Farrow exits the kitchen and stops next to my bench. “Here.” He taps a beer bottle to my shoulder, holding another in his right hand
I frown. “I thought we were out of beer.”
“Oscar hid a couple bottles.”
I’m not about to decline the offer. And a beer sounds good right now. I nod in thanks, untwisting the twist-off cap. “Does he know you’re giving me this?”
Farrow nods. “Yeah. We all agreed you need a beer more than any fucker here.”
I take a stiff swig. It’s been less than 24-hours and everyone who knows that I’m Thatcher is aware of the argument Jane and I had.
Over nudes.
The level of awkward has reached middle school dance territory. No one on the team has ribbed me, but I can tell they want to but aren’t sure how serious the fallout is. So every time I walk into a room, I’m met with silent stares and cagey glances.
I lower the bottle. “Me and Jane—we’re good.” I’m not sure Farrow cares to know my relationship status, but I tell him anyway since he’s here. I don’t go in-depth about how Jane and I talked all last night or that we’re on the same page, same understanding again.
We’re good sums it up.
Farrow isn’t petty, I realize. If he were, he’d steal my beer back.
To my surprise, he takes a seat beside me and leans against the paisley green wallpaper. “That’s one of my favorite things about being with someone.” He sips his beer.
“What is?” I pop in a battery with one hand.
“Going through shit together. Growing with the person you love.” He smiles into his next swig, his gaze on Maximoff Hale.
I swallow more beer, eyes latched to Jane Cobalt.
She sits pin straight, ankles crossed, and brushes cookie crumbs off her sweater.
My chest rises.
I’m more used to imploding relationships when shit happens, but with Jane, I never want to give up on us. It’d be a sucker-punch to the gut if she decided we weren’t worth the hard parts. We can come out on top together, and the time we’re taking to pick each other up has only made us stronger.
I talk to Farrow. “Difference between us, the shit you had to go through wasn’t orchestrated by your boyfriend’s family.” I place the powered radio on a side table. “The Hales gave you water wings.”
“More like one water wing.” He lifts a foot on the bench, knee bent. “The Cobalts are definitely too much; the second those cards came out, I would’ve trashed them.”
Farrow might be used to going rouge, but I’m more battle-tested to withstand fucked-up rules. To push through them rather than go around.
I grab another fucked radio from the box. “That’s why I’m dating a Cobalt and you aren’t.”
“No shit.” He smiles.
The corner of my mouth upturns, and we swig beer at the same time. When we look over at Jane and Maximoff, we notice they’re already watching us, their expressions thunderstruck and curious: mouths gaping, eyes cinched, question marks dangling over their heads.
It’s fucking comical.
“He’s too precious.” Farrow grins at him.
Maximoff scowls and flips him off.
It’s strange that my brother is thousands of miles away, Akara is icing me out, and the bodyguard I’m closest to in Scotland is Farrow Redford Keene.
That isn’t lost on me.
But I’m nowhere as shocked as Jane or Maximoff. I almost forget they’re five years younger than us and famous and not trusting of most people. Other friendships outside their families, especially bodyguards and our rifts, are uncharted lands—and it sparks Jane’s curiosity like ten thousand Roman candles.
She bows forward, knuckles to chin, and eyes shimmering.
I swig my beer. I could be in South Philly this Christmas, left to wonder what the fuck is happening to my girlfriend. Instead I’m here. Knowing Jane is safe.
Keeping her safe.
Sharing in this experience with her.
Can’t ask for more.
As the poker game dies down, Oscar and Donnelly come over and test the waters with me.
Oscar upnods. “If you need pointers, Moretti, we have a professional dick pic photographer on the team.” He squeezes Donnelly’s shoulder.
“Straight up.” Donnelly slips a ballpoint pen behind his ear. “I can make your five-inch wiener look like a foot-long.”
I’ve seen every dick on SFO. Just like they have. Comes with quick-changes on-duty. But this, right here, is the first instance they’ve felt comfortable enough to rib me about my nine-inch cock.
Maybe they realize I won’t reprimand them.
Oscar grins. “Donnelly, if he’s five-inches, you’re a centimeter.”
“Give me a tape measure, man.”
Farrow swallows beer and stands. “I was trying to get away from you fuckers.” He always acts like the three of them aren’t tight, but they spent years at an Ivy League together.
The Yale boys are about as solid a friendship as lifelong ride-or-dies.
Donnelly takes his seat next to me, and Farrow ends up staying, his boot on the bench and forearm to his thigh.
I hand Oscar my beer, giving him the rest, and I dispose the dead battery out of a radio. My voice is low as I say, “Jane already took the dick pics.”
Oscar chokes on beer. “Jane took them? So you two are…”
I nod.
Farrow translates. “They’re good.”
“You pose for her?” Donnelly banters.
“Close-ups?” Oscar chimes in.
“Girls love that anus shot, you get that one?”
Farrow laughs hard, and fuck it, I laugh too. I wish my brother were here. He’d be rolling over in laughter just knowing my girlfriend is three dick pics richer. And how she tucked the phone to her chest like she was guarding the Hope Diamond.
I test the radio. “What I do for love and pussy.”
Amen, Banks would say. Not hearing it just makes me miss him more.
Quinn Oliveira joins us right after the words leave my mouth, and the air strains. Oscar assesses his little brother, to see if he’s okay. Last I heard, they weren’t talking since Quinn punched him.
Oscar nods. “I’m cool if you are, bro.”
Quinn nods back. “Yeah, I’m cool.”
Tension gone, Oscar picks up the conversation. “I could cheers to that: love, pussy, and add in good dick.”
Farrow quips, “What’s bad dick feel like, Oliveira?”
“I don’t know, Redford, you tell me. You’re the one who slept with that redheaded witch.” He brings up Rowin Hart, his ex-boyfriend, who almost assaulted Maximoff in Greece.
Farrow cringes into a sip of beer. “He’s worse than a witch, but nice try.”
Quinn interjects, “Why’s Akara hanging out with the Epsilon douche-bros?”
Our heads turn.
Akara is in a conversation with O’Malley, more than Tony, but they’re all on the red-green plaid couch, the SFE guards pocketing wads of bills they won.
I shut off the powered radio. “Recon.”
Quinn scrunches his face. “What?”
“Keep your enemies close, Quinnie,” Donnelly says.
“But not too close,” Farrow advises.
My jaw hardens as I suddenly zone in on a target. Tony is smiling over at Jane like she’s a chick in a bar he wants to fuck-and-chuck, and my blood is boiling. Muscles flexed, and I barely hear the guys talking about a game of charades tonight. To lighten the mood for Christmas Eve.