Alphas Like Us Page 3

  Not now.

  Possibly not ever.

  “I cut my leg,” he suddenly says, but the words come out slowly like thick tar on his tongue.

  I eye his jeans while his rigid stance hardly shifts. “Where?”

  “My thigh.”

  “That’s a problem,” I say easily. “Your femoral artery—”

  “I would’ve bled out hours ago if I cut my femoral artery. I’m okay.”

  I try not to smile because it’ll just agitate him. “Web M.D. says you’re okay, but I haven’t yet.” I squat and unzip my trauma bag. “I still need to see the wound. What’d you cut yourself on?”

  Maximoff stops protesting, and he unbuttons his jeans. “I don’t know.”

  I frown and open the packaging on a pair of gloves. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I was off-campus last night with some guys on the swim team. It was dark.” He steps out of his jeans. Bandage is wrapped around his muscular thigh, gauze thick beneath. He dressed his wound perfectly.

  Maximoff notices me staring, and he starts smiling. “Better than you would’ve done, huh?”

  I snap on one medical glove. “I’m still better than you at everything, wolf scout. Don’t get excited.”

  “Excited around you? Yeah, I’m never even close.”

  I didn’t mean it sexually, but here we are.

  I look up, just as he looks down, and he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Shit, our banter hasn’t exactly taken this route before.

  Since I’m older and wiser, I decide to eliminate the strange tension with “professionalism” and I ask, “Did you clean the wound?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take a seat on your desk chair.” I stand and slide my trauma bag closer with my foot, just as he sits like a fucking board. His gaze plasters to my movements. I lean over his chest, the smell of chlorine rushing towards me, and with my ungloved hand, I grab his Fundamentals of Philosophy textbook.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, hating to be in the dark. Clearly.

  I put the textbook in his palms. “Read, take notes, study. Don’t watch me.”

  “Farrow—”

  “Trust me, wolf scout.” I crouch, snap on my other glove, and start undressing his bandage that edges close to his gray boxer-briefs. I pause not even one-fifth through when I catch him staring and overthinking. “You don’t need to overanalyze what I’m doing, Moffy. Just focus on your own shit.”

  He glares. “My leg is my own shit, thanks for asking.”

  I roll my eyes into a smile. “You’re welcome.” I continue unwrapping the bandage while his gaze is attached to mine. Trust me, trust me, I try to emote until he finally gives in and reads his text with a frustrated breath.

  I concentrate on his wound, blood seeps through—fuck. I unwrap faster. “You bandaged your thigh without stopping the bleeding first?”

  He glances down. “It was stopped.”

  I reach for my suture kit. “When’d you cut it?”

  He shuts his book and thinks. “Uh…” Maximoff pinches his eyes. “Three, four in the morning. I was out—”

  “With your swim teammates, I heard that part.” I kneel on one knee for a better angle. Blood completely soaks the gauze, and I try to gently pull it off the cut.

  He winces and grips the edge of the desk. “Fuck.”

  “Sorry.” I discard the gauze in a plastic bag and squeeze his cut closed with my fingers. A couple inches higher and that would’ve sliced through his artery. “You were lucky.”

  “I know.” He rubs sweat off his forehead with his arm. “I wasn’t drunk last night, if that’s what you think.”

  “That’s not what I’m thinking.” I pull out more supplies. “You’ve been bleeding out consistently since early this—what’s your pain level from one to ten?” I cut myself off and ask since he’s sweating and gritting his teeth.

  His nose flares, wincing. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t take a painkiller.”

  “It does matter.” I planned to disinfect the wound first, then administer a shot of lidocaine, then suture, but I change the order and hurriedly unpackage a syringe and needle.

  He white-knuckles the desk, the room deadens while I work and he concentrates on breathing. I give him a shot of lidocaine to numb the wound. Then I wipe the area with an antiseptic and irrigate with saline.

  In less than two minutes, I’m done with both, and I start suturing the deep cut. I break the quiet first. “When was your last tetanus shot?”

  “I was eight.” Too long ago.

  I look up. “You sure?” I really don’t want to open his medical records, and I need him to be sure.

