Damaged Like Us (Like Us Series Book 1) Page 11

  Farrow laughs. He tosses a fry in the basket and then eyes me, mostly.

  My neck is on fire, and I keep rubbing my jaw.

  Quinn scans the table for food. His stomach audibly grumbles. I slide the basket of fries away from Farrow and to Quinn. Farrow makes a face at me. Like I just passed his cellphone off to a stranger.

  “Do you not know what sharing looks like?” I ask.

  Farrow slides the fries back between me and him. “Quinn needs to learn how to order his own food.”

  Quinn doesn’t let Farrow bother him. “Where’s the waitress?” he asks.

  “Yes, please, coffee coffee,” Jane says. “One sugar, dollop of cream, and strapped to an IV.”

  “You have to order at the bar,” I tell her.

  “Merde.” Her head slumps on my shoulder. She’s exhausted from today’s putt-putt debacle.

  “I’ll go for you.” Just as I’m about to stand, Quinn and Farrow motion for me to stay seated.

  “I can go alone,” Quinn tells Farrow while I sit back down. “She’s my client.”

  “Akara would want you to stay with her,” Farrow says.

  Quinn considers this for half a second, and then we all look over at the six-foot bearded bartender who approaches. He stops and towers over the table. Nearer Janie than to me. He fingers his gnarled beard and appraises the length of her body.

  Hovering on her chest.

  I’m on edge. Anyone who appraises us like we’re cattle—I don’t trust. From experience, they’d rather hurt my family than make cute small talk.

  Likewise, Quinn’s guard seems to rise tenfold. He angles his body towards Jane. Sitting straighter. More menacing. Like a boxer about to face off an opponent. If I didn’t know, it’d be hard to tell that he’s new to the team.

  “Hi,” Jane starts, but the bartender cuts her off with, “You’re Jane Cobalt.”

  “Yes.” Janie’s voice is stiffer than usual. “You wouldn’t happen to have coffee—”

  “Your mom is hotter.”

  I glower. “What the fuck did you just say?” I see blood red, and I’m already halfway out of my seat. Our bodyguards are right behind me. Where Farrow has an at ease demeanor, as if this is just another normal day, Quinn’s eyes widen and darken. Horrified.

  Pissed.

  He probably hasn’t gotten used to hearing the vitriol people sling at Janie.

  I wish it was something you didn’t have to get used to.

  The bartender doesn’t balk. “I said Rose Calloway is a hotter piece of ass than that chubby bitch.”

  I charge forward, venom in the back of my throat, but chairs clatter, more than just me shooting up completely from their seats. I instinctively stand in front of Janie. In my peripheral, I notice her hand gripping her watermelon purse.

  Where pepper spray and a pink switchblade lie.

  I may’ve cut off Jane, but Farrow cuts off my path, his hand on my chest. He says something to me that I don’t hear. I stare past him, hawkeyed on the bartender who watches Jane’s reaction.

  “Fuck you,” I sneer, trying to steal his attention away from Jane.

  The bartender laughs at me and then says to her. “You can’t cry if it’s the truth.”

  Jane isn’t crying. She sighs into an angry growl and tries to ignore him. “I ask for coffee, and instead receive an unsolicited opinion on my looks. Disastrously unequal and a complete nightmare—Moffy.” Fear spikes her voice, grabbing my wrist when I try to step towards the bartender.

  Farrow and Quinn break our hands as they shift around us. The bartender opens his mouth to speak again, and I hear the beginnings of the word slut and Quinn growls, “Fuck off.”

  Farrow raises a hand to him, and I hear him hiss, “Cool down. Just focus on getting her out of here.”

  Quinn’s nose flares and he nods. Quickly, Quinn begins to lead my cousin safely out of the pub. I hear Jane protesting and shouting, “I leave no one behind!”

  Farrow rests a strong hand on my shoulder. Trying to steer me towards the exit.

  With one move, I tear out of his hold. I’m seething from the inside out. My skin is crawling. Our eyes meet for a heated second. Both of us are headstrong. And I’m not moving on his accord.

  Farrow warns beneath his breath, “Don’t jump out in front of me.” He rotates, protectively shielding me from the bartender. Using his body as a barrier between me and that bastard.

