“Damn, look how good he was,” Quinn adds.
“Our kid is all grown up,” Oscar says, choked up. “Shit.”
Maximoff has widened eyes, a bit stunned at all of their reactions.
“You didn’t realize,” I say, “your achievements are basically ours.” Our lives are dedicated to these families, and when they succeed, there will always be a part of us that feels like we succeeded too.
He accelerates again. “Since you’re not on a Cobalt’s detail, what’s your equivalent of this moment?”
I think for a short second. “The time when Luna learned to drive a car.”
Maximoff nods in realization. “My mom taught my sister, so that means…”
“I was in the car, too.” I notice the blue sedan the same time as Maximoff. He tenses, and we’re silent. I turn off the radio so he can concentrate.
The sedan flanks our left side, and two white SUVs are on our right, one on the bumper. Maximoff is a rigid board. Constantly eyeing his rearview mirror.
“Did you know,” he says, “that my dad banned me from teaching Luna how to drive?”
“Yeah, and I agreed. Case in point.” I stretch towards him and read the speedometer. “One-hundred-and-ten.” I hang onto his seat and lay on his horn.
The sedan eases back, but the SUVs only squeeze closer.
“You should get off 95 now.”
He tries to veer towards an exit, but paparazzi purposefully trap him. “Sit back, Farrow.”
Not even a second later, all of the SUVs and sedans and every paparazzi vehicle disperses in a mad dash. Abruptly freeing us.
“Fuck,” he growls, knowing the cause.
Blue and red lights flicker in our rear. We’re being pulled over by police.
21
MAXIMOFF HALE
When I finish a hearing at the local courthouse, I slip on a pair of Ray Bans out of necessity. Farrow is already wearing dark aviators, and in unison, side-by-side, we push through the double doors.
Camera flashes blast in quick succession.
Reporters from prime-time news stations bounce near me. Microphones at the ready. Their questions ringing shrilly in my ears. Farrow extends his arm and bars the reporters from getting in my face.
I move forward.
No hesitating. No lingering. No wallowing or complaining. What’s done is fucking done, and it’s not the first time I pled my case to the court. Not the first time I said, “I take responsibility for speeding, but what’s being done about the paparazzi?” They’re rarely fined.
The court always replies, “Regardless of the paparazzi, you have the means to pay for a personal driver. There’s no excuse for endangering the lives of other people.”
I get that.
It’s why I hardly argue. Before I climb into the passenger seat of my Audi, I catch the tail-end of a reporter speaking to a camera.
“This will be the fourth time the court has suspended Maximoff Hale’s license for excessive speeding. And his license will remain suspended for twelve months.”
I can’t drive for a year.
Farrow slides into the driver’s seat, shuts the door, and puts the key in the ignition. For the first time with Farrow as my bodyguard, I’m not behind the steering wheel.
I crack my knuckles and watch him adjust the side mirrors. “You’re loving this.”
His smile widens into James Franco territory, and he revs the car, peeling out of the courthouse. Driving with one hand only, but he ditches the paparazzi after a sharp turn down a narrow street. Navigating his way around Philly with ease and precision.
My cock throbs—no. If I could speak to my dick, I’d say you’re not allowed to be attracted to Farrow driving my car. That’s my car. Mine. He’s only allowed behind it for…
I wince. A whole agonizing year.
Farrow studies my expression in a quick glance. “Realizing I’m a better driver than you?”
“Realizing doomsday just happened.” I crack my knuckles again and shift in the seat. Sitting straighter. Partly to avoid a hard-on. Mostly to stop stressing about not having my feet on the gas pedal or brake. No longer the captain of my ship.
“You call everything doomsday,” Farrow says, his gaze flitting to me more often.
“No I don’t.”
“Toaster broke last week, you said doomsday. You ran out of hangers, you said doomsday. It was raining, you said—”
“Thank you for that short summary.” I have no idea what to do with myself in the passenger seat. I lean forward. I lean back. Rake my hands through my thick hair, stretch my arms over my chest—
“Just take a breath, Maximoff. I’m not going to run you off the road. I enjoy your blow jobs too much.”
I break into a smile. How is he making me smile right now? I inhale and lean further back, ignoring the incessant vibrating messages on my phone. I turn my head to him.
Our eyes caress.
Farrow reaches out with his right hand, but he can’t physically touch me. Just on the slim chance that anyone in a passing car sees and snaps a picture. Sometimes I wonder if he’s silently disappointed by the lack of PDA. For me, it’s all the same. I’m not missing what I never had.
But being overly cautious is what’ll make this last.
Farrow commits to a safe action. He grips the back of my seat. “I bet I can distract you all the way home.” His voice falls to an even huskier octave. “Without touching you. Hell, I bet I can make you hard without talking dirty.”
“You must like to lose bets often.”
Grinning, Farrow rotates the wheel with one hand. Turning onto another street. “Who and what did you fantasize about when you were a teenager?”
Fuck. I adjust in my seat, my cock constricted against my jeans. Fuck me.
“Hard already?” He lifts his aviators to his head, pushing back his white hair. His mannerisms, the way the corner of his mouth quirks—fucking grips my dick.
“Agitated, mostly.”
“I can tell. It’s that little grimace-smile thing.” Farrow laughs as I flip him off, and he adds, “Come on, Maximoff. What’d you jerk off to?”
“Tell me your favorite gay porn categories, and maybe I’ll answer.”
“Maybe you’ll answer,” he says, brows raised. “Okay…my favorite gay porn…” he trails off in thought. “I like big dick and rough sex.” He flicks on his blinker to take a left turn. “Have you watched any porn before?”
“Only a few times.” I can see how my mom was addicted to porn, and that’s partly why I think I stopped logging onto porn sites after the third session. “What’d you rub one out to as a teenager?”
“The Olympic male swim team,” he says and off my knotted brows, he laughs, “I’m fucking with you. I didn’t have anyone in mind specifically.” Farrow evades paparazzi in the distance by driving onto a side street. His next glance is knowing. “Not like you.”
He knows my fantasy is him.
Bluntly, Farrow emphasizes, “You can say me.”
I give him a look. “How are you not freaked out?”
“Because I wasn’t the one with the crush.”