  “Pretty positive.”

  I trust him enough. “I’ll give you a tetanus shot before I leave.” I pierce his skin with the needle and weave the stitch.

  Maximoff clears a ball in his throat. After I finish the sutures, I redress the wound with clean gauze and bandage. He slides forward on the chair.

  “I can do that,” he says and reaches for the gauze.

  I put a hand to his chest, my gloves new. “Just relax.”

  He lets out a short laugh. “Right.” He cracks a crick in his neck and stares faraway again. Where’d you go, Moffy?

  I watch him for a second, then wrap the bandage. “No swimming until the stitches are out—”

  “What?” His voice spikes, eyes snapped towards me.

  That woke him up. “You can’t swim in a chlorine pool with this kind of cut.”

  Maximoff breathes out a weighted breath, and he keeps shaking his head. His eyes strangely carry a mountain of emotion and then no emotion at all. Like he’s fighting to show me something and then nothing. “I’m on the Harvard swim team.”

  I expect him to say I need to swim, but he stops there.

  He opens his mouth, then shuts it, conflicted.

  I raise my brows. “Sad?” I ask.

  “No.” He shakes his head repeatedly. “You know…” He licks his lips. “Last night, one of my new teammates shoved me in a pile of trash. There was metal and…” He was cut. He looks away, then his tough eyes meet mine head-on. “They don’t want me here.”

  “Do you want to be here?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer. His face is blank.

  I crave to hold his gaze longer, but I force myself to look down. And I tape his bandage. “You should’ve gone to Yale. Everything is better there: the people, the dorms, the alumni.”

  He feigns confusion. “Really? I heard they churn out white-haired know-it-alls with pretentious lineages and asshole tendencies.”

  “Asshole tendencies,” I repeat with a laugh. “I think you mean heroic tendencies.”

  “I tell you I got pushed into fucking metal, and you take that moment to tell me Yale is better than Harvard.”

  Yeah, I’m an asshole. My smile stretches as I stand up, snapping off my gloves. “It’s still accurate.”

  His gaze lingers on me for a long beat. “Maybe,” Maximoff admits.

  It’s hard not to stare at him.

  I clean up, and I don’t let him help, even when he asks. He’s still a little weak.

  “Why are you here anyway?” he asks after I give him a tetanus shot in the deltoid. “I know your father is with my Uncle Ryke, but I thought Trip would be here instead.” I’m known to tag along to calls, not pick them up on my own like I’m in-line to be a concierge doctor.

  I pack up the suture kit, and I toss him a bandage for the small spot of blood. He’s been dying to do something himself, and he can at least stick a Band-Aid on his shoulder. “My uncle is with my father,” I tell him. “They needed extra hands. This is a one-time thing.”

  Maximoff thinks hard.

  I’m going to be a bodyguard, wolf scout.

  The truth weighs inside of me, and as I get ready to leave, I recognize how much is about to be left unsaid.

  1

  FARROW KEENE

  PRESENT DAY

  “He’s going to throw a
punch,” Oscar Oliveira says, observing my hot-blooded, twenty-two-year-old boyfriend.

  I watch the same scene from the same vantage point as Oscar.

  All six of us in Security Force Omega “guard” the double-door entrance of the Philadelphia Orchestra Hall. Two thousand of the richest fuckers I’ve ever seen fill scarlet velveteen seats. The main level and balcony tiers are packed tight, and a string quartet plays a classical piece on stage, ruby curtains drawn open.

  Tucked up against the left-side emergency exit, my boyfriend looks ready to combust.

  Maximoff speaks hushed, but his brows furrow and he gesticulates madly. Inching closer and closer to the uppity suit-and-tie organizer of tonight’s “unprecedented” event.

  I slowly chew my gum, arms loosely crossed. But I hardly blink. I watch.

  And the forty-something organizer with Gucci shoes and glaringly white teeth visibly steps towards Maximoff.

  In an affront.

  My arms drop, instinct about to propel me down the left aisle—

  “Farrow.” My name is spoken in a warning.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Akara Kitsuwon, the Omega lead.

