Damaged Like Us (Like Us Series Book 1) Read online

  “I don’t have one,” she says. “They’re infuriating, and if I lose my phone, I’ll wipe the data clean immediately. Plus, I have nothing incriminating. I delete all my texts, and I upload most of my photos and videos to Instagram already. There’s nothing anyone can steal.”

  Maximoff smiles, proud of his friend.

  Her preparation reminds me of something the security team says about Jane. That she acts carefree, but her whole life is outlined and planned to her liking, and she juggles just as much, if not more, than Maximoff Hale.

  While I find the video, I tell Jane, “Lightly rub his shoulder blades, and you won’t hurt him.”

  Maximoff grips the back of the loveseat harder, and he licks his lips again. I find myself watching him, and as I near the armrest, closest to his chest, he’s more eye-level with my belt.

  Maximoff stares off into space. Where’d you go, Moffy? I wave my hand at him, but he’s lost in his head.

  “Farrow.” Jane’s blue eyes twinkle. “How many massages have you given before? And why?”

  Alpha also calls her Jane “Curiosity Killed the Cat” Cobalt.

  I scroll through her YouTube “recently watched” feed. “Too many, and look up the main purpose of a massage and you have your answer.” I discover the video and whistle. “How To Give An Amazing, Super, Fantastic Massage.” I press play and find a blurry image of two high school girls. “No.” I shut if off. “Let me show you.”

  Maximoff wakes up, glaring at me. “No.”

  “Welcome back, space cadet.”

  He flips me off and repeats harshly, “No.”

  Jane shakes out her arms, tired already.

  “You have to use your whole body,” I tell her, and to him, I say, “Let me demonstrate so she can copy me.” I’d love to give him a massage for more reasons than just to help Jane.

  Maximoff gestures to my chest. “You don’t know how to give a massage.”

  “And you really missed the part where I just said I’ve given massages before.” I place Jane’s phone on the coffee table. “I know how to do a lot of things better than average. I’m good with my hands.”

  “Great.” He’s being more headstrong over something I thought he’d forfeit for Jane. I hone in on his stiff posture and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

  “Maybe Farrow is right,” Jane says, “maybe I could use a real live demonstration.”

  “Maybe Farrow is full of shit,” Moffy replies.

  “Maybe Maximoff is scared of getting a massage from me,” I refute.

  “You’re wrong.” He stands, facing me with as much self-confidence as Atlas bracing the world. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. “So what now?” He’s agreeing to a massage.

  I use my boot and push the coffee table away from the couch. Then I throw a pillow onto the ground. “Lie down, wolf scout. Let me change your world.”

  8

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  I’M SO FUCKED.

  I breathe through my nose. Suppressing whatever tries to heat my veins and disorient my head. Lust? Irritation? Infatuation?

  I stare him directly in the eye. Unabashed, but I keep thinking, never in my goddamn life have I wanted to accept an order like that one as badly as I do now.

  I’m highly aware that I’ve always been drawn to alpha males. The kind of men who want to top me as much as I want to top them. I get my way almost every time, but just toying with the vulnerability of being with someone just as strong, just as dominant, lights me up to the fucking max.

  Imagining that person while I stand here, right now, I realize that Farrow Redford Keene is the penultimate match.

  He’s your bodyguard. Thank you, moral conscience. It’s why I refuse to let my gaze slip down to his mouth or his six-foot-three build. I don’t even let him read my reaction for long.

  I retie my loose drawstring pants. And then I kneel on the rug before lying on my stomach. A position I rarely find myself in.

  I prop myself on my elbows. And crane my neck over my shoulder. Keeping a narrowed eye on Farrow. He removes his silver rings. One-by-one.

  Christ. His fingers—those fingers are going to be on me. The back of my neck is boiling hot.

  His brown eyes travel languidly along my back muscles—ones that showcase my diehard love of swimming. And proficiency in the butterfly stroke.

  After he pockets his rings, Janie hands him a bottle of oil. “A dreadfully bad idea or good one to film this for reference material?”

  “Bad,” I say, for no other reason but this one, “if it leaks somehow, people will start asking who’s my amateur masseuse.”

