“Steal his keys next time,” my dad says.
I glance at the phone. “How about you not order my bodyguard around? That’s my job.”
Farrow grins and mouths to me, you wish.
I almost groan. I just want to fuck him.
Before my dad talks about my mom worrying about me behind the wheel, I say, “I can’t talk long. What’s the shit news?”
“We’re gonna have to reschedule our lunch tomorrow. Your Uncle Connor and Uncle Ryke have parent-teacher meetings.”
I read the texts earlier this morning—and the pictures have been going viral since noon. My little cousins Winona Meadows and Ben Cobalt spray-painted Dalton Academy’s science lab with the words: frog killers!
Those two always send me memorandums on environmental objectives that H.M.C. Philanthropies should complete. They’re thirteen and fifteen. And they get in trouble together monthly.
“Let me know the new day for lunch; I’ll be there,” I tell him. I look forward to lunches with my dad and my uncles, but if one of us can’t make it, we just reschedule to a day later in the week. It’s shitty, but it’s not the worst.
“Drive safe, Moffy,” my dad says, his tone serious.
“I will. Night.”
“Love you, bud.” He hangs up.
I pocket my phone and stare off. Thinking. My dad’s voice lingers in my ears. Being with my bodyguard—there are consequences packed on top of consequences. If I can, I want to avoid all of them.
I train my gaze on Farrow.
He rests his knuckles to his lips, brows raised at me. “Listening to Socrates and Plato again?”
I force an irritated smile. “No.” I lift my jeans to my waist, but I don’t button or zip yet.
Farrow eyes my movements. “What’s wrong?”
I stay near him. Not adding distance or space. “What happens between us—it has to stay secret. All of it. If you want to do anything with me, you can’t treat this rule like it’s flexible or meant to be broken.”
Farrow smiles. “I agree.”
“We agree?” I say, disbelieving. What alternate universe am I in?
“I love my job.” He holds my gaze. “And if the security team or your family finds out that I crossed a line and broke their trust, I’m gone. Someone will replace me as your bodyguard. Which means that the new bodyguard will spend more time with you than I do, and that’s just…not happening.” His voice falls to a husky whisper. “You need to know that I only do exclusive. No fucking around. You want me, you only get me, and vice versa.”
Exclusive.
A relationship.
A secret relationship.
I’ve never had any of those. I wish I could be happy that he only wants me. I wish that I could accept the truth: that I only want him. But I’m concerned about the little annoying details that slip between these facts.
I look straight at him. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. You can’t know.”
He never breaks eye contact. “Then tell me, Maximoff.”
I don’t falter. “I genuinely love sex,” I say the truth I’ve always hidden. “I have a really high fucking sex drive.” It sounds so simple. It’s not. “I’ve never spoken publicly about how much sex I have. Sharing those details—it’s a heavy responsibility that I carry very prudently. For one, my mom is a sex addict.” He knows.
I’m used to this fact too, but the depth that I still need to go pins my tongue down. I pause.
I turn slightly and crack my knuckles. People usually ask isn’t it so awkward that you know your mom’s sexual history? I can handle the awkward.
I can handle everything.
Even the cruelty towards her, but it’ll always boil my blood. If you’re going to attack someone, come at me.
Farrow shifts his arm that’s on the back of the seat. So his forearm lies on top of my forearm. Almost comfortingly.
I stare at the way his fingers clutch my elbow, and then I look up at him. “There’s not enough information or research to claim that sex addiction is hereditary. But if I publicly share how much sex I have, the media will start calling me an addict. Then they’ll say it’s hereditary. Then they’ll start harassing my siblings about sex more than they already do. So I stay quiet.”
The frequency someone has sex is not enough to determine a sex addiction—but it won’t matter to the media. They’ll cling like fucking koalas to the detail and never let go.
“And it’s not the only reason I stay quiet about my sex life,” I tell him. “I war with a stereotype that I know I fall into, something I feel an obligation to break.”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Maximoff. That’s not your cross to bear.”