  Bodyguards are required to deescalate aggressive situations. Calm them. Stop them.

  Not fuel or even win fights.

  In case you aren’t already aware: I make that difficult.

  I should leave right now. I should forget the bartender’s crude gaze. And malicious intent. I should. And Janie won’t leave until I do. Even if Quinn drags her out, she’ll dig her feet into hardwood or pavement and claw herself towards me.

  I want her somewhere safe. Far away from here.

  So I open my wallet and toss money on the table. Unable to leave without paying. Even if I’m paying a fucking douchebag.

  “And you’re Maximoff Hale,” the bartender says. Don’t engage, my parents always tells me. Ignore the hecklers, they say. They’re trying to incite you, they remind me.

  They want to fight you.

  No shit.

  I can handle overwhelmed, overzealous fans. I can handle competitive paparazzi. I can handle the tears and the autographs and the selfies. I can even handle tonight. The fucked-up part of fame.

  The sick hatred. Chipping bit by bit at our humanity.

  You want to know what the few other people in the pub are doing? They’re filming. With their cellphones. Like I’m the star of a fucked-up drama. And the title is This Is My Life.

  Welcome. Take a seat.

  I put my wallet in my jean’s pocket.

  “How does it feel,” the bartender starts up again, “knowing a thousand-plus dicks have been inside your mom? She must’ve been stretched out when she had you. Bet you just fell out of her vagina.” He laughs right at my face.

  I have tunnel vision. I see red. I see the bartender.

  I see how devastated my mom would be if she heard someone say this shit to me. She’d cry herself to sleep—and you know what that does to me? It makes me want to fucking scream and throw my knuckles at a face. And by a face, I mean his fucking face.

  I charge.

  Farrow restrains me, gripping my fist in his palm, and forcing my hand to my side. He walks me backwards. “Look at me, Maximoff.”

  I’m glaring beyond Farrow. At the bartender.

  His lips are against my ear. “He’s not worth your attention.”

  I’ve said all those words before: be the bigger person. Walk away. You’re feeding into their bullshit. Violence solves nothing. You’re the CEO of a nonprofit. Stop.

  Stop.

  Breathe.

  Leave.

  I let about fifteen feet divide me and the bartender. Backing up. Backing away, all the while he’s talking shit. “What about your sister,” he laughs mockingly. “Luna Hale—another wet slut. Bet she puts out twice as much as your mom. Is she a little sex addict too?”

  I taste acid on my tongue, but words burn the back of my throat. Dying inside of me.

  And Farrow can’t provoke the bartender. If these insults eat at him, he can’t show me either. I’m in a thundering boat of one.

  Trying to steer myself towards the door. I almost get there.

  And then he says, “I hope she locks her doors at night.”

  I go rigid.

  Motionless and still faced towards him. “What’d you say?”

  He laughs. “I hope she keeps her doors locked. You know how many men would break through just to taste her—”

  I lose it. Tearing out of Farrow’s hold, I take a few lengthy strides. And I swing. The instant my knuckles crack the bridge of his nose, Farrow cuts off my path and then he thrusts back three men who spring up from the barstools.

  Blood gushes out of the man’s nostrils, and he s
houts the word, sue.

  “Go ahead and fucking sue me.” I turn around with rage in my eyes, leaving the mess I burst behind. I forget that Farrow isn’t Declan. My old bodyguard would’ve stayed to cool down the pub. Instead, Farrow sprints and reaches my side.

  Step-for-step with me, and I glance at him. His hard gaze holds a raw understanding that says you’re not alone. And as we face forward, his hand falls to my wrist, then my palm—he’s holding my hand for a strong but brief moment.

  No one has ever held my hand like that.

  He lets go, and we both push through the pub doors. Walking side-by-side towards my Audi parked on the city street. Philly lit up at night.

  Paparazzi are here.

  I glance at my phone that says:

  I saw you leave. I’m in the car, driving home. I’m safe. Text me as soon as you are. – Janie

  I text quickly: I’m on my way home.

