Alphas Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 3) Read online

  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.

  But I notice them more now, and I worry a bit that they’re bothering Farrow. He just lost his fucking privacy, and this is only the beginning.

  He said he’d tell me if the press or fans piss him off, and so far, he hasn’t said anything about it. I trust him, so I’m not going to overanalyze.

  My muscles try to unbind, blood still set to simmer from Douglas Cherrie, the patronizing event organizer that I almost punched.

  I’m not proud of it.

  I shake my head, jaw aching from clenching. “I thought I could reason with him,” I tell Farrow. “Remind him that Luna is only eighteen and she doesn’t want this…” I lift my gaze to meet Farrow’s understanding. “I asked to switch places with her. He said no. I offered to buy Luna back—and Jesus Christ.” I cringe at those words.

  Buy Luna.

  Like my little sister is property.

  “Hey,” Farrow says, drawing me closer, his hand shifting to the back of my head. Camera flashes spotlight us, and we both rotate our backs to block the harsh glare.

  Farrow lowers his voice, and I strain my ears to hear him over the music. “Price is on Luna’s detail for the charity auction,” he says. “It’s a little bit disturbing that a sixty-year-old fucker won the bid for her, but you don’t need to be paranoid. Your dad and mom have been breathing down security’s neck all night, and almost everyone in SFA is watching her.”

  My shoulders just won’t loosen, my neck strained. I’ve been in DEFCON 1, damage control mode for the past hour and a half.

  And by hour and a half, I mean millennium.

  Farrow studies my features. “Shit, you’re so moral.”

  I stretch my arm over my back. “You’re so damn cool. How do I become just like you?” I ask, sarcasm thick.

  He rolls his eyes. “Okay, smartass, it’s a charity auction. Not a prostitution ring.”

  I frown, my jaw locked for a long pause. Until I ask, “How sure are we that it’s not?”

  “Maximoff,” he starts like this is paranoia, but he pauses. Because I’m not in control of this H.M.C. Philanthropies charity auction. I have no details.

  We have no details.

  I signed on because this—right here—was the stipulation Ernest Mangold made, the one task the entire H.M.C. board said I had to complete in order to be reinstated as CEO: a charity auction that they orchestrate. I’m supposed to be told where to go, what to do.

  A follower. Which I’ve never fucking been.

  I finally understood why the H.M.C. Philanthropies board chose this—why they even agreed to vote me out of the company I built and let Ernest take my spot. I’ve always rejected the board’s charity auction proposals where my cousins and siblings were the ones up for bid.

  I would never in a million light-years agree to this unless they had kicked me out and held it over my head like bait.

  Which they did.

  Farrow lets go of my hand, just to clutch my waist. His fingers glide beneath my tee, and my skin electrifies at the touch.

  More confidently, he says, “This is nothing but an innocent, aristocratic, stuck-up gala”—our eyes dive deeper in each other, our mouths closer—“because if it were anything that threatens your body, your life, I’d break the neck of the motherfucker who bids on you.”

  “Pretty sure I’d break a neck first,” I joke.

  Farrow shakes his head, but he looks like he wants to kiss me. I probably, most definitely, look like I want to kiss him.

  But his tattooed fingers suddenly touch his earpiece, his gaze drifting.

  While security speaks to him through comms, I can’t stop thinking about everyone else’s fate at this auction.

  I’m thinking about my sister.

  About Jane my best friend, and then my cousin Beckett and even Charlie. The four who signed-up for this insanity. Sullivan bowed out when she heard the title of the event, too uncomfortable, and Beckett planned to join her—but Charlie, of all people, convinced his twin brother to do the auction.

  I don’t know why.

  No one really does. Charlie wouldn’t say, and we’re still not friends. I have a couple texts from him that aren’t insults, and we haven’t thrown a punch since the FanCon. So there’s that progress. Really, though, I’m glad I know why he hates being around me. Even if it’s painful knowing that who I am hurts Charlie.

  I glance back at the entrance where Omega stands in a row. Through those double doors, Jane is consoling Luna in the lobby. My sister went eerily quiet after an old man won her, which led me on a tirade towards the event organizer.

