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)
Our embrace strengthens. We hug tighter, tighter, his hand lost in my hair. I hold the back of his head. And his heart thuds in a calm rhythm against mine.
33
MAXIMOFF HALE
January passes into February, and before I even think all is well, a figurative storm slams head-first at every damn one of us.
Evening sun shines through a tinted hotel window. It’s encroaching 24-hours since my cousins, my little sister, and SFO have been trapped in one double-bed room.
I stand rigid at the window. And I stare out at the Los Angeles street below. No one can see me through the opaque glass, but I see them.
I see you.
Hundreds upon hundreds of bodies pack the road. Not a single piece of pavement or sidewalk in sight. Paparazzi mix with the masses, cameras flashing and flashing. Extra security on the ground has been trying to clear the street for hours, but the swelling crowds look like fans preparing for a music festival headliner.
We’re not Red Hot Chili Peppers.
And this isn’t normal.
I accounted for more paparazzi at the L.A. FanCon because it’s L.A.—but this chaos isn’t because of the FanCon.
People cram at the hotel exits and entrances. Hoping to catch sight of us when we leave, but we can’t step foot into the hysteria. Fingers and cameras point up at this room, this fucking window.
I see the tweet.
@CherryCarrie: Tenth floor. Third window from the right. Just got confirmation from someone inside the hotel. #HotBodyguards #HMCBodyguards
I don’t move.
I haven’t slept in 24-hours. My phone rings nonstop, and I’ve tried to fix this. I can’t stop trying, but now there’s only one solution: stay put, do nothing, wait for the street to clear.
With a long glance behind me, I check on everyone.
Charlie slouches in the corner, forehead to his knees, hands on the back of his head, frustrated and irritated. I know my cousin.
He likes his space, and he already sacrificed that to join this tour. Now he’s stuck in a small room with eleven people.
Beckett is asleep on the edge of a bed. Next to him, Jane, Sulli, and Luna squeeze close and peer at the only laptop, perched on Jane’s thighs.
They’re okay.
But Omega isn’t.
I’ve never seen them this tense. Thatcher and Akara seclude themselves in the bathroom for privacy, speaking to the Alpha lead for over two hours.
Oscar has been hawk-eyeing the road near me. His gaze darkened, serious. On the second bed, Donnelly flips through news channels like an uneasy tic. Then there’s Quinn, pacing the length of the room.
“Stop,” Farrow tells him for the hundredth time. He’s the most at ease here. His shoulder is propped casually on the wall beside me. With a quick glimpse, he checks on me like I check on him, then he eyes the street.
Donnelly switches channels, television on mute. “It’s the Hale Curse.”
Farrow chews his gum slower and gives Donnelly an annoyed look. “Shut the fuck up with the Hale Curse.”
“I’m just sayin’ out of all places this has to go down, it’s in L.A. where hundreds of paparazzi live. That’s a curse.”
“The Hales didn’t do anything,” Farrow says. “It’s not a curse.”
It’s a perfect shit storm.
Being trapped in a hotel room isn’t why everyone’s on edge. It’s a billion times worse. In the masses, fans hoist posters that say Hot Bodyguards and I love SFO! and hire me!!!
Some even scrawled names: Future Wife of Quinn. Akara is my babe!
Everyone in Omega is on a goddamn cliff.
One push from being fired.
Including my boyfriend. Despite barely sleeping for the past fucking month, determined to find my stalker, I still want Farrow as my bodyguard.
Christ, I need him. Even selfishly.
Luna looks up from the laptop. “What’s a Hale Curse?”
“A made up thing,” I say and my phone vibrates in my clenched hand. I’ve spoken to lawyers, every uncle, every aunt, my parents, security, the board of H.M.C. Philanthropies, publicists, tabloids, journalists—exhaustion tries tooth-and-nail to tug at my limbs and sink me.
I barely blink.
I stare in a hard daze.
Thinking, thinking, and I feel three reactions rip at me in different directions.
One part of me says keep everyone safe, be resolute, resilient. I stand still.
One part pleads swim, run, go outside and taste the fucking air. I almost tilt my head back, shut my eyes and feel cold water with each forceful stroke, then tree branches slapping my arms and legs, running untiringly until my lungs fucking pop.
The last part of me screeches, drop to your knees and scream. Heavy pressure bears on my chest, but I’m not dropping.
I’m not screaming.
“Merde,” Jane says. All three girls look wide-eyed at the laptop.
I head to the bed. “What is it?”
Jane rotates the screen.
GBA News, a primetime station on par with ABC, picked up the story. The headline: Media and Fans Congest L.A. Streets to Spot Bodyguards of the Hale, Meadows, Cobalt Families.