He walks tensely over. “She left.” He touches his earpiece, distracted, then his focus returns. “She texted her dad halfway through the movie to come pick her up. She felt a lot worse than she let on.”
“Ryke was here then?”
He nods.
I’m not surprised. Sulli has a very close friendship with her dad and her mom. She tells them everything. If she felt dizzy or nauseous, she wouldn’t have hesitated to call Ryke.
“He planned to stay and check on you and Jane,” Akara explains, “but it got chaotic, and he needed to get Sulli out before paparazzi blocked the street.”
“Why aren’t you with her?”
Akara looks upset, his face cut in severe lines. “I can’t officially be on her detail since I’ve been drinking. Someone else is with Sul.” He touches his earpiece and takes a step towards the kitchen. Before he leaves, he pats my shoulder like I’m glad you’re okay, hang in there.
“Hey,” I say to him. “Thanks.”
He nods. “It’s just another shitty day, right?”
“Doomsday,” I say, and a knot is in my throat. Remembering Farrow. Price repeats that same phrase for the fourth time.
I’m close to searching outside for Farrow myself. Which may worsen the situation, but if no one’s going to find him, I will.
“Price to security,” he repeats, and then the front door opens. “There he is.” I can’t even relax at the news. Is he fucking hurt? blares in my head.
Farrow saunters inside, not casually. His muscles are taut. He locks the door behind him. And the moment he sees me, he almost rocks back, nose flared. “You went outside?” He hones in on my reddened cheek and my lip—I rub my mouth.
It stings. A camera must’ve busted my lip open.
I zero in on his bloody forearms. Skin scraped like he slid against pavement. All the way to his elbows.
I grimace into a cringe, my muscles turning inside out. My heart in my throat.
“Cats escaped, and Moffy went out to get them,” Price explains briefly to Farrow. “We need an update.”
Farrow swallows hard, his face twisting the longer he looks at me, almost pained. He takes a step towards me at the exact same time I take one towards him.
We pause. We stop.
I’ve never wanted to embrace someone so much in my fucking life. Something wells inside my body. An emotion that I’ve never experienced.
“Farrow,” Price snaps.
I blink a few times, tearing my gaze off my bodyguard. Farrow combs both hands through his hair and rotates to the Alpha lead.
“Both guys are being booked tonight,” Farrow says.
I go rigid. “You caught them?” I’m stunned. Hecklers. Harassers. People who throw shit. Who stalk us. They rarely ever get caught. These people are usually faceless, nameless humans. As nondescript as an anon online. I’ve lived my life content knowing that there’d be little retribution.
I’m fine with that.
I get it.
“A few paparazzi tripped both guys,” Farrow says, more to me than to Price. “They slowed them down. I was able to tackle one guy and keep him down. Quinn grabbed the other, and then the police came. I dealt with the cops—Quinn came back here already, right?” he asks Price.
Price nods and tosses him his radio. “Keep the volume high.”
Farrow attaches the radio to his belt.
“Jane has the first-aid kit,” I tell Farrow and motion to the loveseat. I’m still eyeing his bloodied forearms. He’s still scanning my face, even as he fits in his earpiece.
“It’s all yours,” Jane tells us, teetering as she stands, kneecaps bandaged. She raises her chin to meet Thatcher’s gaze. “Have you located Licorice?”
His hand hovers by her hip in case she falls. “We’re working on it.” I hear his South Philly lilt. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Jane blinks like she’s trying to battle her drunkenness. She hiccups and says, “Thank you, Mr. Moretti.” He’s twenty-seven, the same age as Farrow. Not middle-aged.
“Thatcher is fine,” he tells Jane.
Is she blushing?
Jane presses her lips together, then sways. “I should go call my parents…” Her gaze finds me. “Do you want me to call your mom, Moffy?”
“Please.”
She hiccups, teeters and then with her cat carrier in hand, she tries to confidently ascend the staircase like Cinderella at a ball.