  I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t change it or make it better for her.

  And I’m trying to be okay with that.

  It’s so damn hard.

  I rub the back of my strained neck, muscles taut.

  Farrow swivels a knob on his radio before he returns his hand to my neck. “Here. Let me.” But he doesn’t massage my muscle.

  Because Bruno approaches.

  Our arms fall off each other. Almost out of habit. We even add a couple inches of distance between us, side-by-side.

  But the Alpha bodyguard can’t be here to reprimand us for touching. We’re allowed to touch publicly now.

  “Farrow,” Bruno says curtly, not acknowledging me as he comes to a stop. He extends a hand to Farrow, but not in a shake. His palm is out flat like he wants something.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Bruno.

  He looks at Farrow as he answers, “Farrow is off-duty tonight. I need his radio and gun.”

  Farrow doesn’t flinch, and he’s already unclipping his radio from his belt. Before I advocate on his behalf, he tells me, “I chose this. It’s okay.”

  My frown darkens. “You chose to go off-duty? In what universe?”

  He winds his earpiece cord around the radio. “The universe where my boyfriend was grabbed.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I lie. “I didn’t get grabbed.” Contesting Farrow is like word vomit at this point.

  He gives me a pointed look while he takes his holstered gun out of his waistband. Discreet. None of the seated guests have a view of his hands.

  Farrow tells me, “That’s cute that you keep pretending I can’t see.” His gaze descends my six-foot-two build in slow, agonizing desire.

  Christ.

  Without tearing his gaze off me, he passes the gun and radio to Bruno. As the Alpha bodyguard steps back, giving me a wide space, Farrow whispers with a teasing smile, “Excited?”

  “Opposite.” I swallow hard.

  “You sound a little choked.”

  I’m dying to be alone with him now, and I dig for the last of my bearings and say, “Fuck you.”

  “I think you mean fuck me,” he says matter-of-factly.

  A growl scratches my lungs, and I eye his lips—the music falls silent. My head turns to the podium on stage beside the string quartet that has stopped performing.

  An auctioneer in an Armani tux adjusts the microphone. “Hello.” His even-tempered voice booms. “And we’re back. I hope you all enjoyed that intermission and the excellent performance from Harmonious Strings.” Soft clapping. “Next up for Win a Night with a Celebrity…”

  All humor dies in my chest as I hear the name of this event again.

  It’s not sexual, the board has told me. As though my brain is hooked on sex—because my mom is a sex addict, maybe. I don’t know. I’m not fucking sure. But I can’t be the only one who thinks a night with someone means a hookup.

  I have a boyfriend.

  I’m the only one up for bid that’s committed to another person. Guilt already gnaws at my insides. But with Ernest as CEO, my family’s wealth i
nside the philanthropy is at risk.

  I’m caught in a moral web between family and love, and I’m wondering how those two missed an intersection and when they started running in opposite directions.

  “What are you thinking?” Farrow whispers while the auctioneer repeats a few technical details about bidding. s

  I stare faraway in thought. “I think this is the part where I’m supposed to choose between my company and the guy I love.” I look right at him. “Real or rumor?” SFO say that a lot, especially when we were on tour.

  Real or rumor.

  His eyes caress mine. “Rumor. This auction is a pseudo-fake thing, wolf scout, and what you and I have is real. Whoever bids on you isn’t a threat to me.” His brows arch. “Bluntly, you’re not cheating on me by going up there, and you can’t walk away from this. It’ll kill you not to try.”

  Yeah.

  But what if trying kills me too?

  “Maximoff Hale,” the auctioneer with slicked hair and spectacles calls me up to the podium, and two-thousand eyes fix on me.

  3

  FARROW KEENE

  As I retrace my path up the aisle, headed towards Omega, Maximoff climbs the few stairs to the stage.

  Stoic, unbending, and undeniably striking, he stands beside the podium like a 15th century sculpture, body and jaw carved from marble. And the affluent crowd is about to bid on the modern, real-life version of Michelangelo’s David.

  He’s mine.

