Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(93)

I rotate my tight shoulder.

Akara fits his baseball hat on backwards. “We’ve decided that there has to be some changes. It’s inevitable, guys. If we act like nothing’s different, we’re jeopardizing the safety of our clients, of all of you…” He looks at my family. “None of us want that.”

Thatcher scans the bodyguards. “We’ve discussed ways to minimize the impact of our popularity, and to remain a part of Omega, with the same client, there are new nonnegotiable rules.” His warning glare lands on Farrow.

I quickly process the news.

Oscar beats me to the question. “We’re not being fired?”

Akara begins to smile. “Everyone’s staying.”

Shoulders start loosening. We all start really breathing for the first time in 24-hours. Oscar takes a seat, collapsing on the bed next to Donnelly.

I rub my mouth, something powerful surging through me. I’m about to look at Farrow, but Thatcher speaks.

“Think of it as a test-run,” he says.

Farrow pops his gum, and I can almost feel his eye-roll at Thatcher.

But Akara nods in agreement. “We’ll finish out the tour and prove that we can still do this job. If there aren’t any major security mistakes, we’ll stay bodyguards, guys. If we fuck up, there’ll be six termination papers. Easy as that. But like I said, there are changes.”

The nonnegotiable rules.

Thatcher crosses his arms. “First, delete all personal social media accounts. No Instagram, no Facebook, no SnapChat, no Twitter, no anything that fans can find you on and follow you.”

Oscar ties a bandana around his forehead. “Goodbye to Donnelly’s drunken SnapChat dick pics.”

Donnelly leans against the headboard. “Those were sober, man.”

Farrow chews his gum into a smile.

Beckett laughs.

Thatcher shakes his head, but he stopped saying things like your client is in the room and that’s inappropriate the third week on tour. The fact that they’re even having a security meeting in front of me and my cousins and not privately in a bathroom—that means something.

“You’re not here to promote yourself,” Akara reminds them, “or Donnelly’s dick.”

Donnelly nods heartily. “What about Twitter? I need to keep up with fandoms.”

“Need or want?” Thatcher asks.

“Both.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “I need it and I want it.”

“You need to delete it,” Thatcher says. “You’re here to protect your client. If you need Twitter for security reasons, we’ll have anonymous security accounts made. But if we see you searching for television shows or porn, you’ll lose password access.”

Beckett tosses Donnelly a lighter. “You can use my Twitter.”

“Thanks, man.” Donnelly puts the cigarette between his lips.

“Second,” Thatcher says, “don’t reach out to tabloids. Don’t accept any interviews, not even to defend yourself.”

That’ll be easy for Farrow. I can’t see him volunteering for a Q&A with Celebrity Crush.

“And lastly,” Akara tells SFO, “don’t sleep with fans. Let’s maintain a level of professionalism. While we’re under this spotlight, we’re representing the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts. Do them proud.”

To me, they already have.

The official meeting ends, and bodies move around. Trying to stretch, go to the bathroom. We’re not just lacking sleep. We have no extra clothes, no luggage or toiletries. Things that’d make my cousins and little sister feel better and more comfortable after 24-hours holed up here.

I could be completely fine with little to nothing for a lot longer. But I’m aware not everyone is me.

Janie searches her sequined purse where she had a sleep mask.

“De quoi as-tu besoin?” I ask. What do you need?

“I wish I wore pajamas.” She unbuttons her pastel pants and sighs in relief. “Tellement mieux.” Much better.

Oscar stacks mini-bottles of liquor on the desk, and Thatcher talks to Akara about being in contact with ground security.

I turn to Farrow. “Four hours longer here?”

“Looks like six more.” He chews his gum and observes the street with me. It’s more congested than five minutes ago.

Security wanted us all in one room together just in case a doomsday happened and paparazzi or fans found their way inside the hotel.

I crack my knuckles. “There has to be vending down the hall. I can get some drinks…” I trail off at a loud knock.

We all quiet.

Thatcher is closest. He peers in the peephole, then unlocks and opens the door to a dazzling smile, jock-build, a duffel strapped across a broad chest, and a pastry box in hand.

“Beautiful people,” Jack Highland greets as he enters. “Twenty-minute shopping spree and a five-mile walk later, I’ve made it.”

Finally.

I near and clasp his hand. We draw in and pat each other’s shoulders. “Thanks for coming.”

Jack smiles brighter. “Looking forward to it.”

He means the FanCon. I invited him on tour with us. The last Q&A derailed after a fight between Charlie and me. We needed a better moderator. Someone we could trust.