“That’s where I come in?” I ask.
Banks nods. “My four,” he suddenly says to Thatcher.
“I see them,” Thatcher replies, but he never shifts his gaze or hand off me.
I just now notice a few men ogling me from afar. Not nicely either. I’d say snidely is more like it.
I lean more of my weight against Thatcher. He pulls me closer to his chest, and I feel his heavy heartbeat that thumps in a calming rhythm.
Thatcher and Banks are off-duty. Yet, they’re still watching. Still surveying our surroundings.
Tony, my actual bodyguard, is seven-stools down the bar, and I make a concentrated effort not to glance at him. Though, I’m sure he’s observing everyone and also pompously gawking at us.
At least he’s not in earshot.
I sit more upright. “From what I’ve seen, Tony can’t discern your personalities, so the biggest risk might be mannerisms and physical traits.”
We go over a few technicalities in the next five minutes and screech to a halt on glaring problems.
“Your tattoo,” I whisper to Thatcher.
“It’s on his ass,” Banks says.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s right—my boyfriend has a tattoo on his ass. SFO, namely Paul Donnelly, inked script on Thatcher recently, and I wasn’t present. It happened under the cloak of Omega Brotherhood and I just saw the result.
They didn’t write “hypocrite” on his butt like I thought they would. Like Thatcher said they could. Instead, SFO decided on something that “better fit” Thatcher.
And so they tattooed the word, Cinderella.
The cursive lettering and placement is actually quite beautiful. When I first saw the tattoo in bed, I was overwhelmed. Thatcher has always been the one living the rags to riches story. He’s been the one with everything to lose.
Banks finishes off his beer. “Just don’t get buck-naked, Cinderella.”
Thatcher glares and motions to him. “You also have a fucking tattoo.”
My brows jump. “You do?”
Banks pats his right thigh. “The ink is blown out. If I could kick my fourteen-year-old self in the ass, I would.”
Thatcher explains to me, “Free tattoo in a friend’s basement.”
“Is it a design or script?” I ask.
“Roman numerals.” Banks places his empty beer on the bar. “Which should’ve been tattooed over years ago.”
Thatcher hones in on his brother. Banks stares directly back. Neither one blinking.
Tension pulls uncomfortably, and I look between them, something unsaid gripping them and the air.
“You want me to tell her?” Banks asks.
I freeze.
Thatcher is dead-set on Banks. “She already knows.”
“Yeah? She knows that everyone in our family blames each other for his death, but no one thought to point a finger at him?”
A chill slips down my spine, and I realize this is about their older brother.
“Fuck him,” Banks says with bite.
Thatcher’s nose flares. “Don’t.”
“I love him, but Mary Mother of God, I hate him like a thousand pounds in his direction, and my dumb ass has to live with his death on my thigh.”
My stomach flips.
Roman numerals. A date.
The day Skylar died.
His words drop heavy. Like a small implosion. Banks looks everywhere but at us, and Thatcher drills a pained expression on the wall. I can feel how infrequent they discuss Skylar, and my big mouth might lead all three of us in a sinkhole, but I just speak.
“It could be worse.” I offer my beer to Banks.
He takes the glass, his brows knitting. “How?”
“You could’ve tattooed it on your ass.”
Thatcher laughs first, the sudden noise deep but light.
Banks smiles into laughter too, and I brighten and realize how somewhere deep down, I knew Thatcher would find humor in this exchange. He’s become less of a mystery, and I’m so incredibly fond of the man next to me.
Or rather…the man I’m sitting on.
I blow out a breath, my heart beating wildly.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head.
I’m in love.
Don’t be frightened, Jane.
I’m trying.
Thatcher nods to his brother. “See that, you had some common sense at fourteen.”
“Yeah. But still less than you,” Banks says, lips upturned. Happy that Thatcher is smarter, but Thatcher already shakes his head like his brother is brighter and better. Their pride in each other and for each other is as deep as the Bering Sea.
Banks swallows a mouthful of beer, then passes the glass back to me. “What else should we worry about?”
He means the twin swap.
“Piercings?”
“None,” they say in unison.
Thatcher let out a frustrated breath.
“That question was for me,” Banks says to him. “She already knows you have no piercings.”
He scowls. “Statazitt’.”
“You shut up,” Banks rebuts.
I smile into another sip of beer, finding their relationship the sweetest as can be. “What about scars? Thatcher has quite a few.”
He actually has many. Most are small and scatter his chest.
Banks lifts a shoulder. “I have some, but Tony won’t be able to tell us apart from them.”
Thatcher nods in agreement.
“Your hand,” I mention to my boyfriend.
He removes his left hand off the binder, just enough to touch his bent ring finger. Thatcher looks concerned.
Banks shakes his head. “Barely anyone notices that.”
“Yeah, let’s hope,” Thatcher says strictly. “Or I’m going to kick my twenty-five-year-old self in the ass for re-breaking the same knuckle.”
We all conclude that it shouldn’t be much of an issue, and I think about another angle. How Banks will be left in Philadelphia pretending to be Thatcher.
“We aren’t planning to tell my parents or aunts and uncles about the twin swap, are we?” I ask. “Because I can’t be certain they won’t tell the Alpha lead.” They’re all very close to Price Kepler. He’s been Aunt Daisy’s bodyguard for over twenty years.
Thatcher frowns at me. “If you asked your parents to keep this a secret, you don’t think they would?”
We, Cobalts, are notorious secret-keepers and loyal to the very death, so I understand his confusion.
“I do think they would,” I say softly, “at least 98% of me does, but there’s 2% uncertainty.”
Banks asks, “Where’s the 2% coming from?”
Uneasiness sinks my stomach. I glance up.
Thatcher rubs his mouth a couple times and then nods. “Me.”
“I’m the first Cobalt to be in a relationship,” I explain, “and I just can’t predict whether my mom and dad will challenge you or profess immediate fealty. It’s too soon to tell, and in my mind, there’s not enough substantial data.”
Thatcher and Banks lock eyes and speak through a long look, and then Banks shrugs. “It’s not like you’re supposed to be around Connor and Rose. You’re on Hale duty. I can pretend to be you and protect Xander. Easy.”
Thatcher looks grave. “If you run into her parents—”