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)
She’s fucking drunk.
I forgot.
I’m the only sober one here.
“I got him! I got him, Maximoff!” a cameraman yells at me and then suddenly hands me Walrus. I have no time to express my full relief or gratitude. I nod once to him, and then set my entire damn attention on reaching Jane.
“Let him through!” paparazzi start yelling at one another. “Let him through!”
“JANE!” I shout. I push through bodies. I push through voices that yell questions. I push through groping hands.
“CARPENTER!” she wails bloody-murder. I’m barely able to see the kitten. Bounding into the goddamn road. And Jane runs right after him.
I body-slam my way through the fucking paparazzi. Being accidently clocked in the cheek by a hefty camera. I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
My feet hit the cement road, and with Walrus in one hand, I wrap my arm around Jane’s waist the same time that she has a death-clutch on her tiny calico kitten. Headlights blare at us, coming fast down our street. I rapidly steer her towards the sidewalk, and we reach the curb just in time, the car speeding past.
Jane is shaking and slightly limping. She must’ve fallen.
I try to discern where we are—I think we’re twelve or fifteen houses down from ours. I guide my best friend towards our townhouse.
“Maximoff! Why are you in your underwear at eight at night?!” is the only question that snaps my attention. Reminding me that I’m nearly fucking naked on chilly October 30th.
Great.
Cameras flash in fierce frenzy, and I just fixate on getting Jane home. Getting us home.
“Moffy,” Jane says, voice firm and wide-eyes on Carpenter and only Carpenter. “He almost…he…did you…?”
“He’s alright. He’s okay.” I don’t think she even realizes Walrus escaped too. Or that he’s in my arms. She’s blurry-eyed wasted, fighting to keep her heavy-lids open. I glance down. Blood seeps through the fabric of her flannel pants, both kneecaps bloodied.
My jaw locks. “Come on, Jane.” I try to quicken our pace. Where there’s this much commotion, there may be hecklers not long after. Although, a heckler with firecrackers started all of this—maybe he has friends coming for a round two.
Maybe he wasn’t a lone wolf.
Maybe they’re planning to hide in our house.
Goddammit.
Walrus squirms in my left arm. Digging his claws into my bare chest and trying to crawl up my shoulder. I yank him back down, not caring about the scratches.
Paparazzi push into my face when I wrap my right arm around Jane’s shoulders. I have to let go of her just to shove them out.
“Back up!” I yell, not joking around.
A lot do shuffle backwards. And then some don’t give a shit about us.
Swaying drunkenly, Jane almost falls again, her legs wobbling.
“Janie. Hold him.” I give her Walrus too.
Recognition parts her lips. That two cats ran outside. “Merde.” We have to hope that none of the others sprinted out before Walrus and Carpenter.
Jane holds her kittens in a fiercely protective grip.
Quickly, I pick Jane up. Wrapping my arm beneath her legs, the other supporting her back. Cradling my best friend—the paparazzi go wild.
“RIGHT HERE, MAXIMOFF, JANE!! LOOK HERE!”
Fuck off.
I can move three times as fast. Jane tucks her head into my chest because of the lights. Cameras only flash hotter, more incessant.
And then…the paparazzi begin creating a path. Separating enough for a body to fit through. But not for us. For the towering six-foot-seven Italian-American bodyguard that bulldozes towards Jane and me.
I squint, my vision impaired from the constant flashes, but I distinguish the longish, scruffy hair, unshaven jaw and stern brown eyes of Thatcher Moretti, the lead of Security Force Epsilon.
With his massive height and strong build, he creates a barrier between us and the media. Making it ten times easier to push through the masses.
Thatcher clicks his mic on the collar of his black button-down. “I have them. Clear the street.” He spots Walrus wiggling in Jane’s motherly grip. Thatcher grabs the kitten and tucks Walrus protectively under his arm. Like a furry football.
By the time we reach the front stoop of my townhouse, white lights dance in my eyes. I can count on my hands the number of times I’ve personally used the front door.
Three.
Three fucking times.
Because this insanity happens.
As soon as the door shuts behind me, I register the sheer amount of people in my townhouse. All familiar faces from Alpha. They tape our window and sweep up glass. Speaking into mics, scouring the rest of my home for intruders.
I rest Jane on the loveseat, still pushed against the archway.
And Quinn rushes past towards the staircase. Quinn? “Quinn, where’s Farrow?” I call out. He doesn’t stop. So I chase after him, to the base of the stairs. “Quinn!”
He pauses to glance back, his nose bloodied.
What.
Happened.
Quinn opens his mouth, but Thatcher tells him, “Go, Quinn.”
No. Fuck that. “Where’s Farrow?!” I yell, not fucking around.