My phone buzzes.
Have I missed something? Where is everyone going? – Audrey
If my little sister has no clue about what’s happening, then it’s likely that Moffy is right. Charlie isn’t coming here.
None of my siblings are.
“Oh hey, you don’t have to get up for me.” Sulli knots her long brunette hair in a messy top bun. “Really, I can just fucking stand or take another stool.”
Banks has already risen. “It’s not like you’ll block my view or anything.” He’s six-seven to her six-foot. “Go ahead.” He’s offering her the seat beside me.
“Thanks.” As Sulli sits, she watches Banks and Akara clasp hands and pat each other’s back in greeting. To me, she says, “I heard we’re going to Scotla—I mean, Hawaii. Fuck, I suck at code names.”
I smile and scoot closer. “Have you decided on whether you want to bring Will Rochester along?” Sulli and Will have been dating privately, and she’s admitted that they probably would’ve kissed at Hallow Friends Eve if the party hadn’t been cut short. Will hasn’t pressured her to move faster or made her feel badly for ending the party early—a party that he threw for her.
So far, he seems honorable and decent.
Yet, surfacing his name suddenly silences the bar. The door bangs shut, the last stranger leaving.
She catches a look that Banks and Akara give each other. “What? You don’t think I’ll invite Will? That I’m chicken shit scared?”
Akara grimaces. “No. That’s not it, Sul.”
Banks tilts his beer to his mouth. “Why would you even want to invite the Rooster?”
“The Rooster?” Sulli and I say in unison.
I swing my head to Thatcher. He rubs his temple and shoots his brother an annoyed look.
Security Force Omega. They must’ve jokingly coined a code name for Will Rochester. I shouldn’t be too surprised.
Sulli gawks. “What the fuck is that? The Rooster?”
Akara has trouble restraining a smile. “It’s for comms.”
“It’s for comms?” Sulli stands and slugs his shoulder. “He’s not a cock!”
Banks laughs.
Sulli lands a fist in his arm too, and he hardly sways and just grins into a sip of beer. Akara smiles more and places his hands on her broad shoulders. “You’re not the butt of a joke.”
“Yeah but Will is, and he’s not a fucking cock, Kits.”
Banks tips his head. “We’re just callin’ it like we see it, mermaid.”
She huffs. “Yeah? And his cock is probably ten fucking times bigger than both of yours.”
Akara and Banks try not to laugh, and then Banks says, “No way in hell.”
She goes still and glances down at their crotches. I can’t blame her. My curiosity has piqued too, but Sulli flushes a deep red, her breath shallow. She turns to me, an SOS signal in her green eyes.
I pipe up. “Don’t listen to them, Sulli. They’re just jealous that you’re bringing a hot date to Scotland.”
Maximoff crosses his arms, not a fan of Will Rochester. He’s told Sulli to be careful about a hundred times and counting.
“Is that it?” Sulli asks Akara and Banks. “You’re both just jealous.”
Banks raises his shoulder in a shrug.
Akara’s muscles are flexed. “No.” He puts his fingers to his earpiece, as if comms chatter is louder. “I’m your bodyguard and you’re dating someone for the first time. That’s it.”
Sulli frowns. “So you won’t care if I bring Will?”
It takes him a second to say, “If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I fucking want.”
The door whips open, and I hear commotion outside like the bar patrons are loitering. They yell at whoever comes through.
Instantly, I recognize the chestnut-haired, blue-eyed bodyguard. A plastic bag is hooked on his elbow.
“Suck my dick!” Donnelly shouts at the crowds, then shuts them out with the kick of the door.
Akara pushes back his black hair. “Donnelly.”
He spins, noticing me and Sulli. “Sorry, boss.” I can tell he’s off-duty, no radio, and plus, his client isn’t present.
After Donnelly was taken off Beckett’s detail, the Tri-Force transferred him to a Hale.
Xander Hale, to be exact. He’s been working alongside Thatcher this past week. Two bodyguards on one client.
“Smokes?” Donnelly procures a package of cigarettes from the bag, plus a carton of cheesecake.
Banks groans. “Don’t tease me, man.”
I text my sister back while Donnelly greets everyone and slings an arm over Farrow’s shoulders.
I thought some of you were headed to this bar tonight. My mistake. I send the message.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Farrow says coolly to Tony.
I missed something.
Tony smirks, too pompous. “We all know Donnelly shouldn’t be going to Hawaii if his client is staying back home.”
Thatcher retorts, “Donnelly is a groomsman, and Farrow wants him there.”
“Was I talking to you, Moretti?” Tony snaps. “Didn’t think so.”
A bad taste floods my mouth. “Are you four?”
“Twenty-eight, actually.” Tony rests an elbow on the bar and his creeping eyes track down my body.
God.
Thatcher steps forward, and Banks pulls him back.
Tony cocks his head. “And isn’t Xander going to be a groomsman, so does that mean you don’t want him there?” He points at Maximoff. “Or does Xander just not want to be around you?”
More shots fired. That direct hit hurts.
Moffy is stewing. Smoke is coming out of his ears. The truth: Xander requested to stay home so he could go to therapy. He said it’s been helping lately, and he doesn’t want to miss a session.
Farrow has a calming hand on the back of Moffy’s neck.
“Hey.” Akara comes forward and motions for Tony to step aside. He ushers him towards the corner and sneers, “You can’t talk to a client like that.”
Donnelly digs into his cheesecake. “Been waiting for someone to put away Tony the Toolbox.”
“If only permanently,” I sigh.
“Murder with the Cobalt fam,” Donnelly says through a mouthful of cheesecake. “Those who slay together, stay together.”
I eye him. “I meant metaphorical murder.” I pause, curious. “Did you?”
He puts a hand to his chest, grinning and not saying one way or the other, and that’s when the door rips open again.
This time, camera flashes cast shadows on the walls and wind whips through the entryway and more than one body struts inside the sports bar.
First come the bodyguards.
I count five.
And then five famous faces bring up the rear.
Charlie, Beckett, Eliot, Tom, and Ben.
Every single one of my brothers. They’re all here, and they’re far too fixated on Thatcher like he’s tonight’s five-course meal.
8
JANE COBALT
I spring off the stool and clasp Thatcher’s muscular waist. Panic shoots through me, and he curves his arm around my shoulders. Bringing me to his chest before I can swerve in a million frantic directions.