I’m not surprised that he knows what I’m talking about. “It is, Farrow. When I came out as bisexual to the world, I knew people would look at me as a role model for something. I have a fucking duty not to reinforce harmful stereotypes: like bisexuals are over-sexual—that we all just fuck around and fuck a lot.” I rake my right hand through my hair. “You know the minute that I told the world I like guys and girls, a lot of people assumed that meant I like threesomes—that’s not fucking okay.” Quickly, I add, “To clarify, I’m not into threesomes.”
His lips tic upward. “I grasped that by your vitriol.” He tilts his head. “In short, you’re saying that you have a lot of sex, but no one can know. And I’m sure you were always safe since you’re you.”
“Thank you,” I say dryly, not mentioning that I’ve been checked out every week and that I’m clean. I also don’t add how I go to my concierge doctor for the screenings and tests.
And by doctor, I mean his dad.
Thank God for doctor-patient confidentiality.
Farrow’s know-it-all smile starts expanding inch by inch.
My eyes narrow. “What?”
“You jumped from exclusivity to announcing that you have a lot of sex.”
I don’t follow his logic. “Your smile is going to fall off your fucking face.”
He practically overflows with amusement. “You don’t think I can satisfy you?”
My brows jump. Huh.
By his sheer confidence, he clearly knows he can.
Our eyes trail over each other, and my cock throbs again. A groan scrapes my throat. “More like,” I whisper lowly, “I was warning you. In case you didn’t want sex every day, multiple times a night. I try not to assume what people are into.”
Farrow opens his mouth, but loud voices filter through his earpiece on the front seat. He stretches towards the middle console but glances back to say, “I’m into you. If I couldn’t keep up, I wouldn’t be your bodyguard.” He grabs the radio and connecting earpiece. Turning up the volume, Akara’s voice floods the car.
“…find Farrow. He needs to check in.”
His jaw muscle tics, and he hooks his radio to his waistband. Whoever was chosen to “find Farrow” can’t find me with him. Not bare-chested, hair askew, lips reddened, dicks sti
ff—no.
I toss his black shirt at his tattooed chest. I’m used to abrupt endings and constant rain checks, but this one is hard. Pun abso-fucking-lutely intended.
I pull my green shirt over my head and open the door. “Thanks for the blue balls.”
He fits his earpiece in. “You’ll thank me more when I take all of you in my mouth.”
My muscles clench, blood heating at the visual. I look back at Farrow.
His lips rise. “You’re easily hot and bothered.”
“And you’re not?” I combat.
“I conceal mine better. Comes with the territory.” He motions to his radio. “Don’t look so sad, wolf scout. You can’t be the best at everything.”
I wear zero sadness. I’m glaring. “Have fun with your hand. Dream of me.” I climb out and shut the door. In the garage. I leave with the last word but feel his amusement as I go.
Despite all the risks, the new territory, I find myself grinning.
16
MAXIMOFF HALE
OUT OF MY WHOLE FAMILY, Connor Cobalt has the best office, the best view—hands down. Whenever I’m in the sleek city high-rise of Cobalt Inc., I either lose myself gazing out the window, a breathtaking Philly skyline, or I focus on the memorabilia my uncle shelves and hangs.
Rain pelts the glass and thunder roars. I’m not fixated on the storm. I’m currently staring hard at a framed National Geographic magazine on the navy-blue wall.
The cover shows a rugged, dark-haired man in his late thirties, skin tanned from the sun. With the horizon bleeding orange and yellow, he grips a rock face from at least four-hundred feet high. Using only his right fingertips. Legs hanging off, left arm dangling.
No harness.
No rope.
The sun rises behind him.
I read the title of the magazine: From Such Great Heights: The Best Free-Solo Climber in the World. Ryke Meadows.
My uncle.
My dad’s half-brother.
He’s in his forties now, and he still climbs. He still makes the front pages of magazines, and he has about five different sponsorships and ad campaigns.
Usually I would stare at this with admiration and be proud to know Ryke. I am. But I’m stuck here. Looking harder. Staring longer.