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.
This girl is heaven-sent, and I’m fucking an angel. And gripping a one-way ticket to hell.
Stay frosty. I focus on the ring.
And her.
When Xander and Garrett take a water break, I face Jane fully and grab a set of purple hand-wraps that I brought over for her.
“Hold out your hand flat.” I demonstrate palm-down with my fingers spread.
She copies me, and I start looping the soft fabric around her wrist and over her knuckles. With every brush of my skin to her skin, she takes a sharper inhale.
My veins pulse, and our eyes latch for a headier beat.
It feels different in this setting.
Studio 9.
Home to security. My work. The overseers of this fake dating op.
Rows of boxing bags line the other side of the gym, and in my peripheral, I sense bodyguards watching us. Wondering what it’s like for me to “fake date” my client.
I’m not a buddy-guard. I’ve gone from being strictly professional with Jane to trekking across landmine-riddled territory. Guys have pried, and I shut down most questions.
My client is none of your business.
Focus on your work.
This isn’t your objective.
But the heat of their gazes is different than camera flashes or ogling fans. Security can’t find out that I broke the golden rule.
I wrap the purple fabric between her fingers.
Jane peeks over her shoulder. “Is it just me…or are we being stared at? Not that I’m not used to the staring—it’s just that I know all the names of the people looking at us.”
I fasten the Velcro at her wrist and narrow my eyes onto a younger SFE bodyguard. He sits up on a weight bench, not hiding the fact that he’s observing us.