Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
I check my recent message from Maximoff.
You busy? – Maximoff
“Farrow,” Akara calls me out for my phone while Quinn decides to stay put for the meeting.
“It’s Maximoff,” I say, typing back a reply.
I send: No. What do you need?
Akara doesn’t nag, and he snaps his finger to his palm, “Okay, so here’s the deal. Alpha is still the force that’ll work the night with a celebrity a week from now. Price isn’t compromising or letting Omega take the lead.”
No one thought he would.
“Bigger news,” Akara says, “Eliot and Tom Cobalt graduated high school. For those that don’t know”—he zeroes in on Quinn—“Security Force Omega was formed when Maximoff left home. At that point, SFO became the division of security that protects the kids who turn eighteen and become legal adults. Epsilon handles all the minors. Normally, this means that we’d be welcoming Eliot and Tom’s bodyguards to SFO, but the Tri-Force has decided on a restructure.”
Oscar frowns. “A restructure?”
Akara outstretches his arms. “Omega has gained some fame. We’re the only ones who get stopped for autographs, the only ones getting extra Tinder dates, and if we start adding more bodyguards, there’s a chance they’ll gain notoriety by association. It’s not something the security team wants.”
I understand now. There’s no plan to add extra bodyguards to SFO. Which is perfectly fine by me.
Akara continues, “All of us here—we are Omega. Even if you’re transferred to another client, even if you quit or get fired. We’re the bodyguards on SFO until further notice.”
Thatcher straightens off the door. “What about my brother?”
Akara nods. “We’re still talking about adding Banks to Omega, and it’s likely that’s the way it’ll fall.” No one asks why. Banks and Thatcher are identical twins, and he’s been recognized just as much as Thatcher on the street.
My phone buzzes.
all of SFO + jack. Were gonna chill tonight up here – Maximoff
After seeing his cousins carry pillows and air mattresses upstairs, I figured he’d invite everyone to this little “sleepover” thing.
Your text needs an apostrophe and capital letters. And you sure you want Thatcher up there? I send, and rise off the table as a swarm of texts hit me. Everyone in the living room is watching me.
“Boyfriend okay?” Oscar asks.
Maximoff texts me a middle finger emoji, along with these:
Bring snacks – Maximoff
Chocolate chip cookies in the pantry – Maximoff
Drinks, another sleeping bag, pillows – Maximoff
These are definitely requests from his cousins.
If you need help, I can come down –Maximoff
I instantly call him, phone to my ear. “Don’t you dare move.”
“Too late, I’m already doing cartwheels down the stairs.” His voice sounds tight with pain.
I rub my mouth. “You’re a terrible liar, wolf scout.” My eyes latch onto Akara, and I mouth, upstairs. He nods, and I tell my boyfriend, “We’ll be there soon.”
Maximoff looks worse than when I left him.
His pallid skin gleams with sweat, dark brown hair damp like he took a shower, and he breathes measured breaths through his nose.
But he’s not shaking. No chills.
Good.
I block out most of the background chatter as SFO and Jack settle into the attic room. Sleeping bags and pastel blankets cover air mattresses that line almost every inch of floor space. Bags of chips and bowls of popcorn are being passed around.
I’m already sitting next to Maximoff on his bed, and while he sticks the thermometer in his mouth, I reach over his chest. Carefully.
And I switch on the portable fan. I sense him watching my inked hands, and our muscular legs unconsciously intertwine.
I grab a limeade Ziff sports drink. Leaving the other half of a bagel on the end table. He has to be too nauseous to eat.
With Maximoff, and even me, there’s a fine line between “coddling” and taking care of each other. I let him adjust his ice packs on his shoulder and chest, and when I unscrew the sports drink, I see the don’t do that for me in his features.
The warning dies out the second I take a sizable swig.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “That’s cute that you thought this was yours.”
His cheeks flush. That’s one way to return color to his face. With the thermometer under his tongue, he mumbles, “Fuck you.”
I smile. “That was the most precious fuck you I’ve ever heard.”
He groans, fighting his upturning lips, and he says with more bite and growl, “Fuck you.”
I suck in a breath. “Still precious.”
Maximoff shoots me a middle finger and then removes the beeping thermometer with the same left hand. He reads his temperature, purposefully holding the screen away from me.
His brows knit.
“Give me.” I motion to him with two fingers.
“Just what I expected,” Maximoff says dryly, “I’m the Human Torch.” He passes me the thermometer.
98.5 degrees Fahrenheit. He’s a fucking dork. “You don’t have a fever,” I tell him.
He takes another measured breath before looking right at me. “Probably because I never get hot when I’m around you.”