Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
“She’s going to New York,” Farrow says it like a fact. “It’s more or less whether she has to reject Fizzle to do it.”
I don’t want her to have to make that choice. “Their loss,” I mention.
“No shit,” Farrow swigs his beer at that. “Oliveira, you ready for your brother to live in New York?”
Quinn and Frog will be moving if Luna does.
“Never been more ready.” Oscar rests his back on a structural beam decaled with beer stickers. “He needs to be around me and Jo.” His gaze drifts. “Speaking of my baby bro.”
In walks Quinn, Gabe, and Frog. All off-duty.
Oscar makes a face at Qunnie. “Still with the tropical button-downs.”
“What?” Quinn opens his arms. “You said it was Pacific Sun Realness.”
I chime in, “Because you’re the realest motherfucker I’ve ever seen.”
“Don’t get too excited by that compliment,” Oscar tells Quinn. “This real motherfucker says that to everyone.”
“Blue-eyed shameless motherfucker,” Farrow amends, his smile expanding.
I grin back. “Hottest guy you’ve ever seen,” I tease.
“Eh, no. That’d be my husband.”
“Finally, you admit it, Redford,” Oscar exclaims. “Maximoff is hotter than you.”
I clap. “Truth always comes out.”
Farrow gives him a middle finger, then me, and I laugh. Then everyone shows up and gathers around the table, and by everyone, I mean Security Force Omega.
Change was coming—we all could feel it, probably long before the psychic prophesized a split. Farrow, Thatcher, Akara, and Banks are all fathers. Oscar is married. I’m building a life with Luna. We’re each moving in new directions—and even if we quit this job in time, there’s one fact that will always remain the same.
We are SFO.
“Order of hierarchy,” Oscar suggests, passing around the beers. “Kitsuwon’s up first.”
Akara pulls his T-shirt over his head and pushes a hand through his black hair. “Donnelly,” he smiles. “No blowouts.”
“Only clean lines for the best boss,” I promise.
It was three days ago when I finally learned why I was really put on Epsilon. Akara asked me to stay back at Studio 9 during a group meeting between all three Forces.
So I grabbed on to a boxing bag, just casually standing on the gym mats. Barefooted. Expecting nothing.
Then Akara said, “I lied to you.”
It stung. “What?”
He rubbed his knuckles, his breath shortened. “I lied—I said that Price wanted you because he needed a famous bodyguard in his firm. It’s not really why—it’s not the whole reason, man. It never was.”
“Akara—”
“No, wait.” He held out a hand. “We came up with a plan to try and bridge his firm and my firm, to where we could be cohesive and work peacefully together. We needed a bodyguard to swap firms and build trust between them. Price asked for Quinn, Frog, and Gabe. And I told him no.” His eyes reddened. “I told him there was someone better. I told him to pick you.”
I inhaled a sharp breath. “Why…why are you just telling me this now?”
“Because it worked, and we were afraid if you knew, it never would. Because you were the only one who’d likely get close to making Epsilon feel a bond with Omega. You’re the heart, Donnelly. Not just of the Yale boys, not just of SFO, but of the entire security team. As much as all of us didn’t want to share you, it’d be more selfish to keep you.”
Yeah.
That got me choked up.
I really love Akara, and he did more for me than he realizes. All my animosity towards O’Malley and SFE is gone. I hated carrying that hate in my heart. I feel more like myself being free of it.
At The Independent, Akara lies down on the table. He has a chest-plate tattoo piece that extends down his bicep. We’ve all agreed on the same placement of this ink. It’s going on our ribs.
The tattoo machine buzzes, and I’m careful with my linework while everyone chitchats around me. In bold serif lettering, I ink the letters: SFO
Thatcher is next.
Jane wolf-whistles from the bar when he strips down. We all rib him for it, and he couldn’t care less. He watches me discard my gloves, the needle, and I disinfect and snap on a new set. I’ve inked “Cinderella” on his ass before, so this is nothing for Thatch.
I place a stencil on his ribs, then get to work.
Luna once asked me which bodyguards I thought would always and forever stay in security. For a lot of us, this is a purpose, but our purpose can change with time. For others, this is oxygen, and they’ll suffocate without it.
So when she asked, the first name I said was Thatcher Moretti. When we all slowly retire our radios and guns, he’ll be the last one standing. It’s my million-dollar bet.
And that’s sayin’ something ‘cause I don’t have a million to bet at the moment. But Halway Comics is giving us a seven-figure advance for our comic. Split in half with Luna—I’m gonna be the flushest I’ve ever been.