She manages to reach the second floor safely. All without tripping. I would clap, but I concentrate on Farrow. We both sink down onto the loveseat.
I dig through the first-aid kit, and he actually watches. Not even making a comment about how he’s the doctor.
Thatcher drags the iron café chair over and sits directly in front of us. But he only acknowledges Farrow. “You should’ve grabbed your radio before you left the house.”
Farrow leans back. “I’m not apologizing for that.”
Thatcher glares. “You never apologize for anything.”
“I caught the guy—”
“The cats escaped—”
“That has nothing to do with my fucking radio,” Farrow sneers. “Drop it, Thatcher.” One time I asked Farrow which guy he hated the most on security. He didn’t even hesitate before saying, Thatcher Moretti. Now I get it.
His strictness is the antithesis of Farrow.
I rip open antiseptic wipes. “Was it a brick?” I ask Thatcher, cutting into their tension. I motion with my head to the window. Security has sufficiently taped up a piece of cardboard over the cracked hole. Glass cleaned, curtains closed.
I’m trying to visualize the projectile.
“Don’t worry about it,” Thatcher tells me. Evasive. I’ve been reminded tonight that Thatcher is in the camp of Maximoff asks too many questions. Maximoff takes on too much responsibility. Maximoff isn’t part of the security team. Remind him that any chance you can.
“I’m not learning about this online tomorrow,” I say firmly. “Was it a brick, a hammer, a goddamn UFO—”
“A baseball,” Farrow answers.
Thatcher has a stern look that says, he didn’t need to know. Thatcher is used to protecting Xander, who is guarded from facts that stoke his anxiety. But I’m not the same as my brother.
And I’m eight years older.
“I asked,” I remind Thatcher.
He nods slowly. “You’re right.”
Farrow’s brows jump and then he gestures for the antiseptic wipes. “Give me.”
I hand them over, and he wipes the blood and gravel off his forearms, not even cringing. His pain tolerance has to be high. Evidence: every damn tattoo.
Thatcher sits forwards, hands cupped. Eyeing me. “The team has a few questions we need to ask you.”
“Alright.” My shoulders square. I rip packets of gauze open for Farrow. He seems out-of-the-loop on this pre-planned debriefing. Probably because he hasn’t been tethered to a radio.
Thatcher asks, “Who bit you?”
I go completely still. “What?”
Farrow places his hand on my shoulder blade and examines my back.
Thatcher clarifies, “Who gave you the two bite marks?”
I glower. “That’s none of your fucking business.” I’ve never shared my sexual history with the whole security team. Not when Declan was my bodyguard. And definitely not now.
“It’s online already.” Thatcher passes me his cellphone, the screen popped up to Celebrity Crush’s homepage.
The first photograph shows me only in dark-green boxer-briefs on my street. In a second panel, they zoomed in on two reddish bite marks. One near the back of my neck. The other on my waist above the band of my underwear.
The headline: Maximoff Hale Caught with Sexy Bite Marks! Is He Into Kink?!
Before I even digest this, I spot another headline, another photograph from tonight. And then a photograph from over twenty years ago. I don’t blink as I read: Maximoff Hale Wears Green Underwear Like Ryke Meadows!
Great
.
I’d been so damn careful about wearing green. I didn’t exactly plan to run outside in my underwear tonight. Or ever.
I return the phone to Thatcher, not faltering. “Regardless of the article, you don’t need to know who bit me or who I’m sleeping with—none of that is your business.”
Thatcher turns to Farrow. “Where are the NDAs of everyone he’s been intimate with while you’ve been his bodyguard?” Fucking Christ. “Because you’ve filed zero.”
“There are no NDAs.” Farrow doesn’t even miss a beat, taking charge of the situation. “He’s been with the same girl, and he’s wanted to keep it private.”
“The purpose of an NDA is to further protect his privacy.”