Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
So you know nothing about Akara Kitsuwon and the rest of Security Force Omega.
Akara grins at the three girls and one boy who can’t see us, but we can see them flailing excitedly and taking selfies. “This shit never gets old.”
I raise my OJ. “Immortal entertainment.” Two homemade signs smack the window.
I read one: FUCK ME, MAXIMOFF HALE! She looks twelve, pigtail braids and braces.
My jaw muscle tenses. “Just kidding.” That’s not fucking funny. It should go without saying, but I’d never have sex with a preteen or teenager or anyone who looks on the cusp of being that young. Jesus…twelve. I have a sister that age.
I’m not against hooking up with fans. It’s pretty much inevitable, but it has to be a.) consensual and b.) someone of legal age and c.) a one-time thing.
Akara scrutinizes the preteens. “The scary part,” he says, “that shit doesn’t even faze me anymore.” He eyes the lock on the store entrance before returning to his cellphone.
The other sign from her friend: I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES, XANDER HALE!!
Xander is my fourteen-year-old brother.
My shoulders square, but I try to brush that sign off without a long thought. Akara resumes texting again. I lean forward. Still not able to see his screen.
“Hot date?” I ask.
Akara quickly says, “No.” Then he removes his elbows off the counter. Sitting up. “It’s Sulli.”
Sullivan Meadows. My nineteen-year-old cousin.
“Sulli’s blowing up your phone?” I give him a look. “Didn’t you tell her that you’re with me?” I needed a bodyguard just to drive here and meet a new bodyguard. The irony. I asked Akara if there was anyone available from Omega, and he offered himself.
“I thought she’d be asleep until nine, at least.”
I wait for him to add more.
He stops there.
“Why?” I try not to snap. I swear the whole security team enjoys keeping me out of the loop. I could get twice as much information by just asking my family. But I restrain myself from texting Sulli.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says evasively and eats another bite of bagel while messaging my cousin.
“It does to me. She’s my family.” She’s not a part of security. She’s on my side. Famous.
Three famous families—the Hales, the Meadows, the Cobalts—are permanently bound together because our moms are sisters. The Calloway sisters, to be exact. And the Calloways, namely my grandfather, founded Fizzle: a soda company so world-renowned that they beat Coca-Cola in sales for the past decade.
Fizzle is part of why we’re all famous.
But it’s not the whole story.
I add, “I can just text her myself.” I reach for my phone, but he caves, nodding to me.
Once he swallows his food, he says, “She kept yawning on our way back from a state park. She didn’t get home until three a.m.” He sends another text. “I should’ve known she’d wake up.” His eyes flit to me. “She has FOMEFT.”
Fear of Missing Every Fucking Thing.
My lips rise.
Sulli coined it herself. The most predictable thing about my younger cousin is the least predictable thing: sleep.
I’d think it’s strange that Akara knows these details about Sulli, but he’s her personal bodyguard. He’s been assigned to Sullivan since she was sixteen. If anyone knows her life habits, it’s him.
It hits me again. The thought I’ve been swatting away like a bee: someone is about to know my life habits that intimately too.
Great.
I lean on the counter, arms crossed over my green crew-neck shirt. And then my muscles bind as the lock starts to rotate on the tinted-glass door.
Someone is entering. Someone who was given a key.
My new bodyguard.
He’s finally here.
2
MAXIMOFF HALE
Dear World, stop fucking with me. Sincerely, an agitated human.
The last person I wanted to see today enters Superheroes & Scones. I refill my glass of orange juice and watch the familiar face open the door.
Towering at six-foot-three, his black V-neck is tucked in black jeans, a leather belt buckled. The hilt of a handgun sticks from his waistband, and his dyed bleach-white hair contrasts his thick brown eyebrows.
Most people find Farrow Redford Keene intimidating at first sight, but I’m immune to most kinds of intimidation.
It’s called being a Hale.
I can describe Farrow in three meaningful ways.
1. Frustrating.
2. Aggravating.
3. Piss in my hot tea.
Since he’s my mom’s bodyguard and she stops by the store frequently, I expect she’s not far behind his self-assured, unflustered demeanor.
Farrow carries himself like he owns the world, but amusement constantly rests behind his brown eyes. I sometimes think he’s purposefully channeling James Franco circa Freaks & Geeks—minus the weed and multiply the Franco smile by a billion.
It shouldn’t capture my attention.
But it does.
He does.
Like right now, I try to ignore his overwhelming presence, and I slowly cap the juice jug again. My gaze stays on him. No matter how hard I say look at the juice.
I’ve had this problem since I was sixteen. Unfortunately, I’ve known Farrow for a long, long time. I’m talking fledgling teenage years. Before the security team assigned him to my mom, he was just the son of our family’s concierge doctor, on-call 24/7 for house visits and medical emergencies.