  I don’t love him because he’s a coveted piece of art to the thousands here and the millions outside. I love him because he’s so pure it hurts, so moral it aches, and so strong-willed it kills me not to speak to him, not to be near him, not to look at him or to protect him.

  Velveteen seats squeak, bodies shifting to open purses and reach in pockets for a remote device called a clicker. The auction is electronic, no hand raising or numbers hoisted.

  My boots feel heavier.

  Each step is cumbersome and barbed as I put more distance between me and the stage. Instinct says turn around, don’t leave him.

  Don’t leave him.

  I fight the urge to rotate, race towards the stage, climb up and kiss the fuck out of Maximoff. My jaw tics, and I stuff my hands in the pockets of my slacks.

  I’m not losing him.

  I’m not really leaving him. What I said was true: this isn’t real, but shit, the desertion is a kind of torment I’ve never experienced. It bites at my heels as I walk away and let him do this alone.

  Since I’m not his personal bodyguard at this event, I can’t be a part of the “night” portion of a night with a celebrity. The “night” is planned one week from now. At a location Ernest hasn’t disclosed yet. And I have to trust Bruno to protect Maximoff there.

  Unless I can win him myself.

  I pull a clicker out of my pocket. I already registered my information and bank account, and this is my attempt to prevent bad shit from happening.

  I reach SFO, and no one seems surprised that I went “rogue” and chose my boyfriend over door-duty. It’s not just me being a maverick. If that’d been their own client, they’d be hard-pressed to say they wouldn’t do the same.

  Akara spins his phone in his hand; he’d be tenser if Sulli, his client, were participating in the auction. “I can’t vouch for you anymore with Alpha,” he tells me. “It’s not sticking, and we’re in a spot where Omega has less leeway.”

  I nod. “Okay.” I can’t say I’ll change my actions, but I’d rather Akara not put his neck on the line for me. I can take all the heat.

  Oscar motions me forward, about the same time I slip between Donnelly and him. I face the stage, and my stomach overturns.

  Maximoff is staring off in the distance. Lost in his head. Almost like he’s not here.

  I’m not close enough to wake him up.

  “…the grandson of two Fortune 500 moguls with the billion-dollar companies Fizzle and Hale Co…” The auctioneer pushes up his silver-rimmed glasses and reads a bio to the audience.

  I partially tune him out and whisper to Oscar, “How much do you think he’ll go for?”

  “More than you have, Redford.”

  I roll my eyes, but I would’ve said the same thing. This is a fucking pipe dream, but Luna only went for twelve grand. Jane was forty.

  Oscar bats his eyelashes. “It’s the thought that counts.”

  “Did you come up with that one all on your own, Oliveira?” My curt voice draws his lips down. This shit is actually serious to me, and he notices.

  “How much do you have to spend?” Oscar asks, his strict tone matching mine.

  “Twelve grand.”

  Donnelly smacks a pack of cigarettes on his palm, but he won’t smoke in this venue. “You really sold it?”

  “I had to.” With all the fines I incurred on tour for breaking security rules, my bank account sat idle at three hundred bucks.

  I don’t need to be an Ivy League grad to know Maximoff’s price tag will be much higher than that.

  “Sold what?” Quinn Oliveira asks. The youngest bodyguard sidles over to us, distancing himself from Thatcher Moretti: the six-foot-seven immobile bodyguard who hasn’t budged verbally or physically since we’ve been here.

  A silent Thatcher is my favorite Thatcher. Because when he’s speaking, nine-times-out-of-ten it’s to reprimand me. Since he accepted his demotion, no longer a lead of any force, he scolds me eight-times-out-of-ten now. But he has no real power over me anymore.

  “Farrow sold his bike,” Donnelly answers, sliding an unlit cigarette behind his ear.

  Quinn gestures to me. “Bro, I would’ve bought it. I’ve been looking for one.”

  I keep watch of the stage, Maximoff, the auctioneer, and Omega all at once. “What would you’ve offered for a five-year-old FZ-09?”

  “It’s a Yamaha,” Oscar says to his little brother.