  While I find my keys in my pocket, three cameramen near with their lenses. Asking the same question, “Why are your knuckles bloody?!”

  “Did you get in a fight, Maximoff?!”

  Farrow pushes a camera aside. “Get out of his face.”

  “Sorry,” the paparazzi apologizes, pretty sincere. He takes more than a few steps backwards.

  Silent, I unlock my car, and I climb into the driver’s seat.

  Farrow is in the passenger, doors locked, and I drive out onto the highway. Like it’s just another day of my life.

  I move forward.

  I don’t look back.

  Flicking on my blinker, I switch to the left lane. Speeding ahead of trailing paparazzi that race after my car.

  Farrow reaches across my body. I stiffen, my eyes flitting from him to the road. He seizes the silver buckle by my shoulder and pulls the strap over my chest. Clicking the belt in by my ass.

  “You’re not dying today,” Farrow reminds me. “Let me see your hand.”

  I grip the wheel with both hands. Skin busted on a few of my knuckles. “I thought we’ve been through this. You’re not my damn doctor; you’re not my assistant. Not a caped crusader or a fortuneteller or my friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. You’re just…”

  Farrow.

  I swallow a lump in my throat and then I take a chance and look at him.

  He wears only the same understanding.

  So I say, “It’d break my mom’s heart to hear what he said. You know that?”

  “I know.” Farrow was around my mom for three years. He knows. “But it’d break her heart more to see her son get jumped by four men twice his age.” I watch the road as he says, “You don’t want anyone to help you, but you’re willing to put your life at risk for—fuck.” He pops his earpiece out completely and unclips his radio from his waistband.

  Hunching forward, he tinkers with the coms.

  By the tic of his jaw muscle, I can tell he bites hard on his teeth. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “My radio just died.”

  “Well you can’t save everyone,” I say, which makes him smile.

  And he tilts his head towards me, pieces of his bleach-white hair falling in his eyes. “Still a precious smartass.”

  I nearly smile too, but both of our phones start incessantly buzzing. Family, for me. Security team, for him. It’s going to be a long night of rehashing the same story over and over.

  We both reach for our phones.

  I’m ready for it.

  13

  FARROW KEENE

  FOR SEVEN CONSECUTIVE NIGHTS, Maximoff buries his time in charity work. I’d think it’s penance for the pub fight, but he’s drowning himself in work to avoid his old nightclub routine. Where he “finds someone to fuck”. He’s been delaying that since I became his bodyguard.

  Except for tonight.

  Tonight is the first night. I’m at a darkly lit nightclub. Lights blink and flash, music thudding the floor.

  See, I’m a damned good bodyguard. The best of the best. But I’m teetering between doing my job and being a prick. Maximoff is going to ask me to vet whatever stranger he wants to fuck, and my first instinct is to lie.

  To tell Maximoff that the stranger is a dipshit.

  A liar.

  A psychopath or murderer.

  Whatever I need to say to terminate the subsequent events.

  All night, I’ve been silently convincing myself not to go that route. Not to be a jealous prick. Do your motherfucking job, Farrow.

  It’s never been difficult. Not like this.

  “Farrow, you can sit beside me,” Maximoff says. “They’re not going anywhere.” He gestures to the three men in black suits that guard the VIP couch, their hands cupped and eyes alert.

  I made a phone call to Tidal Wave, the two-story nightclub, before we arrived. I let the managers know Maximoff Hale would be dropping by and he’d need extra security.

  It’s been the easiest part of tonight. Seeing him entertain girls and guys with the sole purpose of getting laid—let’s just say I’ve chewed my gum stale.

  I focus on the task at hand. Tidal Wave has decent security, but even with the additional manpower, drunk men and women try to snap photos and hop the VIP ropes.

  All eyes are on Maximoff.

  That, I’m used to. He has an endless sea of people to choose from. Yet, he’s now hiding out on the leather sofa and listening to the alt-rock band one story below.

  Heavy bass booming, the metal floor thumps beneath my black boots. I stand above Maximoff, and I rest a hand on the couch by his shoulder.

  Leaning closer to him, I say, “You trust them more than you trust me?” I motion with my head to the club’s security. “Or does this position just really bother you? Me, standing. You, sitting.”