  Farrow rolls his eyes at the word amateur, but he also agrees, “Don’t record.”

  We both know people would fixate on Farrow in this hypothetical video recording. Because he’s a.) fully-tattooed, b.) the kind of attractive that makes you crave a “happy ending” and c.) his hands would be on me.

  It’d make him famous.

  Famous people can’t protect famous people. Or else I’d be the bodyguard to my own siblings. And once a bodyguard needs a bodyguard to protect themselves, they’re worthless to security.

  Farrow would lose his job.

  Jane lounges on the loveseat. “I’ll watch attentively then and take mental notes.” Lady Macbeth, an old black cat, springs onto her lap and collapses, purring. Janie kisses the cat’s fur and scratches behind her ears.

  That damn cat better not distract Jane. I’m not about to repeat this massage.

  “Cela n’arrivera pas deux fois,” I tell her. It will not happen twice.

  She strokes Lady Macbeth, her bright blue eyes on me knowingly. “Je regarde. Profite du massage, Moffy.” I’m watching. Enjoy the massage, Moffy.

  I stay propped on my forearms and glance over my shoulder again. Standing, Farrow oils his palms, so damn confident. His smile stretches at the sight of me watching, his bottom lip piercing too hot.

  Everything about Farrow is lightning cracking the night sky.

  He lowers.

  Fuck—here we go.

  He rests his knee beside my waist, and the sole of his boot is on my other side. Straddling me without touching me. Not yet, at least.

  “All the way down, Maximoff,” he says in that deep, gravel voice. “Arms flat by your sides.”

  My pulse pounds in my neck. I tensely extend my arms by my waist. Which forces me to look away from Farrow. I’d rather hide my face, so I put my forehead on the decorative pillow. Concealed, but also staring at nothing.

  “Don’t kill me,” I snap.

  He leans forward, his lips near my ear. “Hurting you is the antithesis of my job description.”

  Right.

  “Trust me,” he breathes. “Relax.” The silky part of his voice soothes me from head-to-toe like stepping into a steaming sauna.

  Fuck.

  Me.

  My normally bound shoulders want to unlock, and I force my arms to stay still and not bring them to the pillow. My whole back is exposed. And only the gray fabric of my drawstring pants lies between Farrow and my bare ass.

  I’m not wearing any boxer-briefs.

  He can probably tell.

  I shut my eyes. Breathing stronger. The anticipation killing me.

  And then his warmed, oiled hands start at my tailbone. Holy shit. Using the weight of his body to dig deep, he runs his thumbs and palms up the length of my back. Reaching the base of my neck and kneading circles around my broad shoulders.

  A sharp breath catches in the pit of my throat. Holyshitholyshit.

  His fingers and hands create hypnotic movements up and down my back, shoulders, and even my biceps and forearms. Every time he anchors his weight to knead and rub my body, I imagine his pelvis near my ass—I grit down.

  Tighten my eyes shut more. I can’t get hard.

  “Relax,” he breathes, his thumbs running up the back of my neck. That feels too fucking good.

  He leans nearer to my body as his large hands travel down my
build and then veer to my waist. Teasing against the band of my drawstring pants.

  Don’t fantasize.

  Don’t fantasize.

  I breathe through my nose again. If I rotate and sit up—would we kiss? Stop thinking. When he leans closer again, I picture his lips beside my jaw. Nipping my ear before sucking, then I turn and we—no.

  Yes.

  Hell yes.

  I’m still lying on the ground. He’s still massaging my tight shoulders that refuse to unwind. His lips do brush my ear, and he actually, realistically whispers, “Let go.”

  I can’t.

  The moment I let go, I’ll cross a line that can’t be crossed.

  He kneads my traps harder, deeper, almost bringing me somewhere I can’t ignore. To a state of euphoria. My eyes open but nearly roll back, my mouth slightly agape. Fucking…

  I grab his wrist.

  Suddenly. Instinctively. And he freezes, his palms on my lower back. Without releasing him, I use my other arm to prop my body. My chest rises in a heavy, ragged breath.

  I glance at him.

