Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(97)

A camera lens almost whacks against my jaw. I dodge the blow, but Maximoff looks murderous.

“Give him space,” he growls.

“Walk,” I say sternly, more concerned about Maximoff reaching the venue safely.

The empty space between him and Jane is already too wide. People start creeping in, and if he doesn’t reconnect with Jane fast, then I need to walk in front of him and clear a path. Thatcher keeps his position ahead of Jane, barreling through the masses.

Before I make a move, Maximoff finally surrenders, and he charges forward.

His hand clasps Jane’s again.

Random fingers tug at the hem of my black V-neck. Trying to hook into the waistband of my black pants. Not my favorite thing. Not even close. And yet, I know Maximoff goes through this every single fucking day.

We reach the venue, and once inside the building, we walk quickly down empty hallways and towards the dressing rooms. At our last security meeting, we made a call to switch FanCon locations from hotels to concert venues.

Securing the area is easier, and with a backstage, we can easily bring the famous ones on-and-off stage without hassle.

Photos of 70s rock bands hang on red concrete walls. My boots slightly grip the sticky floor.

Maximoff slows his pace to walk beside me. “I guess we’ll find out who’s better at dealing with paparazzi,” he says. “Spoiler Alert: it’s—”

“Me,” I finish.

He blinks. “In an alternate universe.”

“In our reality,” I correct. “Walking through crowds of paparazzi is my thing. They grab. I shove. They yell. I ignore.”

Jane looks back to ensure we’re following. Maximoff nods, and her freckled cheeks pull in a smile at him, then me.

We turn a corner, and everyone comes to a stop. Dressing room is in sight, but at the other end of the hall, Beckett, Charlie, and their bodyguards approach. And the additional guest: Jack Highland.

They all took the east side entrance while we took the rear.

We were the diversion.

“How’d it go?” Thatcher asks Akara.

I open the dressing room door, and we all spill inside.

“Only a few fans and one paparazzi,” Akara says. “You?” His head swings to me, and I give Akara a look like we got fucked. On purpose. Being the diversion, Thatcher and I volunteered to be fucked in this instance.

Yet, I was hoping that the paparazzi would’ve given up their quest around Nevada, but the majority made it to Utah and subsequently to our faces.

“More than a few,” Thatcher answers while he surveys the dressing room: black leather couches, silver sofa chairs, a plastic foldout table, and two wooden vanities. We’ve assessed the room already, and no one is in here but us.

Tour crew hangs out in Dressing Room B, but assistants left individually wrapped sandwiches, drinks, chips, and baskets of cookies on our table. Most of us must be hungry because we go for the food.

“Are you guys alright?” Sullivan asks and unscrews a bottle of Ziff. Her green eyes ping from Thatcher to me. Not her cousins.

I unwrap a sandwich. “I’m fine. It was nothing.” I peer beneath the sub bun: turkey, ham, lettuce, tomato, Monterey Jack. Eh, it’ll do.

Maximoff tosses me a mustard packet.

My lips start to rise, but then the bane of my career speaks.

“It was manageable,” Thatcher agrees, but it won’t last long. He chugs his water and then turns to me. I take a seat on the couch’s armrest, biting into my sandwich.

Maximoff stays standing near me, but he’s in a conversation with Jack. Discussing the upcoming Q&A. The producer takes notes on a spiral pad.

Thatcher motions at me with his water bottle. “I heard someone mention suing.”

I lick mustard off my thumb. “You heard that, really?” I ask seriously. “I’m shocked you could hear anything over all the questions about whether you’ve modeled.”

“What happened?” Thatcher layers on a stern, ‘I am your superior’ voice.

“Someone got in my way.” I take a large bite of sub sandwich and watch Thatcher wait for me to add more. I roll my eyes, chew, and swallow. “I gently pushed a guy aside, and he fell. Shit happens.”

“Farrow—”

“I haven’t even been sued yet,” I argue. “And even if he did sue me, we’ve all been there.” I gesture to Akara, Donnelly, and Oscar, all eating their lunch.

Quinn is too new to have been slapped with a lawsuit.

Thatcher is glaring, as though I’m not digesting the severity. And he’d be right; I don’t see the importance. Because there is none. Being sued has always been on the bottom of the security shit list. It’s not even considered a mistake.

Everyone knows this.

I pick a tomato out of my sub and eat it. My nonchalance is pissing him off. To the point where he snaps, “Could you stop and look at me?”

“I am looking at you,” I say easily while still eating.

Our exchange steals Maximoff’s attention. He quiets, watching with furrowed brows.

Thatcher tightens the cap to his water bottle. “It’s not good timing for any of us to be in a lawsuit.”

I’m in a no-win situation. It’s clear he’s just singling me out because I’m me.

The push-ups after I broke a rule only built one rung of a bridge between us. If he wants me to change who I am to prove that I care, he can go fuck himself.