  He blinks slowly into wide, sarcastic eyes.

  My smile stretches, and I laugh while I chew my stale gum. Easing back a little bit.

  “You should’ve been a psychologist!” he shouts over the music. “That way you’d get a certificate or cash or something for psychoanalyzing me other than this!” He gives me two middle fingers.

  I roll my eyes, my smile fucking killing me, and I decide to sit on the armrest next to him because he asked. Soft chatter echoes through my earpiece, but it’s not for me.

  I tune most out and scan the crowds that keenly fixate on Maximoff. Most people point at him from the neon-lit bar. Then I steal a glance at Moffy, our eyes catching. “Is this position better for you?!” I ask.

  His lips pull upward, and a small smile overtakes his agitation. “When I asked you to sit beside me, I meant next to me!” He gestures with both hands to the available cushion.

  Since I’m on the armrest, I’m sitting taller than him. Which pisses him off a little bit, but he gets handed things easily. I like making him work a little harder.

  As the alt-rock song hits a crescendo, I shout, “I’m technically still next to you!”

  “You love your technicalities!” Maximoff tosses his phone from hand-to-hand, his shoulders taut and eyes as alert as the club’s security.

  I watch other people fawn over him from afar. Taking photos, gushing with their friends, making come hither signals for him to join. I turn to him, wondering if he will.

  Maximoff stays still, his dyed light brown hair thick and unruly.

  I chew my gum, trying not to smile that much while I study him. He did an extreme close shave; his jaw smooth like cut, polished marble, and his scent is always chlorine and citrus.

  Like summer.

  He clicks into his phone, and his brows pinch in firm irritation.

  I slide down onto the cushion beside him and spot the pink Celebrity Crush logo. Closer, I can speak without shouting. “I thought you don’t actively check tabloids.”

  “That was before I busted my knuckles open and had thousands of people threatening to refund their dollar raffle entries.” Now October, the raffle for the Camp-Away went live this week, and the publicity has been uncontrollable. I doubt a fistfight will seriously hurt the hype.

&n
bsp; Because it’s definitely not the first time he’s been caught publicly in one. All to defend his family.

  Sometimes the fights are even nastier. He gets hit. Things get broken. Someone ends up sued, either him or the bodyguard. The fact that we evaded all those scenarios makes it a success.

  The security team critiqued the video footage from the pub, and the only criticism they could scramble together was Quinn’s sudden outburst.

  But I don’t blame him. The first time I heard the shit people said about Lily Calloway—to her face—I almost blew it.

  We’re told all the time about the constant harassment these families receive, but until you meet it head-on, it doesn’t seem real.

  Glancing at the phone, I say, “You’re trying to see how much damage the fight caused?”

  He nods and scrolls through Celebrity Crush.

  I take constant surveillance of his environment and him, splitting my attention between the two. “Even if you have several refunds, more people will enter the raffle.” I try to steal his gaze. “You’re overthinking.”

  “I always overthink. It keeps me…” Color just drains out of his face, eyes plastered to his phone.

  My muscles bind. “Maximoff?” I lean into him, his shoulder taut and firm. Quickly, I skim the screen.

  25 Reasons Why Maximoff Hale Is Like Ryke Meadows!

  He slowly scrolls down to the first bullet point, and I see words: Maximoff Hale fights with his fists first and talks later. Exactly like Ryke! Compare the most recent video of Maximoff losing his cool at a Philly pub with this old video of his Uncle Ryke Meadows outside a diner.

  Maximoff plays the video of his uncle and increases the volume, barely audible in the club.

  Ryke must be no older than twenty-five in the footage. Unshaven, tan from the sun, brooding, tabloids like to call him an aggressive jackass.

  Ryke grabs his helmet off his black Ducati.

  “How’s that Calloway pussy, Ryke Meadows?!” A preppy-dressed man snickers, jumping up on the curb near Ryke.

  “Go fuck yourself,” he growls, hardened to stone and white-knuckling his helmet. He cements to that one spot, zeroed in on the man like a predator to prey. The look in Ryke’s eyes feels the same as the look that was in Moffy’s.