“I can handle it.” I laugh at a thought. Of where we are. “I’m standing in a hotel vending area.”
Farrow frowns. “I’m not following.”
I take a rough breath. “So when I was twelve, I went to Disneyland, and back at the hotel, I left for a vending area.” I gesture to the machines. “Just like this. I slid down and just cried. My dad found me, hugged me, and that’s when I asked him if my mom was a sex addict. I’d heard rumors…and that’s where he said yes.” I look up at Farrow. “The memory is with me, but it’s not eating at me. The ones that hurt my family—those almost get to me.”
“Almost,” he repeats, studying my features.
I open and close one hand in a fist. My body tensing. I rotate my neck again. “I swear it’s like I have two switches: rage or off. Sometimes I’m programmed for automatic shutdown.”
“It’s a survival instinct,” he says.
I give him a look. “I thought you said I was desensitized to my own death.”
His barbell ratchets up with his brows. “Trust me, you are, but when other people are in danger, you have to survive to help them.” He adds, “Corpses don’t save people.”
“You’re right, they eat people.”
He rolls his eyes into a laugh. “You would take it to zombies.” His gaze practically brushes my cheekbones.
I step closer, my knee hits the machine, our legs threaded. I’m alright to be touched, and he sees. Swiftly, he holds my jaw and I clutch the back of his neck, our mouths a centimeter away. Hard chests pressing together.
Warmth spreads through my body. I breathe and breathe and fucking breathe. Kiss me.
“Hey—”
I instantly break apart from Farrow at Quinn’s voice.
He holds the empty duffel. “I thought you could use this to carry the drinks back.” He nods to the Fizzle machine behind Farrow. “I can help.”
“We have it,” Farrow says, his hand casually planted on my waist.
Quinn rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, so I actually wanted to ask you something alone.” He’s looking at me.
“Alright.” I swig my soda.
“I’ve been wondering if there’s anything else about Luna I should know.”
Once Luna flies back to Philly, her bodyguard has to fly back too. It’ll be the first time Quinn is away from Farrow while on-duty, for longer than a week.
And a couple days ago all the bodyguards bought Quinn a six-pack of beer, toasted to him, and said their goodbyes.
Quinn sets the duffel down. “The team said Luna’s normal day is reading and writing fan-fics, but you’re close to her. I figured you’d know more.”
I stare off for a second. Thinking about my sister. I saw the flying saucer tattooed on her ribs. Donnelly also permanently inked the lyrics Farrow scrawled on her forearm. She called that tattoo spontaneous.
I get that I’m a hardass, but I’m not a prude or her dad.
I’m her big brother. And I’m glad she did something that made her happy. If she could stay on tour longer, I’d let her in a fucking heartbeat.
I almost smile before I refocus my attention on Quinn. “Once she finishes homeschool, I think she’ll want to get out more.”
“Where?” Quinn asks.
“Concerts, coffee shops, bars, amusement parks, I don’t know,” I say honestly. “She’s just ready to experience life like a regular person.” Which is impossible. My gaze hardens at another thought. “She trusts people ten times more than Jane does, than I do. Just watch out for her.”
Quinn rubs his knuckles. “She’s eighteen. I have to listen to her if she wants to hang out with people that…”
“Shit on her,” I say.
“Yeah,” Quinn mutters.
“Be her friend, Oliveira,” Farrow chimes in. “Then she’ll listen to you.”
I give him a look. “Was that your plan with me?”
He rolls his eyes again. “Wolf scout, I didn’t need a plan with you. I wasn’t a green bodyguard.”
Quinn laughs. “Thanks.” He edges back. “I’ll leave you two…to it.” He also leaves the duffel on his way back to the room.
My mind reels. About fame and the bodyguards, the video leak. “Who do you think from my family or security shared the video?” I ask him since I’m all out of guesses. Any name that crops up seems like a colossal betrayal.
Farrow straightens, more serious.
I read his gaze pretty well. “Do you know who?”
“I have a good guess.” His jaw tics. “My father.”
I blink a few times, processing. Dr. Keene’s number was a part of the text thread. He’s grouped in the circle of trust. And he’s been acting desperate to get Farrow to quit security.
“So he gets you famous,” I say, “and you get fired.” I’m rigid, my joints needing oiled. I stretch my arm over my chest. “I’ll tell security to look into it.”
“I already did. My father is denying, and there’s no proof.” Farrow combs a hand through his hair. “And his leak didn’t work. Now I’m famous and still a bodyguard. I wonder what else he has up his sleeve.” His eyes hit mine, and the insinuation is obvious.
“Your father isn’t stalking me,” I almost growl. Christ, even saying that sounds soap-opera-level fucked-up.
“He could be. It makes the most sense.” His voice fades as chatter, laughter, and footsteps echo down the hall. Probably from hotel guests, but we drop the topic and start buying drinks for everyone. Shelving theories about the leaker and the stalker for now.
35
FARROW KEENE
“Farrow, what’s your opinion on kale?!” The obnoxious, over-enthused paparazzi point Canons in my face, fighting for a money-shot and bobbing up and down like Chihuahuas needing to piss.
A cameraman to my right screams, “Farrow, what’s your workout routine like?!”
“Back up!” I yell like a threat. Maximoff stands directly in front of me, and I shove bodies back, not allowing anyone to edge too close.
He walks closely behind Jane. She dips her head, cat-eye sunglasses block the flashes, and she reaches back and clasps Maximoff’s hand.
It’s a big deal.
Jane hasn’t really held his hand in front of cameramen since before the Camp-Away. Paparazzi don’t adjust their cameras and fixate on their friendship.
Good. The media dropped the rumor, paparazzi followed suit since it’s not profitable, and slowly, the public is getting there.
I don’t give a shit what any “fans” think or what tabloids print. What’s most important to me: Maximoff and Jane salvaging their friendship.
In the masses, Thatcher shields Jane from lenses and hands. We create a small but effective barrier.
Paparazzi have congested the path from our parked tour bus to the venue. We considered dropping the famous ones at the entrance, but fans would just rock the car. And paparazzi shouldn’t even be here.
See, we’re in Salt Lake City, miles and miles away from the disaster zone that was L.A.—but as soon as we left, paparazzi rode our asses down the highway. Basically eating our exhaust.
“Thatcher, have you ever considered modeling?!”
“How tall are you, Thatcher?!”
He
towers above the frenzied crowd, but I’m staring at the back of his head. Still, I know he ignores them. That’s what we’re supposed to do. Like hell he’d break protocol.
“Farrow—” A hand grabs my arm and tries to tug, but my reflexes kick in. I seize his wrist and twist. He jerks back, and another cameraman attempts to rush forward in the space.
I shove him. So forceful he trips backwards into another body. Like an unstable cluster of bowling pins, I watch a thirty-something guy go down. His Canon crushes underneath his ass.
“I’m going to sue!”
Sure. Try me.
At the commotion, Maximoff glances back at me. Jane pushes forward, trying to tug him along. Their hands break, and an unintentional gap forms between them.
“Walk, Maximoff,” I say in a deep voice, my hand on his broad shoulder. I’m not standing out here and mediating this shit. And we’re not holding a press conference in a parking lot.
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—”