  “Farrow,” he repeats, his friendly expression now strict. Reminding me not to leave my position. His tailor-fit black Hugo Boss suit is identical to all of security.

  Not exactly my style. I shrugged off the required suit jacket an hour ago. What remains: a black button-down tucked in black slacks. I run my thumb over my silver lip piercing and eye my boyfriend.

  I can’t fall back in line yet.

  Maximoff grows more incensed, his eyes flamed and body bowed forward with fervor. Like if he tries hard enough, he can mold the lopsided world upright.

  I want to be beside him. To ease him back, to hold him. Cool him off. Even if his fuse has been justifiably cut short tonight.

  Never did I think we’d end up here, just two weeks after I detained Maximoff’s stalker, who turned out to be Jane’s friends-with-benefits. I comb a hand through my dyed black hair, and I restrain myself from rushing to him.

  See, I’m still the 24/7 bodyguard to Maximoff Hale, but I’m not supposed to protect him at this specific event.

  Security rules.

  And we all know how I feel about rules.

  Behind me, the double door cracks open, and six heads turn. Mine included.

  Oscar grasps the handle, widening the door for…a server in a tux. He balances a tray of champagne and descends the aisle.

  Oscar lets his annoyance cross his face as he lets go of the handle, the heavy door closing itself. “It’s official,” he says.

  I pop a bubble and tilt my head to the oldest Omega bodyguard, and also, one of my longest friends. “You’ve been demoted to a doorman,” I finish his thought.

  “Not just me, Redford.”

  “Technically, you’re the only one holding the door,” I say, half-interested because in my peripheral, I watch Maximoff shake his head repeatedly at the organizer and force out the word no.

  Adrenaline pours through my veins, goading me to go to him.

  “No one’s a doorman,” Akara says as he texts on his phone. “We’re guarding the entrance.” He pockets his cell, subtly reminding us of the stipulation we all agreed to.

  Security Force Omega gained a decent amount of public fame after the Hot Santa video leak back in January. Tumblr pages are dedicated to Oscar’s little brother alone, and some fans will ask for our autographs when we’re on-duty with our clients.

  To keep our jobs in security, we all agreed to a big change: no working large scale events.

  Now it’s the middle of May, and Alpha is attached to our respective clients tonight. Protecting them. And we’re here doing a job that temp security could easily do.

  I lean back casually on my heels and spit my gum in a trash bin.

  Akara glances down the line of us, from Thatcher to Quinn to Donnelly, me, and Oscar. “Any of you want off-duty? Because you’re all free to leave at any time.”

  No one moves a muscle.

  The fee inside this event costs two grand. Out of our price range, and we all want inside to keep an eye on our clients from afar. Even if it means being regulated to securing the entrance.

  By the way, that entry fee is one that Maximoff would never set. This is an event that Maximoff isn’t even running. One that he’d never construct in a lifetime.

  One that has been unequivocally contentious from the start.

  I study the escalating argument between Maximoff and the organizer. The middle-aged man seethes, his face beet-red, and he sneers a response through gritted teeth, slicing the air with his arm at Maximoff.

  As though to say no.

  And then he clutches Maximoff’s shoulder—that’s enough. I leave my position and head down the red-carpeted left aisle.

  Several rows of wealthy pricks had been snapping photographs of Maximoff instead of the string quartet, and their lenses start to swerve towards me.

  “Price to Farrow.” The Alpha lead’s voice blares through my earpiece. “Return to your position at the entrance.”

  Maximoff’s muscles flex. He places a palm on the organizer’s chest to keep the man at arm’s length, but they’re both speaking over each other. Violinists drown out their verbal fight.

  I never reach for my mic to reply.

  “Price to Farrow,” Price repeats. “Maximoff has a bodyguard on his detail tonight and it’s not you. Return to your position.”

  I’ve seen the SFA bodyguard hovering ten feet from Maximoff.

  I even know that bodyguard. Bruno Bandoni is a fifty-two-year-old silent type with the stature of a heavyweight champion. Bald and bearded. I used to work alongside him in Alpha, only because he’s the 24/7 bodyguard to Loren Hale.