  Farrow breathes just as heavily, his eyes searching mine for reasons as to why I stopped him. I imagine shifting his hand lower. To my waistband. Beneath the fabric.

  Do it.

  I blink once—remembering that Jane is here. And then I think: that shouldn’t be the only reason why I stop.

  He’s my fucking bodyguard.

  I let go of his wrist.

  The old loveseat squeaks as Jane sits up. “I can leave you two alone if you’d like—”

  “No,” I say firmly and stare hard at Farrow, waiting for him to reject that offer with me.

  Farrow sweeps my body with a heady gaze, practically saying, I would’ve said yes. And then he stands up off of me.

  I have no real time to think.

  My phone rings on the coffee table. An incoming call. Not a text. I quickly stand and grab my phone. I see the caller ID: my little sister, and I become laser-eyed.

  Colossally focused.

  I concentrate on the here and now. Everything else behind me.

  I put the phone to my ear. “Luna?” Strange breathing filters through the speaker. I frown. “Luna?”

  Farrow stares faraway like someone is speaking into his earpiece. He walks towards the front door. Jane springs to her feet and checks her cell for any texts or information.

  “Luna, answer me.” My cheekbones sharpen. I listen fixatedly, my grip tightened on the phone. She’s never done this before, but she’s also an oddball.

  You know Luna Hale as the seventeen-year-old alien devotee who posts inarticulate ramblings on Twitter and believes UFOs are real. You rudely nicknamed her Secondhand Embarrassment. Some of you even call her “drunk” when she’s 100% sober, and you question the sanity of anyone who’d date her.

  I know her as my little sister. A girl who stays true to herself amid constant ridicule. Someone I admire and love unconditionally.

  Fair warning: I’ll kill you if you so much as breathe on her wrong. Simple as that.

  Over the phone, Luna sighs so softly. I almost miss the sound.

  “Talk to me, sis—” The call drops. What the fuck is going on? I turn to Janie. “Did you text your brothers?” Luna’s best friends are two of Jane’s younger brothers.

  “Oui.” Janie texts rapidly. “Eliot and Tom keep sending me devil emojis.”

  I shake my head, pissed. There are five Cobalt boys, and my little sister had to befriend the two that lit Jane’s dollhouse on fire and laughed while it burned. They were ten years old back then, but at eighteen and seventeen, they still dance in chaos.

  By the door, Farrow speaks into his mic. “Garage is full. You need to drop her off or park on the street. I can meet her at the car.” Farrow gestures me over, but I’m already approaching him.

  My phone vibrates.

  A text.

  I’m on my way to you. Can’t talk :( -- Luna

  “Luna’s on her way here,” I tell Janie, who continues to text, and I stop only a foot from Farrow. “What do you know?”

  He clicks his mic and says to the security team, “Okay.” His gaze clasps mine as he tells me, “Luna asked her bodyguard to drive her here. She also requested that he remain inside his vehicle, which means—”

  “She doesn’t want him to overhear her,” I finish, nodding to myself.

  Janie collects the rest of the facts. “She must be hiding something from her parents, and she’s afraid her bodyguard will tattle.” He would. She’s underage.

  It’s not the first time my siblings have come to me. When they fuck-up, my reaction is the lukewarm version of our over-protective dad. They say I go three-fourths Loren Hale. Sometimes I think they test their wrongdoings out on me just to build the courage to confront him.

  Farrow looks at the outdoor security cams on his phone. When he catches me staring, I expect him to turn his back.

  Instead, he clasps my wrist and draws me to his side. Our shoulders almost touch. “This is the street view,” he says.

  The screen shows a few paparazzi loitering on the sidewalk.

  Farrow explains, “When Luna’s car reaches the curb, I’m going to open her car door and escort her into the house.”

  I cross my arms and nod. I want to be the one to lead my sister safely inside my house, but I’d make the situation worse.

  With paparazzi constantly camped out, exiting my front door is like purposefully stomping on an anthill. Considering I’m deathly allergic to fire ants, that’s not something I’d do. I typically just leave in a car. Right through the garage.

