Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Maximoff follows me down the steps. “Thanks for telling me. Go easy on the Fireball—”
“I will—here’s my bodyguard.” He must hand the phone to Ian.
I hang my earpiece on my shoulder and start unlocking the bus door. Maximoff is one step behind me. If he thinks he’s leaving the bus with me, he’s mistaken.
“Hey?” Ian says.
“He’s seventeen,” Maximoff growls. “He’s a fucking teenager who’s in a band, who’s not paying attention to everyone around him. That’s your job, and if you don’t fucking do it, I’ll let Thatcher, Akara, and Price know.”
“I understand,” Ian says quickly. “I apologize. It won’t happen again. You don’t need to tell the Tri-Force. Please.” He’s whining.
“Watch Tom.” Maximoff hangs up at that curt endnote.
My brows arch with my barbell. “You made Ian Wreath piss his pants.”
“Akara would’ve made him shit his pants.”
“He’s lucky you’re nice.” I unlatch the door. “You’re not coming with me, by the way.” I extend my arm in the stairway, blocking him.
Purplish bruises shadow his eyes. I scrutinize him a little longer, and a pit tries to wedge in my stomach. Shit, I don’t like seeing him hurt. In any capacity.
“Why not?” Maximoff combats.
Starting with my thumb, I count off the reasons. “You look like you were in a fistfight.” Pointer finger. “You’re a severely recognizable celebrity.” Middle finger. “Refer to reasons one and two.”
On any normal day, Maximoff wouldn’t care if people caught wind of his location or if fans bombarded the hotel. He’s used to that chaotic shit.
But we all agreed to keep locations as safe as possible for Beckett and Sullivan. Those two were never on the We Are Calloway docuseries, and so they were able to foster private lives much easier than Maximoff and Jane. They’re not that accustomed to quickly amassing crowds.
Akara wants to ease them in if we can.
As much as Maximoff loves his cousins, he’s always risked his personal safety to feel free. Posting his location, in real time, is his norm. Now he’s at the mercy of these confining restraints, and unfortunately for him, only I can unbuckle them.
“I’m hiding the bruises,” Maximoff says, about to slip on Ray Bans—I catch his wrist. Stopping him.
Our eyes never detach.
“That’ll hurt,” I warn. His sunglasses are going to sit near the fracture.
“I can handle it.” He tries to take a breath, but his chest collapses. “Farrow, I’m not staying behind on this bus. I need out. On the chance that someone recognizes me, it’s 4-something-a.m. and there can’t be that many employees awake.” He nods a couple times. “We can deal with one or two people noticing.”
My choice directly affects his life and the lives on that bus. I weigh the risks, grappling for a middle-ground where he feels safe and free.
When I release his hand, he gently puts on his Ray Bans. Concealing the black-and-blue marks.
I scan his sweatshirt, hood hiding his dark brown hair. “You’d do better wearing an actual costume.”
His shoulders bind. “Clark Kent only wears glasses and a fucking suit.”
My brows spike. “Did you just compare yourself to Superman?”
“Fuck off.” He almost starts smiling, but he sighs roughly instead. “Seriously, Farrow…”
I block out Thatcher, the rest of Omega, and anyone else who’d say or do differently—and I’m dying to give my client what he needs, and right now, he needs air.
Decision made.
12
FARROW KEENE
“What name is your reservation under?” a tiny hotel receptionist asks me. Round glasses fall down her aquiline nose, and wispy red hair curls around her ears. She’s the only one in the marble lobby, the elevators in sight.
“Farrow Keene.” I pass the twenty-something girl a credit card.
Next to me, Maximoff stretches his quad muscles and cracks a crick in his neck. I know what he needs.
“Is the hotel pool open 24-hours?” I ask her.
Maximoff tries to control himself from looking in my direction, but even with sunglasses, his expression is easy to read. Mouth upturned, neck a little reddened, desire flexing his muscles—it’s pure attraction.
Towards me.
Damn.
I swallow hard. His lack of restraint is killing me. I comb a hand through my hair.
“The hotel pool,” the girl repeats while typing on the computer and swiping the credit card. “Oh, um…” She pushes up her glasses. “We drained the pool yesterday to fix the lining. I’m sorry, but we have complimentary breakfast and free internet.”
“That’s perfect,” Maximoff says, sounding sincere. If he’s downtrodden about the pool, he doesn’t let on.
The girl busies herself with key cards, not aware that a celebrity just spoke to her. “Great, great.” She slides an envelope across the counter. “Your block of rooms is ready. Do you need help with your bags?”
“We’re good.” I take the envelope and credit card.
“Thanks for your help,” Maximoff tells the girl.
“Oh, wait, um.” She raises a finger in thought.
Maximoff solidifies.
I lean against the counter and unwrap a piece of gum. There’s a very, very good likelihood that she’ll recognize him in the next five minutes. I’ve already accepted this.