  I don’t hate Bruno, but he’s one of the more regimented men and he’s not fond of me. Tonight, that’s definitely not changing.

  “Akara to Price.” Akara speaks through comms. I’m too far away now to hear the Omega lead without my radio. “Let Farrow check on Maximoff. He’ll only take a minute.”

  The event organizer hoists a threatening finger at Maximoff, one angered motion from grabbing his face.

  Motherfucker.

  “Omega isn’t making these calls at this event,” Price says through comms while my stride lengthens. “Alpha is in charge, and Farrow, if you reach Maximoff, then you’re officially off-duty tonight. You can stay here as security or as the boyfriend to Maximoff Hale. Choose—”

  The forty-year-old’s freckled hand clutches Maximoff’s sharpened jaw, and I’m close enough to hear the man spit, “Listen.”

  Instinct rams me, and I sprint the last two feet, wedging my body between them—just as Maximoff tears the unwanted hand off his face and then swings. I catch his fist in my palm and walk him backwards.

  Come on, wolf scout.

  Bruno yanks the organizer back by the collar, every movement a snap-second. Shorter than a breath.

  Maximoff fumes, chest rising and falling heavily, and his red-hot fury still drills into the organizer behind me.

  I open his fist that I caught and clutch his hand with my hand. Squeezing.

  Maximoff blinks, his attention almost, almost mine.

  Our chests press together, his gray Camp Calloway shirt, green jeans, and Timberland boots unlike the suits and tuxes in the orchestra hall. It’s his way of gaining a modicum of control during an event that’s completely out of his hands.

  With my other grip on his shoulder, I walk forward, forcing him to keep walking backwards down the aisle. Nearing the stage. “Look at me,” I say, my voice husky. “Wolf scout.”

  His chest falls, muscles still flexed.

  My pulse thumps.

  I skim his striking but also tensed face, and my hand slides across his broad shoulder and rises slowly up his neck. I hold his jaw; I tighten his hand in my hand, and my lips veer to his ear. “Maximoff Hale, will you marry me?”

  He flinches, eyes widening and brows
knotting with a thousand questions, and even more philosophical queries.

  2

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  I overthink.

  About every fucking thing. You know that. But in this second, I let out the first thing in my head. “What?” I ask, too edged.

  Farrow stands an inch taller, black hair pushed back, his know-it-all smile stretching to gorgeous drop-to-your-damn-knees levels. “Take a breath, wolf scout.”

  Am I holding my breath like I’ve just plunged into the deep-end of a freezing pool?

  Maybe.

  Probably.

  Alright, definitely. I can’t even think about the idea of marriage, not here; it’s something I haven’t discussed with anyone but Jane—wait…

  Farrow raises his brows at me, near laughter.

  I start nodding, knowing before Farrow says, “Man, I’m fucking with you.” He needed to catch my attention. I won’t admit out loud that it worked, but it fucking worked.

  I try to force a grimace. “Thanks for that, asshole.”

  Farrow whistles. His grin has to be hurting his face. “He calls it like he sees it.” He holds my jaw, his tattooed hand warm but silver rings cold.

  The moment quiets.

  Our eyes roam one another, and I breathe and breathe, the pent-up rage trying to deplete with his relaxed presence pushed up against my rigid body.

  He hangs his arm over my shoulder, all cool confidence, his fingers skimming the back of my neck before disappearing in my hair.

  I inhale a deeper breath. I’ve let another captain inside my ship, and everyone—the security team, We Are Calloway production crew, my family, the world, you—knows it.

  Right now I’m aware that we’re in an orchestra hall, so close to the stage that the classical music overpowers our voices from eavesdroppers.

  But Farrow and I are standing in direct view of two-thousand sets of curious eyes.

  Our relationship has been public for about two weeks, and this—touching my twenty-eight-year-old boyfriend with a crowd in sight—still gets to me. Most of the time in a good way, other times…I find myself watching the people watch me, something I almost never do. Cameras have always been scenery to my colossally strange life.