He pulls off his sweatshirt, hot. “Are we fighting?” he asks seriously.
I ease a little bit. “You tell me, wolf scout.”
He shakes his head. “Christ, I care about you, Farrow. And you’re sitting there, denying that the stalker is affecting you. But I’m around you every goddamn day. I can tell.”
I comb my hands through my hair, and I let out a deeper breath. “It’ll be over once we identify the person.” I’m confident about this.
But Maximoff stares at me with uneasiness. “There’ll always be another stalker. Another anonymous troll. It doesn’t fucking end. I’ve come to terms with that—”
“It’s going to end,” I say assuredly. “This is different, Maximoff. It’s a real threat.” The stalker is from Philly. They know where the tour stops are located before they’re announced. It’s serious.
His gaze turns to the windshield. Thinking.
“And I’m glad you’ve come to terms with it,” I tell him. “Because it’s my job to care about the threats. Not yours. So let me do my job—”
“I am,” he combats. “Jesus Christ, I’m watching you down Ripped Fuel and stay up past 48-hours.” He laughs a dry, pained laugh. “And you know what, I’m starting to think that makes me a terrible boyfriend.”
My chest hurts. “It doesn’t.”
His Adam’s apple bobs, and he holds my gaze. “Selfishly, I don’t want to lose you as my bodyguard. It might be the most selfish thing I’ve ever fucking wanted in my life. But I need you to do something for me.”
“What?” My eyes are burning.
“If being my bodyguard while being my boyfriend is hurting you, step back.”
I run my thumb over my lip piercing. “You mean quit.”
“Yeah. Can you do that?” He means, in the future. If it comes to that. I’ve never lied to him, and I’ll never start.
“No,” I say matter-of-factly. “I can’t do that. Truth, I’d run my body in the ground to do my job well, but several hours of sleeplessness is nothing.”
His face twists in deep, agonized thought. “I keep thinking that if I really cared about your health, I’d just fire you.”
I shake my head.
He’s searching for the right path, even if it costs his happiness, but fuck, he doesn’t need to make that sacrifice for some arbitrary “moral” good.
“No,” I say easily. “You don’t need to fire me to protect me. Just set down the sandbags for these hypotheticals. Because I’m okay, and the shit sleep I’m getting is going to end. All you need is to believe that.”
He lets this sink in for a long moment. “I think I can, but…stay honest with me. Tell me where you’re at mentally, physically with this job. No lying or skirting around the truth. Can you do that?”
“Always,” I promise.
Maximoff nods strongly. “Then I’ll let go. No more building doomsday shelters for a what if, and you gotta stop throwing ‘I’m doing my job’ at me, man. I’m highly aware you’re on-duty eighty-five percent of the time we’re together.”
I nod with a brief wince, kicking myself a little. “I will. Sorry.” I push back strands of my hair, and when our eyes meet, we both almost start smiling. Back on track, side-by-side together. It feels like a perfect fit.
I stand.
He stands.
And we instinctively connect.
My arms slide around his arms, his arms curve around mine. Our gazes never separate.
His pink lips rise even more. “The other day, Luna asked me if you were my sidekick or if I was yours.”
“What’d you say?” We kiss gently, moving closer. Legs threading. Unable to back away.
“That there’s no Robin to a Batman, and I said we’d probably be two Batmans—she cut me off and said, no.” Maximoff laughs, his eyes carrying more love than I can express. “She said I was moral to a fault and you can be impulsive, headstrong. We’re fucking different but we’re still two superheroes who’d die for each other. In any era, any alternate universe. Like Captain America and the Winter Solider.”
My chest rises against his, and I whisper, “I can believe that.”
Our embrace strengthens. We hug tighter, tighter, his hand lost in my hair. I hold the back of his head. And his heart thuds in a calm rhythm against mine.
33
MAXIMOFF HALE
January passes into February, and before I even think all is well, a figurative storm slams head-first at every damn one of us.
Evening sun shines through a tinted hotel window. It’s encroaching 24-hours since my cousins, my little sister, and SFO have been trapped in one double-bed room.
I stand rigid at the window. And I stare out at the Los Angeles street below. No one can see me through the opaque glass, but I see them.
I see you.
Hundreds upon hundreds of bodies pack the road. Not a single piece of pavement or sidewalk in sight. Paparazzi mix with the masses, cameras flashing and flashing. Extra security on the ground has been trying to clear the street for hours, but the swelling crowds look like fans preparing for a music festival headliner.
We’re not Red Hot Chili Peppers.
And this isn’t normal.
I accounted for more paparazzi at the L.A. FanCon because it’s L.A.—but this chaos isn’t because of the FanCon.
People cram at the hotel exits and entrances. Hoping to catch sight of us when we leave, but we can’t step foot into the hysteria. Fingers and cameras point up at this room, this fucking window.
I see the tweet.
@CherryCarrie: Tenth floor. Third window from the right. Just got confirmation from someone inside the hotel. #HotBodyguards #HMCBodyguards
I don’t move.
I haven’t slept in 24-hours. My phone rings nonstop, and I’ve tried to fix this. I can’t stop trying, but now there’s only one solution: stay put, do nothing, wait for the street to clear.
With a long glance behind me, I check on everyone.
Charlie slouches in the corner, forehead to his knees, hands on the back of his head, frustrated and irritated. I know my cousin.
He likes his space, and he already sacrificed that to join this tour. Now he’s stuck in a small room with eleven people.
Beckett is asleep on the edge of a bed. Next to him, Jane, Sulli, and Luna squeeze close and peer at the only laptop, perched on Jane’s thighs.
They’re okay.
But Omega isn’t.
I’ve never seen them this tense. Thatcher and Akara seclude themselves in the bathroom for privacy, speaking to the Alpha lead for over two hours.
Oscar has been hawkeyeing the road near me. His gaze darkened, serious. On the second bed, Donnelly flips through news channels like an uneasy tic. Then there’s Quinn, pacing the length of the room.
“Stop,” Farrow tells him for the hundredth time. He’s the most at ease here. His shoulder is propped casually on the wall beside me. With a quick glimpse, he checks on me like I check on him, then he eyes the street.
Donnelly switches channels, television on mute. “It’s the Hale Curse.”
Farrow chews his gum slower and gives Donnelly an annoyed look. “Shut the fuck up with the Hale Curse.”
“I’m just sayin’ out of all places this has to go down, it’s in L.A. where hundreds of paparazzi live. That’
s a curse.”
“The Hales didn’t do anything,” Farrow says. “It’s not a curse.”
It’s a perfect shit storm.
Being trapped in a hotel room isn’t why everyone’s on edge. It’s a billion times worse. In the masses, fans hoist posters that say Hot Bodyguards and I love SFO! and hire me!!!
Some even scrawled names: Future Wife of Quinn. Akara is my babe!
Everyone in Omega is on a goddamn cliff.
One push from being fired.
Including my boyfriend. Despite barely sleeping for the past fucking month, determined to find my stalker, I still want Farrow as my bodyguard.
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…