I don’t know if he’s bored or if he has a fucking death wish.
Farrow clicks his mic. “Can’t hold your bladder, Oliveira?”
“I’m trying to save all the adult diapers for Donnelly,” Oscar quips.
Donnelly laughs on comms. “Appreciation and all that.”
I tune them out as Jane perches two hands on my shoulders. She tries to straighten up and compose herself, drawing out one blink. “I’m…”
“I have you,” I say strongly. “You don’t need to do anything tonight.” She can be a drunk mess.
She hiccups into a smile. “You’re…”
“Moretti!” Tony calls, approaching us. “She’s not your responsibility. Take your hands off my client.”
Like hell.
I grit my teeth.
Stay professional. I need to stay fucking professional on-duty. In Tony’s mind, I’m Banks, and my brother doesn’t deserve a tarnished reputation because of my bad calls.
Don’t punch him.
She’s in your arms.
Don’t punch him.
I repeat all the reasons why I shouldn’t launch verbal grenades or fists.
Farrow pops a piece of gum in his mouth. Casual as all hell, and as soon as Tony is in distance, Farrow puts a hand to his chest, stopping him in place. “Man, just let Banks take care of her. She’s comfortable with him.”
Tony sizes him up. “So you’d rather I switch details with Banks then?” He jabs a thumb to the bar. “I can go look after Maximoff for you.”
Farrow glares.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.”
He rolls his eyes. “You talk like you’re twenty-feet tall, but you look microscopic. Just back up and leave Banks alone. Jane is safe.”
Tony is about to speak, but Jane brushes her nose against mine, romantically. I try to shift my gaze and shove down any visible affection. I’m Banks.
I’m my brother.
…and she’s gorgeous.
I keep a platonic hand on her head. “She’s comfortable here,” I tell Tony.
“She’d be more comfortable with me.” He starts to fucking smile.
I’m gonna kill him. “We’re not testing that.”
“Afraid she’d like me more than your brother?” He tries to shove forward, but Farrow stops him with another hand-to-chest.
“I’m so sick of listening to your shit,” Farrow sneers. “Back the fuck off.”
Tony is about to go in on Farrow, but Maximoff approaches just in time.
Tony falls back. “I’m carrying her out of the pub when we leave.”
No way in hell.
But I’d rather fight him later.
“What was that?” Maximoff watches Tony trudge heatedly towards the bar. He also eyes Farrow’s lips, and I’m eyeing the plate of food he just brought.
Looks like a traditional Scottish dish. Nothing I’ve eaten before.
Farrow cups Maximoff’s head and kisses him. “I’ll tell you later.”
I scrutinize the plate of brown…balls?
“Haggis?” Farrow raises his brows. “You do realize the goal is to sober her up, not make her puke?”
“Thank you for reminding me.” Hale sarcasm is thick. “Let me just swing over to McDonald’s down the street. Order a Big Mac, some fries, a goddamn milkshake.”
Jane rests her cheek on my chest and toys drunkenly with my mic cord. I have a hard time not watching her. I can’t drown in greed and wish upon every star to kiss her like Farrow did Maximoff. Because I’m here.
Easily, I could be back in Philly.
“What else did they have?” I hear Farrow ask.
“Nothing. The kitchen closed an hour ago, and they ran out of chips. This was it.”
I cut in, “I’ll try it first.” I take a haggis ball and pop it in my mouth. Cold. It’d be better nuked in a microwave. Grisly. While I chew, I sweep the pub—and I almost choke.
Unholy…
Fuck.
In the darkened corner of the pub, Luna Hale is dirty-dancing with Donnelly. The kind of sloppy dancing you’d see at closing times from trashed guys and girls.
But her and him—they’re completely sober.
He cups her ass with two hands, holding her like I’m holding Jane, only she bounces on his lap to the beat of the music, and he sings the blaring song with Luna.
If Maximoff sees this, he might flip his shit.
I don’t stare long, and I force a strict, stoic face and wipe away shock. I’m hoping no one notices them. Especially Epsilon.
“You okay?” Maximoff asks me.
I swallow the haggis down. “Yeah.” It tastes fine to me, but I doubt Jane will like this meat. “We can see.” I grab more haggis. “Jane.”
“Mmmh?” She lifts her head.
I hold the meat to her lips. “Take a bite.”
She chomps like a tiny animal, then crinkles her nose and spits it off her tongue.
We laugh.
“Did you pack any lunchmeat on you?” Farrow asks me seriously. Which surprises me because Farrow and SFO have been ribbing me about the ham and turkey I bought when we landed.
I’m six-seven.
I’m fucking hungry during long travels, and yeah, I stuffed a package of lunchmeat in my winter jacket and kept pulling out slices to eat.
Which is why they were losing their shit in laughter. And I caught my lip rising a few times. Receiving the wise-cracks and light-hearted jabs with no malice attached—it feels unreal, and I’m not sure I deserve the brotherhood that I hurt. But every day I plan to prove them, and myself, that I do.
The only bad thing: it dawned on me too late that Banks would never carry lunchmeat in his jacket.
And now Tony thinks he does.
I hate that.
“I brought some on the drive here,” I confirm. “It’s in my jacket.”
After Maximoff finds a pack of turkey in the pocket, I roll a slice and feed my girlfriend. She takes tiny nibbles and chews with a smile.
The pub suddenly quiets.
Everyone stares at the television that sits above the fireplace.
Jack Highland raises the volume, and a haunting cover of the song “What A Wonderful World” plays over a montage of clips.
Ryke Meadows and Loren Hale are running at dusk.
Lily Calloway stares strong but tear-streaked in the camera.
Rose Calloway’s iconic black heels clap along a sterile hallway, and the image pans back to show another pair of feet. Sandals. Daisy Calloway walks with Rose, the sisters holding hands.
It cuts to Connor Cobalt in a crisp expensive suit. He opens a door, and on the other side are flashes of images that I remember.
Some, I was a witness to. Some, I’m in as background. As a bodyguard.
Charlie stands on the orchestra stage during the celebrity auction. Back in May.
Sullivan peels off swim goggles in a pool.
Eliot falls to his knees at a theater performance, pain in his face.
“No, no, no.” Lily’s voice, lurched with fear, bleeds over the images.
My chest tightens.
They show a shot of Farrow as he runs his tattooed fingers through his hair, and his eyes hit the camera. We all tense because this is the first time in history a bodyguard is close-up in the docuseries and not just nameless background.