I squeeze her hip. She doesn’t need to defend me. Also, I don’t want her in a fucking fight. I will kill anyone who tries to lay a hand on her.
“So your relationship is nothing like Rose and Connor Cobalt?! You don’t do any bondage?” a pap asks.
I narrow my eyes. “That’s inappropriate.” I’m one second away from smashing his camera. I’m also one minute from the car. I can see it across the street. But we have to stop at a red light and wait for the pedestrian walk signal. Would have had a temp pull the car up to let us in at the curb, but the crowds are too amassed for that.
“Is that yes or a no?” the same pap asks.
“Shut up, man!” a young fan yells at him. “She already said it was rude!”
“Yeah!” a few people yell in agreement.
“Thatcher! Which of Jane’s cats is your favorite?!”
Innocent. Respectful. Engage .
“I love them all,” I reply.
I can’t see it, but I can practically feel Jane’s radiant smile.
The walk sign appears. We’re on the move again.
“Ugly bitch!” That scream comes from the sidewalk we’re approaching. A group of young teenage guys ride electric scooters and pop wheelies near her car.
“Spoiled cunt!”
That one tries to steal all of my attention. But I’m alert and focused and some mouthy teenager isn’t going to distract me. I grit my molars down, holding back a harsh fuck you.
She tucks her head into my back, and I take out the keys to her car. The crowds grow louder, more aggressive. Some shouting at Jane. Others shouting at the scooter-riding teenagers. Adrenaline pumps into my veins, fueling me along with my purpose.
When I unlock the door, fingers tightening around the handle, the tempo of the crowds suddenly change.
“Jaaaane! Don’t go!” someone screams.
“Jane! You didn’t sign my photo!” an older guy yells angrily.
“Jane! JANE!!! I just want a selfie!!”
I know Jane wants to accommodate them, but I have to make the call. There are too many people here. Not enough temp guards. And by the time she finishes signing everything, it’ll be well past dark. People will be pissed, no matter which way you spin it.
“Jaaaaaane! Please !” A girl holds out her phone.
“She’s running late,” I tell the girl. “Sorry everyone!” I wave them to back up and then carefully open the door for Jane. She squeezes past my waist and into the car. Our eyes lock briefly and she mouths thanks .
“Bitch!” someone yells at Jane as I walk to the other side of the door. The temps leave me for security’s SUV parked behind the Beetle.
“You selfish brat!”
Her “fans” suddenly turn. Wave of angry tears and yells at the car. “We just wanted one photo!”
“You suuuck!” Someone throws a water bottle at the Beetle and it bounces off the tire. Realization hits me, that even though I was the one that told them she’s running late, I’m the one that gave the excuse, they’re all attacking her.
Farrow gets the brunt of the harassment while he’s publicly dating Maximoff. They call him controlling. A shitty boyfriend and bad influence.
No one has said that about me.
They just blame her.
I open my door. The scooter-riding teenager yells at the windshield, “It’s what you deserve, you spoiled cu—”
“Hey!” I yell at him. Hand on the top of my slightly ajar, driver-side door. His eyes hit mine, but I’m full of untapped rage. “Fuck off.” I need a punching bag and three million hours to blow this steam.
I dip down into the car and shut the door. Locked. Closed. I turn to the only person that matters in this situation. All things considered, Jane looks unafflicted by the name calling. She gives me a tight smile. “From zero to one-hundred,” she says. “First they love me and then I’m the very thing that exists on the bottom of their shoe.”
I put the car in gear and head out, careful to avoid paparazzi. “Does that bother you? Especially because your brothers don’t get that kind of shit.”
“I wouldn’t wish that on them.” She takes a deeper breath. “Though, it is funny how my brothers can shirk off autographs and photos and not have an angry crowd chanting horrible things at them.” Jane reaches for the air conditioning. Even though it’s a chilly mid-October day, and we’re both wearing light coats.
I look from her. To the road. Back to her.
“You didn’t deserve that,” I tell Jane.
Her eyes redden suddenly. “I know,” she breathes. “And I usually don’t need to hear that, but…that was nice. Really nice. Especially coming from you.” Good. I slide my hand against her thigh. She places a palm on top of it. Silence bleeds into the car for a second.
