing all the details again and again. “It couldn’t have been a hack.”

I nod. “It wasn’t a hack, but Beckett texted the video to family and security. Which was fine. We’re all on a secure line, so it’s not his fault either.” He couldn’t have known someone would share the video and break the circle of trust.

We just don’t know who did.

Farrow pops his gum. “A famous one or security leaked it to the press, Cobalt.”

“Our families wouldn’t,” Jane says passionately.

“Epsilon,” Donnelly theorizes a culprit. “Someone narked.”

Oscar turns. “Doesn’t matter. The moment we leave this hotel, we’re all fired.” He gestures to the chaotic street. “Look at that. We can’t protect anyone if more security needs to flank us.”

Quinn paces again.

“Oh fuck, go back.” Sulli is motioning for Donnelly to change channels.

He returns to the last one, entertainment news, and increases the volume.

“…Christmas has extended its stay and is bearing more gifts for us,” the female reporter says on a sound stage. “Take a look at the viral video of the men who protect the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts. And be warned, you may need an ice cold shower after this one. So ho, ho, ho, watch these hotties, and let us know if you ship it.”

Strangely, her words lighten the tension. Donnelly and Farrow are smiling.

The video plays on the television. But this one is slightly different. The news station added bright text over each bodyguard as they saunter down the mock runway.

Akara is first with the words: The Boss.

“Truth,” Donnelly says.

Jane and I exchange a wary look. They’re labeling SFO from the bios Jane created on-the-fly, and it’s not an original concept or a coincidence.

It’s a homage. Our parents were once labeled just like this, and over twenty-two years later, media and fans still call Uncle Ryke “the jackass”.

“Please let them all be positive attributes,” Jane says in a soft breath.

On-screen, Donnelly appears in red trunks. The Ass-Kicker.

“Sweet.” Donnelly smirks.

Farrow is next: The Maverick.

I glance at him, and his lips almost rise. But he doesn’t really smile anymore. Come tomorrow, he may not be my bodyguard and some other guy probably will be.

But we did dodge one bullet. The video never showed us embracing, and the audio didn’t catch us flirting.

So the world thinks he’s just my bodyguard.

And I’m just his client.

Knowing we weren’t the ones who ruined Omega—that our relationship didn’t catapult their fame—it doesn’t really help. No matter the cause, their jobs are still on the chopping block.

Oscar pops on-screen, muscles oiled. The Pro.

In the hotel room, he hardly bats an eye. Not surprised.

The entertainment TV station presents the entire video package like a wet dream. Confident, unabashed men in red underwear, sculpted builds and six-pack abs—I’m shocked they didn’t go ahead and call them Sexy Fuckers Org.