I’m not quiet because I can’t think of what to talk about. We have a lot in common. We like a lot of the same shit. Same interest in martial arts, Philly sports teams. Same taste in music. How he jokes around—constant ribs and digs at his friends, I used to be around that a lot in the military.
I hate it over comms.
But in person, it brings back good memories.
We have more in common. Worse things, and sometimes I wonder if he’s realized that I’ve known he’s been experiencing some form of PTSD.
In Greece, I had to hand a bottle of water to Banks to give to Farrow. I didn’t think Farrow would’ve accepted it from me, but I could tell he was mentally thrown back. He doesn’t speak to the team about it that much.
I’m not one to talk. I can barely say the word out loud. Shouldn’t be that way, but it is.
In the end, I’m quiet because I can’t unlock my jaw. It’s like I’m made of cinderblock, and almost no one possesses the right tools to chisel me open.
Not even me, at times.
And all that has ever divided Farrow and me is me. He’s done nothing.
Comms crackle in my eardrum. Good thing. I zero in on work and listen to the Omega lead speak.
“Akara to Thatcher, Farrow, and Quinn—we’re at the grocery. Is there anything specific you want?”
I touch my flannel collar and press my mic. “Check to see if they have a stop leak additive. Jane’s Beetle is leaking oil again.” Ophelia rubs up against my ankles and purrs. I reach down and scratch behind her ear, she tries to bump her head into my hand, enjoying it. I do a quick sweep of the room and locate the cats.
All but one is in sight. Licorice can be shy, and he’s the most skittish. It’s made me more concerned about him. But there are plenty of places he could be hiding.
“Copy,” Akara responds.
Static buzzes, waiting for Quinn’s response.
I look right at Farrow while he stands up—done tying his boots—and I’m positive he’s silenced his radio.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
I drop my arm to my side. “SFO is at the grocery. You need something?”
“No,” he says with the casual shake of his head. “I’m good.” He quickens his pace towards the fireplace.
I spot movement a fraction of a second after Farrow does. Because the fireplace had been at my back.
He snatches Walrus, a calico cat, off the mantel. Plus, he catches a picture frame that teeters off the ledge.
He’s vigilant, always a skilled set of hands, and constantly on guard, even if he’s cracking jokes, smiling, or lounging on furniture like the world isn’t on fire when it’s actually up in fucking flames.
Walrus tries to paw his nose, and Farrow jerks back with a smile. “Not today, you little bastard.” He lets Walrus go, and the cat scampers into the kitchen.
I adjust my earpiece, and we’re suddenly facing one another. I nod to the empty milk jug on the mantel. What Walrus was interested in.
Farrow grabs the milk jug and then flicks a switch on his radio. “You haven’t railed on me for comms in a while.” He raises his brows. “Bored?”
He has no clue.
He wouldn’t.
Since I used to be the Epsilon lead, I know how the security team functions to the exact center. All the ins-and-outs. Every decision, every reasoning. I’m not in the dark.
The whole team is aware that Farrow selectively uses comms, so his lack of response is expected and not an issue among the leads.
Akara is only waiting for Quinn to reply.
Have I hated his lack of comms use in the past? Yeah. Things would’ve been easier if he just followed the fucking rules, but I accepted a long time ago that he was gonna do shit his own way.
Farrow gets away with it because he’s never made a real mistake.
Because he picks up slack. Without needing to be asked.
Because he’s so calm and reliable under fire, and that …just can’t be taught. When lives are at stake, not just these families but the safety of the team, we want the best bodyguards here.
And by we , I mean Akara Kitsuwon, me, and anyone else who’s been in charge.
I can’t say every new hire on the team sees the depth of Farrow’s value. Not when they’re slapped on the wrist or fired for the same moves he pulls.
I can’t say that my men on Epsilon have felt anything more than bitter fucking hostility. To the point where I had one man taking personal shots at Donnelly just to piss off Farrow.
Being a lead means making hard calls.
Years back during breakfast, Akara, Banks, and I had a talk about how to prevent in-fighting. Mainly, my guys antagonizing Farrow. Their jealousy was escalating. Something bad was going to happen.
I could see it.
I could hear it.
SFE and Farrow don’t get along to this day.
Over frying bacon, Akara told me, “You’ll need to dig into Farrow harder, so none of the guys think he’s getting special treatment.”
Akara knew that I’d already been trying to grill him.
I nodded. “You stay easy on Farrow. I’ve been a pain in his ass this long. You don’t need to lose his respect.”
Akara would’ve been willing to be the bad guy, but he’s better at balancing the friend and boss role than I am.
I still remember what my brother said that morning. With a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, Banks told us, “You two doing the good-cop, bad-cop routine, and it’s starting to make me look like the fucking cowboy.”
Epsilon cooled off once I chewed out Farrow for every minor infraction. Things that I wouldn’t even rag them about. I was on his case all the fucking time, and I even had to dock his pay during the FanCon whenever he broke the rules.
Akara and I were dealing with soured feelings in SFE because we voted to keep Farrow on the team.
After he had sex with a client.
Multiple times.
It’s ironic that I spent so long trying to control the situation, and I ended up being the one to lose my temper and punch him.
There’s no excuse for it.
I take full responsibility for my mistakes.
After that, I promised myself that I’d back off Farrow for good.
Now he’s facing me in a cluttered living room that smells like fresh flowers and spring—like Jane —and he’s wondering why I’m not hounding him for comms.
My gaze is as soft as it can be. “I don’t care how you do your job,” I say truthfully. “Just that you do it.”
He tips his head, running his tongue over his molars, and he skims me up and down, gauging my sincerity. “Honestly, at this point I couldn’t care less why you’ve been a raging asshole towards me as long as you’re not one anymore.”
I nod once. I wish I could put the past behind me as well as Farrow can. Maybe then my life wouldn’t consist of me pulling the pins off so many fucking grenades.
Farrow drops his voice to a low, rough whisper. “Just don’t coddle me. Don’t kiss my ass as penance. Don’t fuck with my fiancé or Jane, and we won’t have a problem.”
Easy. I nod again, and comms sound off in my ear.
“Quinn, do you need something from the grocery?” Akara repeats.
Oscar chimes in, “Speak up, little bro.”
The line hangs, waiting for a response. Farrow chucks the milk jug to Maximoff, who appears in the archway.
He catches it easily.
“Trash,” Farrow tells him.
Maximoff is giving us a weird look. It’s rare that we stand this fucking close while we’re off-duty.
Akara speaks in my ear. “Thatcher, is Quinn still asleep?”
I crossed paths with Quinn Oliveira in the kitchen. We were both eating breakfast, and I’m not someone who will cover his ass for the Omega lead. Akara needs to know.
I click my mic. “No.”
Akara enters the line with two curt words. “Not good.”
It means Quinn is silencing his radio. Ever since the twenty-one-year-old joined security, Akara has been concerned that Quinn is copying Farrow’s maverick style of guarding.
I am too.
He’s a lot younger than Farrow, and realistically, he’s more hotheaded.
I move back to the corkboard. Crossing my arms. Instinct says this is a Wall of Suitors. But that’d mean Jane is interested in her grandmother’s ploy.