“I’ll wait.” Maximoff cups the back of Farrow’s head, and they kiss before they leave one another. Their love is palpable—and I’m not some Scrooge. They’ve found something rare in a profession where all the odds were against them.
It can’t happen twice.
I hear the leads warning me in my fucking head. Can’t happen again.
I take Jane’s hand in mine, and as much as I love being able to hold her hand like this. I’m thinking about the best advantage to protect her.
So I draw her behind my back while we reach the door where screaming fans and paparazzi remain. “Stay behind me.”
“If it’s too hard to push through the masses, is the plan to go to the rear?” she wonders.
I assess the crowds. “Affirmative.”
She inhales, preparing, and she clasps onto my waist for a second, her grip similar to someone bracing themselves for a free-fall. I reach back and keep hold of her hand again. Tighter.
You’re safe with me, honey.
That’s a lasting promise I’ll always make.
25
THATCHER MORETTI
Charlie isn’t letting me inside his apartment.
I stand silently on guard in the wide hallway of the 21st floor. Walls painted deep red, industrial lights lining the stretch of hall.
I narrow my eyes on the dark wooden door with a gold number: 2166.
About five minutes ago, Charlie cracked the door open but only for his older sister. Jane slipped in and slid me an apologetic look. Right before the door shut behind her.
Being next to Jane would’ve been the best option. What I prefer.
What I want.
But setting aside personal feelings—which I shouldn’t fucking have for my client—I also would’ve taken the second-best thing and been satisfied with one SFO bodyguard in there. Just to have eyes on the situation.
But Charlie shut out all of security.
Farrow drops his black trauma bag next to security’s apartment, which is right across the hall from 2166.
The luxury apartment complex in Hell’s Kitchen is the best housing for a bodyguard. But most on the 24/7 roster would take the worst housing without a fucking complaint.
We’re all here for the ugly, painful realities of what these families go through.
To carry them out of ditches. To unfuck whatever is fucked. Not being able to help clean up whatever the hell is going on is one of the hardest orders I have to obey.
And not just for me.
Oscar and Donnelly stand near the ajar door of their apartment. Waiting with Farrow and me to see if Jane or Charlie will call us in, but the air isn’t that tense.
If this were life-or-death serious, Jane would’ve come back out in a second flat.
“See, this is why I try to stay out of Cobalt Empire drama,” Farrow says, leaning a shoulder casually on the wall and looking from Oscar to Donnelly. “It leads me to an empty hallway with you two motherfuckers.”
Oscar grins, only wearing gray sweatpants. Inked script lines his golden-brown skin along his collarbone, and his curly dark-brown hair is disheveled like he just passed out for an hour. “You’re just pissed because the Fiancé isn’t here.”
Farrow tilts his head. Not denying.
“Don’t be sad, Redford.” Oscar squeezes his shoulder. “I’m sure Maximoff will give you a pity blowjob later.”
Farrow smiles. “You’ll have to explain to me what a pity blowjob is, Oliveira. Never had one before.”
“Donnelly can explain it to you. It’s all he ever gets.”
Donnelly laughs hard. He’s eating a bowl of cereal at 10 p.m.—in nothing but black boxer-briefs, a sleeve of tattoos and pierced nipples in view.
I weave my arms over my chest. Stoic. Staying quiet. I’m not someone who usually joins in with them, and Oscar and Donnelly won’t be quick to include me, not after I punched Farrow.
It’s my fault.
My mistake.
But I’m not cowering or shying away from them. I’m here. Quiet—but here.
“Pity blowjobs are better than fake fucking a girl.” Donnelly shovels a spoonful of cereal in his mouth.
“Thatcher would know,” Farrow says. It sounds too easygoing to be a real dig at me.
My brows knit, surprised and somewhat confused as to why they’re including me all of a sudden. My expression hardens. They could be fishing. Just to see what’s going on with me and Jane. I didn’t think they would because they don’t care about me personally.
But they do care about her.
I fix my gaze on the door across from us. “I’m not going to talk about my client and sex.”
Farrow puts a piece of gum in his mouth. “I think you mean ‘fake’ sex.”
My muscles burn, tendons straining in my neck, but I manage to nod in agreement. Stoic. Walled-off. Focused on the fucking door.
Donnelly wipes milk off his chin. “Why not talk ‘bout it? We already know you’ve had sex outside a Walmart.”
Because of drinking games. I don’t care that they fucking know this. “That wasn’t about Jane, who’s my client.”
“He doesn’t fake-fuck and tell,” Farrow quips. Unknowingly saving my ass.
Donnelly smirks. “What about real- fuck and tell?”
I shake my head.
Oscar fixes pieces of his ruffled hair. “If Moretti really fucked his client, there’d be consequences.”
My pulse solidifies like cement in my veins. I’m not looking at them.
Farrow blows a bubble and pops it in his mouth. “Yeah, we’d have to get Donnelly to tattoo hypocrite on his ass.”
If that’s what it took to make things right with him, I’d fucking do it.
The elevator along the hallway dings. The three of them go quiet.
We all watch a few women in their late-twenties spill into the hall. Wearing business-casual dresses like they work for some upper crust law firm in New York.
They laugh loudly, and then the tall brunette asks, “What’s Talia’s apartment number?” They’re visiting someone. Can’t be residents then.
Slowly, they begin to walk past us and their chatter dies down. Most of the women are checking out Oscar.
The Oliveira brothers probably get the most ass of anyone on the team. I’m straight, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see that they’re good-looking men.
They keep moving past, and their eyes start to dart between Farrow and me. Recognizing us.
Donnelly calls out to them through a mouthful of cereal, “Hey, wanna be my Valentine?”
The brunette glares. “Go fuck yourself.”
Farrow sucks in a breath. “You’re too late. He already did that last night.”
Donnelly grins, then sticks his tongue out with half-chewed cereal to the women.
They all cringe.
“God, uh,” a blonde grimaces.
“Wait a sec.” The shortest girl with a red bob points to Farrow, then to me. “Aren’t you two dating Maximoff Hale and Jane Cobalt?”
Protocol: do not engage more than necessary. I’m about to brush them off, but Farrow does it first.
He loosely crosses his arms. “Who’s Maximoff Hale?”
“We’re not idiots,” the brunette snaps, coming to a full stop in front of us. “You’re clearly Farrow Keene, and he’s Thatcher Moretti.”
“Why are you coming in so hot, Barbra?” Donnelly asks the brunette.
“Who the fuck is Barbra—and aren’t you the bodyguard to Beckett Cobalt? Where is he?” She stares around the hall like Beckett will materialize out of thin fucking air.
What I’ve heard: Beckett is asleep in Donnelly’s bedroom. He just got back from a ballet performance for Cinderella , and apparently Charlie told him not to enter their shared apartment yet.
Their place must be a mess, and Beckett likes things in order. It boils down to Charlie protecting his twin brother, who has OCD.
Donnelly shrugs. “Never heard of a Beckett Cobalt.”
We need to shut this down. “We can’t talk,” I say, direct. “We’re working.”
“He’s in his underwear .” She points to Donnelly’s boxer-briefs.
Oscar is about to rebut, but our attention swerves to 2166. Something crashes in Charlie’s apartment.