It’s so different on her detail than Xander’s. He was idolized to the point where he could do no wrong. Jane makes one small decision that someone doesn’t agree with and she’s cancelled, condemned, hated.
If this were ancient Sparta, all her enemies would be dead right now. I’d kill them. No question. I felt this way for a long time, but something feels different.
Do I want more with her?
More than just sex inside a fake dating op?
Doesn’t matter. It’s never going to happen. She’s not open to a relationship or love.
This is the part where I’d ask my brother for advice. He’d help me figure out if I should talk to her about it or just drop it. Never bring it up. Not being able to confide in Banks is a really strange position, and I’m not sure I love it.
I’m not sure how long it can last.
30
THATCHER MORETTI
I watch a fifteen-year-old scrawny kid circle a boxing ring against an equal-sized opponent. Teaching Xander how to defend himself—it’s an honor. One I didn’t think he’d grant me or my brother. Not after we left him.
There are days where I miss checking up on Xander. Hearing him speak in Elvish and talk about whatever shitpost he found on Reddit.
But I needed to be with Jane—as her bodyguard. I transferred to her detail with her safety in mind, and Xander needs to trust the whole team.
Not just me. Not just Banks.
In the ring, Xander is bouncing on his feet like Farrow, Banks, and I taught him a few days ago. His shoulders are hunched from bad posture— from trying to hide most of his life. Shrinking in on himself.
Being six-foot-two hasn’t helped his case. But despite that, he still has this photogenic, youthful face that conveys teen angst. Preteen girls are already waiting for him to exit Studio 9. Just to say they were close enough to breathe the same air as Xander Hale.
I wish Banks were here today, but he’s filling in on Audrey Cobalt’s detail.
“Keep your left hand up!” I call out to Xander.
He raises his red glove for half a second, and then his arm droops again.
My expression hardens. Out of all the bad habits…this is one that makes me want to pull him out of the ring. Boxing is a contact sport.
If he doesn’t guard his face, he will be hit in the fucking face.
Maximoff stands rigid. On alert. He’s having trouble watching. I can tell more by Farrow constantly looking over at him and because Jane told me after the first training session.
I’m not the only one used to protecting Xander from heavy blows. His older brother acts like another bodyguard on-duty to his siblings.
Xander eyes his teenaged practice opponent, who’s a member of Akara’s gym. Garrett already signed an NDA with no problem.
Everyone else at Studio 9 right now is either a bodyguard or part of the famous families. Akara has started shutting down his gym early on Tuesdays. Half-days , he calls them. It allows the team to use the space for meetings and for some men to squeeze in gym time.
Farrow chews his gum more slowly. “Protect your face, Xander!”
He shields his cheek with his right glove and jabs at Garrett with his left. Catching the boy’s jaw.
“Nice job, kid.” I keep my arms crossed and narrow in on their movements.
Xander pants and barely slips out of a left hook.
“Hang in there,” Farrow calls out.
The bathroom door opens nearby. Splitting my focus. Jane rubs her hands on her leopard-print leggings. She catches me staring. “Out of paper towels,” she explains and kicks off her ballet flats, putting them in a wooden locker.
Not why I was staring, honey.
She smiles a little, cheeks flushed while I steal glances in her direction. She walks across the mats to me and tries to watch Xander too.
“How’s he doing?” Jane whispers.
“Good. He just needs to keep his hands up.” I glance back down at her, my muscles contracting.
Her fingers touch her freckled cheek. Jane radiates heat like she’s remembering last night.
Our world-class sex.
I’ve remembered it too. More than a dozen times. I was deep inside her for three earth-shattering hours to the point where she was gone in my arms. Shuddering, eyes in the back of her head. Guttural groans throttled my chest, and I couldn’t let any escape.
We have to fuck in near-silence to keep this massive secret, and the only bad part was that I had to leave.
Zero three hundred hours on the dot.
I respect her wishes, and I wouldn’t stay a minute longer. But walking out that door is like walking on a bed of fucking nails.
“He’ll learn,” she says optimistically. “He has good coaches.”
I’m just okay. The Oliveira brothers are better boxers, but they’re both on-duty. I’m about to mention that, but Xander suddenly ducks beneath an incoming right hook.
“Go Xander!” Jane cheers. She made pompoms the last session, but Xander was embarrassed, so she hid them in a locker.