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.
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.
The man snickers. “If you don’t tell me how Calloway pussy tastes, then I’ll just find out myself. Starting with the youngest one—”
Ryke lunges and swings—
Maximoff abruptly clicks off his phone. The screen blinks to black. Taking a huge breath, he asks me, “Did that video remind you of me?” He stares me dead in the eye. Building defenses against my upcoming response.