Goddammit.
No one complains or backtalks or second-guesses, but I’m not happy to be split from Jane—if or when that time comes. Leaving her back here with that shitbag…
I shove down my feelings.
And I focus on my duty. If something happens to one of them, the world will mourn. So many people idolize these famous families. They represent something bigger than themselves. They are hope and inspiration and light in dark times, and inadvertently, by protecting them, we’re protecting that essence too.
Once the meeting ends, we disperse.
Most men head into the living room, and Jack Highland sees the trail of incoming bodyguards. He stands off the fireplace hearth, freeing his spot for us to get warm.
“Where are you going, Long Beach?” Oscar asks in passing. “You move one muscle from that fire, you’re going to turn into an icicle.” He flashes a grin. “I already see your weak California blood crystallizing as I speak.”
Jack smiles as he lowers back down. “Not all of us have warm sweatshirts like you.” He looks him over. “You willing to part with it?”
I’m not sure if he’s flirting. All I know is that Jack has said he’s straight.
Oscar pulls off his Yale sweatshirt and lightly chucks the clothing to Jack.
“You sure?” Jack asks, about to pull his arms through the holes.
“For sure. It’s already in your hands, Long Beach,” Oscar says with a laugh, and I leave that interaction behind when I find Jane on a chair scribbling math equations in her notebook.
I can’t comfort her here. But I walk over anyway, cautious of Tony in sight. He plucks an almanac off the shelf and sprawls on a couch.
Her blue eyes lift off the notebook. “I’m better, really. Did the meeting go well?”
“Menzamenz.” Half and half.
She smiles at my use of Italian, and the rest of the morning, we play Clue with Maximoff and Farrow, the board game worn and dusty from being crammed in a cupboard.
I stretch out my legs under the coffee table, and while Maximoff fights exhaustion beside Farrow on the couch, Jane and I sit side by side on the floor. Pillows beneath us.
Don’t touch her.
I hammer the thought in my brain.
Don’t touch her.
The shitbag is looking.
“It was professor plum, with a revolver, in the library,” Jane guesses.
Slyly, I reveal the revolver card in my hand to Jane, and she scratches the weapon off her list. Maximoff should be taking his turn.
I look across the table.
Exhaustion has won out. His eyes are shut, head on Farrow’s shoulder. Body slumped against him too.
Farrow holds him pretty tenderly. They’ve been on the edge of the seat together, and without waking him, he carefully draws Maximoff and himself further back against the couch.
He doesn’t stir. Still sleeping.
Jane has a pained expression, just seeing his sleep deprivation. “I’m afraid if we wake him, he’ll be upset he fell asleep and try harder not to.”
Farrow whispers back, “Which is why he’s staying like this.”
Their closeness makes me wish I could bridge the small gap between me and Jane. Just for a moment. A second.
Don’t touch her.
We’re about to scrap Clue and play a round of poker. And then Charlie Cobalt walks past our table, favoring his right leg, a book in his grip. He looks disturbed, like a ghost trapped inside a haunted house.
Jane watches her younger brother carefully and whispers to me, “He’s bored and irritable.”
Charlie slows when he sees Maximoff sleeping against Farrow.
This isn’t good.
“Shh, Charlie.” Jane puts a finger to her lips. “We’re trying not to wake him.” She’s warning her brother.
Farrow is glaring at him to back off.
I’m about to stand up and guide him away.
“I can help with that.” Charlie pats the hardback on his palm, and then he hurls the book at Maximoff’s head.
Farrow catches the book midair, but the action jostles Maximoff. And his eyes snap open.
All hell breaks loose.
Farrow is on his feet, heat in his eyes, and I tower and have a hand on his chest so he won’t near Charlie. Because in my head, Charlie isn’t just a client. He’s Jane’s brother.
Protect him too, but he makes it hard.
“He’s been a saint to you,” Farrow sneers. “You couldn’t let him have one fucking second of peace—”
“He’s had a million seconds,” Charlie retorts. He leans on the antique TV hutch.
“Stop, Charlie,” Jane says hotly, standing off the floor-pillows. I leave Farrow to come to her side, and she looks up at me with a jolt of fear.
Don’t touch her.
Fuck me.
Fuck Tony, who’s still watching. Hell, a lot of people are. This is the biggest show we’ve had since my knockout fistfight.
Charlie rolls his eyes, irritated. “For fuck’s sake, you’re acting like I put a gun to his head. I simply threw a book at him.”
Maximoff rubs his tired eyes and slowly stands up.
“Maybe I should’ve thrown it harder so he could read me better.”
“I’ll read you,” Farrow says. “I’ll read you to fucking hell and back, and you couldn’t take one minute of it.”
Charlie’s eyes burn. “I’m waiting.”
“No,” Maximoff cuts in and sweeps an arm around Farrow’s shoulders, affectionately. “Don’t, Farrow.” He glances at Charlie. “No one is lashing back at you.”
“Who made you king?”
“No one,” Maximoff growls. “Christ, Charlie, just take a breath.”
“I’m breathing,” he snaps, then veers to Jane.
No.
He’s picking tender, vulnerable flesh to attack, and I’ve been in fucked positions before—but I’m at a loss of what to do to protect Jane from her own brother.
“I’m dying on the side of the road,” Charlie says. “So is Thatcher. Choose who to save.”
She blinks back tears, a sharp breath escaping. “I’m not playing this game.”
I will.
“She’d choose you,” I tell him strongly. “My brother, Thatcher—he’d want her to choose you.”
Jane’s face twists.
Charlie doesn’t even pause. “I’m dying on the side of the road. So is Moffy. Choose—”
“Charlie!” Maximoff yells.
Jane is winded, and I place a hand on her back. My stomach knots a thousand different ways.
“Yes?” Charlie arches a brow.
Maximoff growls, “You’re being a sadistic asshole.”
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Jane mutters repeatedly, a hand to her face. This is a combination of emotional hell she’s felt.
They’re all breaking, and my instinct is to carry her out of here.
One more minute of this shit, and I will.
“Sadistic.” Charlie nods slowly. “You want to see sadistic?” He addresses the room. “Just so everyone is aware—this isn’t Banks Moretti.” He points at me.
I’m rigid.
“NO!” Jane screams bloody murder. “Charlie!”
I come up behind and hold her around the waist.