I didn’t understand at first, but he said, “It’ll be good for all three of us.” Thatcher explained that Xander relied on them to the point where he’d panic if they needed to take a day off and couldn’t be on his detail. If they needed to switch with a temp for an hour, he’d be more anxious and upset.
I think Thatcher felt like they made a mistake for five years in not helping Xander be more comfortable with other bodyguards. Becoming so dependent on them that only they could be his safety net—when they needed Xander to trust the entire team.
And so they had to help him move on.
Now Xander is calling him, and it’s a little out of the ordinary. Thatcher has been off his detail for almost a year, and if Xander calls anyone, it’s most likely he’ll dial his older brother’s number. Possibly he couldn’t reach Maximoff, but that’d mean something terrible is happening to my best friend.
Moffy is almost always reachable.
“Maximoff is still here?” I ask Thatcher before he answers the call.
“As far as I know,” Thatcher says. “But Farrow doesn’t always use comms if he changes locations.”
I wait to text Moffy.
Because there are more possibilities for the call. Xander could be hurt knowing that Thatcher never told him he was a Marine. His military service leaked recently, and Banks and Thatcher have had to assuage confusion and some stronger feelings in the team. All without answering a probing question as to why they didn’t enlist in the Navy and follow their father’s footsteps.
No one knows.
And I wouldn’t pry, but Farrow said the Navy guys were digging at the Moretti brothers during the meeting. Until Akara stepped in with harsher words.
Thatcher taps his phone screen.
“Thatcher?” Xander sounds a little out of breath.
“Hey, kid,” Thatcher says, concern lining his forehead. “Jane is here; you’re on speaker.”
“Bonjour, Xander,” I say brightly. “Is everything okay where you are?”
“Yeah…life’s going, I guess.” Xander pants some. “I’m at Uncle Ryke’s gym…hitting this bag, or trying to.” He pauses. “Thatcher, you know how I’ve been learning to box?”
He’s been working out with Moffy and Farrow more recently, and he’s taken more interest in boxing, so Farrow has been helping teach him.
“Yeah,” Thatcher says, eyes on me and our surroundings.
I plant a hand on my hip, staring at the phone.
“I asked Farrow if he thought it’d be cool if maybe…you, him, and Banks could train me or something. To actually fight in a ring. And I get that you don’t have a lot of off-duty time. It was just an idea I had…”
Thatcher is unblinking, thinking at rapid pace. I can practically see the gears shifting in his mind, and he cares about Xander. But he must be gauging how healthy it’ll be to reconnect in this way.
To give Thatcher more time to consider, I chime in, “What’d Farrow say?”
Xander catches his breath. “He said he’s up for it.”
I’m not so sure I understand what Thatcher and Farrow are at the moment other than co-workers. But they’ve been far more willing to share space together.
“Okay, I’m up for this too,” Thatcher suddenly agrees. “I’ll help you in the ring, but with Farrow.”
“Yeahyeah,” he says, a joyful smile in his voice. It swells my heart. “Thanks, man. Just text me when you’re free.”
“Sounds good. Take care of yourself, kid.”
Once they both hang up, Thatcher has a faraway look in his eye that he tries to extinguish. He blinks hard a few times, centering himself to the here and now. His muscles are taut, and he rubs his mouth with a rougher hand.
My curiosity has fallen to the wayside. Replaced by concern. “Can I do anything for you?” I whisper and hook the angel wings back onto the rack.
Skin wrinkles between his constricted eyes, staring at me like he’s looking directly into the brightest light.
I keep going. “Maybe I can help with whatever you need. I fully recognize we’re fake boyfriend-and-girlfriend, but I’m a terrific wingwoman. I can be your right-hand.”
His lips almost tic upward. “I have no doubt you’d be great. But I’m your right-hand, honey. I’m your wingman.”
I smile a very overwhelming smile. “And you’ve been a superb wingman, but maybe my wingman needs a wingwoman from time to time, and I’m at your service.” I mime the tip of a top hat.
He’s more lost in my eyes than before. “If you want to be my wingwoman, there’s something I need to tell you.”
I stare up at him more curiously and prepare for impact. “I’m all ears.”
24
THATCHER MORETTI
I’m literally a half a second from telling Jane something I almost never talk about. To anyone. Barely even Banks.
Call it divine intervention or maybe the devil is laughing in my fucking face—but her phone rings and blows this one shot to hell.
Truth is, I’m not even close to upset. Because she’s my purpose. I want to be here for Jane more than anything; it’s my drive in life and I’m already squared away to push out.
“I’m so sorry,” Jane says quickly, her face torn in a wince while she unzips her purse and grabs her phone. “I want to say this will only take a minute, but if it’s my family, we’ll need to leave.”
I think she’s forgetting I’m her bodyguard and that I’ve been around her for almost a year, a part of her daily routine. Nine times out of ten, her phone calls lead her in a new direction.
Always family.
Her big blue eyes lift up to me.
“I want you to take as long as you need,” I tell her, not breaking our gazes. “I’ll still be here beside you at the end of everything.”
She breathes deeper and nods repeatedly, then reads the Caller ID. “It’s Charlie.”
Her twenty-one-year-old brother is hard to pin down. Literally and everything else in between. Hell, I spent months on a tour bus with the kid, and I can’t say I fully understand him. I just assume he prefers being at arm’s length.
Which makes protecting him a clusterfucking shit show. He’s gone through the most 24/7 bodyguards of any client. It used to be a running issue on the team. Who can last on Charlie Cobalt’s detail for more than two weeks?
Almost no one. We had brand new hires quit after being paired with Charlie, and then finally, we found his perfect match. Oscar Oliveira is the only bodyguard able to keep up with him.
Jane puts the call on speaker. “Charlie?”
“How far from New York are you?” His voice is smooth, but I hear some frustration.
“I’m a couple hours without traffic.” She lifts the speaker to her lips. “What do you need?”
He speaks in French, and then hangs up.
Jane growls a little at the phone. “Charlie.”
Oscar isn’t speaking on comms. I switch frequencies to Epsilon. But no one is talking about Charlie or any of Jane’s brothers in Hell’s Kitchen. “How serious is it?” I ask Jane.
“I’ve no idea.” She slips her phone in her purse, quickly plucking a deep, red lacy dress off the rack. A sticker on the fabric reads: Gothic Queen of Hearts.
By her urgency alone, I can tell we’re moving out. I touch my mic, about to radio in the location change, but I home in on Jane, checking to see if she’s okay.
She speaks faster. “Charlie has never been forthcoming with me, even before his feud with Moffy. He’s always been closest to Beckett, which I respect entirely.”
I nod. Beckett is Charlie’s fraternal twin, and Jane can empathize with that close relationship better than most people. I think because she has a strong bond with Maximoff—a bond that always reminds me of what I have with Banks.
They’ve even dealt with the “incest” horseshit that we used to get all the fucking time in high school. Guys we barely knew would joke about us jerking each other off or me giving my brother a blowjob.
I’m not sensitive. You can earn the right to rib me like that and I won’t bat an eye. Infantrymen did, bodyguards still do. But if I don’t know you and you tell me to go suck off my brother, then you’re just an asshole trying to piss me off.