  “I know,” Quinn snaps and rubs his unshaven jaw, frustrated.

  Oscar raises his hands. “Just trying to help.”

  Quinn ignores him and nods to me. “Four grand.”

  “And that’s why I didn’t sell it to you,” I say easily, and then I catch some of the auctioneer’s words.

  “…at nineteen, Maximoff Hale attended Harvard University and swam for their team…”

  I heat, the clicker damp in my palm. I rub my hand on my shirt, then I glance at Oscar, feeling his gaze on me. He’s perceptive and clever, a lethal combination for those who don’t want to be analyzed. But I don’t mind.

  “You can say it,” I tell him.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

  I’ve never cared about someone like this.

  “What’d you sell it for then?” Quinn asks me about my bike.

  “Twelve grand,” I say distantly, hearing voices escalate in the lobby behind the double doors.

  Quinn frowns. “No way it’s worth that much.”

  “It’s not,” I say. “The guy was an idiot.”

  Truthfully, I put the ad on Craigslist and mentioned how the motorcycle belonged to “Maximoff Hale’s boyfriend” and a middle-aged man bit the bait. He said he had no plans to ride it, and after he made an offhanded joke about a CVS deal on lotion, I wasn’t going to ask.

  Oscar watches the stage, then me. “Should’ve just sold the boyfriend’s motorcycle. He’s more popular than you.” Oscar knows that fame is why I got more for less.

  “I’m not selling my boyfriend’s Kawasaki to win him,” I say. “Also, his bike is a piece of shit.” The brand is great, but he’s had his Z1000 since he was sixteen and crashed multiple times, as aggressive on a bike as he is in a car. I tried riding the motorcycle, and it had almost no torque.

  Oscar opens a snack-sized bag of Lays. “Fans don’t care if his bike is a piece of shit or a plastic vehicle in Barbie’s dream house.”

  Donnelly digs in the chips. “You know Akara’s bike would’ve sold for more.”

  Oscar slaps Donnelly’s hand away.
“This is snack-sized. For one person. Me. Get your own.”

  Donnelly gives him a middle finger.

  Akara hears his name, vaguely listening to our conversation. “I’m never selling my bike, guys.” He has a CBR1000RR sportbike that he wrecked, but he cashed in a favor with Banks, the most skilled mechanic on the team. Thatcher’s twin brother worked on the Honda, removed the fairings, fixed the engine, and turned the bike into a street fighter.

  It’s beautiful and worth more than what Akara paid for it.

  “…at twenty-one, Maximoff Hale was honored with the World’s Philanthropy of the Year Award for founding one of the most profitable charities…”

  The noise behind the door grows louder, footsteps pounding, and we all shift before the door creaks open and a head pops out. I see a tight bun, Botoxed forehead, and an ankle-length dress, no…I don’t recognize this woman.

  But her beady gray eyes land on me.

  “Mr. Keene,” she whispers. “Come here, please.” She gestures towards the lobby.

  I’m not leaving. “What is it?” I ask.

  She glances nervously at the few heads we turn from the audience. Whispering, she says, “I’ve been informed that you are no longer serving as security tonight. I can’t let you in the orchestra hall without paying the entrance fee. I’m sorry.”

  I run my hand over my strong jaw. Someone on the security team had to have “informed” the event staff. My narrowed eyes drift to Thatcher, but he’s still staring unflinchingly ahead.

  Focus.

  I act quickly and whisper to the woman, “I can pay afterwards.”

  “You can’t. I’m sorry. If you’d step into the lobby, we can get your entrance fee squared away and you’ll be able to return.”

  I may not make the start of the bidding, and I make a split-second decision. I raise the clicker between Donnelly and Oscar. “Which one of you fuckers wants it?” I’m trusting them to bid for me if I’m not back in time.

  Oscar licks his salty thumb from his chips. “Can’t choose between us, Redford?”

  I’d like to make that choice, but I met them both nearly at the same time in my life. I was just eighteen, and ten years later, we’re all still here. I can’t say who needs each other more or less. We’ve all just been there in rough terrain, and that’s why I can’t choose right away.