My second thought: I’m not letting him out of my grasp. Not tonight.
My third: I wish I’d been here. I cradle so few regrets, but I’m going to regret this. I could’ve sipped all of his drinks. I could’ve asked Jane to do that. I could’ve protected him better.
“Maximoff, how many—” I start to ask him how many glasses he’s had, but his focus shifts towards the lantern-lit corner.
“Janie’s back.” Maximoff is more aware. “I have to tell her what happened before someone else does.” His siblings are ready to take a break from dancing, and he’s a bulldozer, already leading the way to the back.
Following at his side, I catch his hand and ditch the empty glass on a high-top table.
Maximoff doesn’t seem plastered or drunk. If he were, I think he’d realize the drink was spiked. He’s probably just tipsy.
But for someone who’s never had a drop of alcohol in their life, that might as well be the equivalent of hammered. My muscles tense.
At the back of the bar, bodyguards reestablish a perimeter. Shielding the famous ones, and here, we discover a very in-love Thatcher and Jane.
Not going to lie, I didn’t foresee them being such a PDA-intensive couple. No judgment. Thatcher just never struck me as the public ass-grab type.
I actually love that he is because Jane seems to want nothing less, and they just look perfect together. Like a couple that makes sense on sight.
Thatcher has Jane hoisted up around his waist. Holding her, his hands are planted firmly on her ass, and Jane keeps tucking his hair behind his ears. Over and over. At eye-level, their gazes sink into one another like they’re the only two in this bar.
Maximoff sees their “moment” and rotates back to me. “Maybe we should wait, man.”
I clutch his muscular waist and skim him head-to-toe.
“Moffy!” Jane calls out, and Thatcher sets her feet on the ground.
We end up nearing.
Facing us, Thatcher’s arms wrap around her shoulders and she eases back into his chest. “Are you having a good time?” she asks her best friend. “Oh, you’re out of lemonade. Let me get you another—”
“That’s okay,” I interject.
Maximoff grimaces. “Janie, I have to tell you something.”
Jane frowns deeply.
Thatcher’s strict eyes tighten on me for answers.
I can get this out faster than Maximoff right now, so I just peel off that fucking Band-Aid. “When you radioed me, we picked up a background noise on comms.”
“What does that mean?” Jane asks, but she’s already ashen.
“How much? Of who?” Thatcher questions.
“One second,” I answer. “Just a moan.”
“My moan though.” Jane touches her cheeks, red suddenly staining them. “This is—it’s interesting. I suppose it was worth the slip—the sex was top shelf, one of the best.” Didn’t need to know that, Cobalt. She speaks too fast for anyone to cut in. “There are seven of you who heard? Right? Just SFO?”
I feel like shit.
Thatcher and I share a look. We were on the same channel as Epsilon and all the temps tonight. There were definitely more than seven bodyguards who heard.
“I’m so sorry, honey.” Thatcher’s voice is low, deep and raw. She stares up at him while he looks down. “It’s my fault—”
“I’m to blame just as much as you,” she says adamantly.
Maximoff has gone quiet. I keep checking him. He rubs at the sweat by his temple. Leaning into his ear, I ask, “You feel okay?”
“I don’t know,” he says this time. The gut-punch is swift.
I squeeze his hand. “Let’s go to the bathroom.”
He nods in agreement.
“Hold on, one second.” Reluctantly, I drop his hand to move to Thatcher. “Can you guard the bathroom door? I don’t want anyone coming in.”
“We’re right behind you.”
He follows with Jane, and I lead Maximoff. He’s letting me lead him. I’m not sure he notices that he’s a couple steps behind me. He’s deep in his head.
We reach the men’s bathroom.
A couple minutes pass while we wait for the two guys pissing in the urinal to vacate. Once they’re gone, it’s quiet, door shut, and I’m marginally relaxed knowing Thatcher is outside the doors.
Maximoff splashes some water on his face. “I can’t believe Kinney is here—shit, Kinney. I should be watching her.” He swivels back about to charge out the door.
I put a hand on his chest. “Easy, wolf scout. Your little sister has all of Omega watching her tonight. She’s fine.” You’re not.
He swallows hard and skates a hand through his damp hair. “Farrow…I feel really weird tonight.”
“Maximoff,” I whisper. Our eyes lock in an intense beat, and I watch paranoia twist his face. I can tell he’s running through the night in his head. He has to be thinking about the drink.
And then he says, “You—you took a sip. So you would know.”
This might be one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. “Yeah.” Breath is imprisoned inside my lungs. Say it. Fucking say it. “Maximoff, there was vodka in your drink.”