  Jane pulls the coffee table to its original place. “Luna can spend the night. I’ll make the bed in the guest room. We can even watch her favorite movie.” Janie tosses the decorative pillow on the loveseat. “I haven’t seen Guardians of the Galaxy in ages.”

  “Yeah,” I say dryly, “how about we postpone baking my sister cookies and rolling out a fucking red carpet until we know what happened? She could’ve flunked twelfth grade for all we know.” Last week, she had detention for vaping in the girl’s bathroom. She’s been apathetic towards school since the bullying started in kindergarten.

  I wish I’d been in her grade.

  So I could’ve been there more than I was. I could’ve stopped the harassment. Somehow. But I’m five years older. By the time she hit freshman year, I was gone.

  Farrow clicks into another security camera.

  Jane nears us, her features soft and empathetic. She reaches out for my hand.

  I keep my arms crossed.

  “Moffy,” she says tentatively. “I know you’d rather believe Luna screwed up somehow because the alternative is painful, but you need to consider the other possibility.”

  That something bad could’ve happened to my sister. And she’s coming to me for help.

  I lock all my emotion in an iron-tight trunk. Nothing crosses my face. “I’m aware.”

  Farrow scrutinizes me for a quick second, and then he hands me his phone. “I’ll be right back.” He slips out the front door, kicks it closed, and nearly the exact moment a black Escalade pulls onto the curb.

  Declan would’ve never given me his phone. I realize that I can watch my sister from Farrow’s cell. He knew I’d want to be outside with him, but to actually keep Luna safe—from media attention, from rabid paparazzi—this is as close as I can get.

  And he gave me a better view than any bodyguard ever has.

  9

  FARROW KEENE

  STREET LAMPS and rapid camera flashes illuminate the idling black Escalade. I tune out the security team in my right ear, and I easily walk through the frenzied paparazzi.

  About five men swarm the car, pressing their lenses to the tinted windows. Others pace back and forth on the sidewalk and call their colleagues hurriedly.

  “Get here now!”

  “We think it’s a Hale kid, hopefully Xander.”

  Two men crowd the rear door, and I storm ahead. My threatening stride
and appearance is like a gunshot. They stumble backwards, and I grip the handle to the Escalade. I mime opening the car door to rid the over-zealous idiots.

  One man rushes up and knocks into my hard back. I shoot him a brief, scathing glare.

  Brief, because they don’t need to think I care about them. Some paparazzi want a fight for footage or insurance payout (I hurt them, they sue), and then most hecklers want a fight for fame or because they’re morons. And my job is to avoid confrontations.

  Not start them.

  When I really open the door, I fit my body in the free space. Not letting the cameramen see Luna yet.

  I’m not surprised by what I find. A gangly seventeen-year-old girl is sprawled on the leather seat like a starfish. And she’s dressed in a full-body Spider-Man costume. Mask and all.

  It’s an easy ploy so people avoid snagging a money-shot.

  She looks at me upside-down.

  I won’t smile during pandemonium, but Luna always manages to make life interesting. Out of all the Hale kids, I’d say I’m closest to her. For my twenty-fifth birthday, she wrote me an Avengers fanfic where Bucky Barnes and Captain America weren’t merely just friends. It was entertaining as shit.

  “Luna, you ready to go?” I ask.

  The driver rotates. It’s her three-hundred-pound bodyguard who’s been blowing my eardrum out for the past ten minutes. I’m not close to anyone on Epsilon since the SFE lead calls me a “liability” when really, he could audition for the role of hall monitor.

  Thankfully her bodyguard isn’t the lead of Epsilon. I dodged that headache.

  “She won’t talk,” he snaps at me.

  “She doesn’t need to talk to climb out of a car.” I extend my hand. She grabs hold, sitting up and sliding across the seat.

  Paparazzi scream, “WHO IS IT?! WHO’S IN THE CAR?! IS THAT YOU, XANDER?!”

  As soon as she drops onto the cement and lets go of my hand, I slam the door shut. I push ahead to clear a path, and I make sure she stays right behind me.

  I keep an eye in front and constantly glance back at Luna. She’s not one of the kids who fear the paparazzi. She seems fine, but with her Spider-Man costume hiding her face, it’s hard to tell why she’s here and what happened.