Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Maybe…I don’t know.” He rubs his cinched brows. “What if Charlie does actually need help looking after his brothers? And I’ve just left him out to dry.”
My jaw tics. “Look, I don’t care where we end up, but the likelihood of Charlie disappearing if you move to New York is high. Especially if he’s guilt-tripping you this hard. When has he ever pled for you to be around him?”
“Never.” He exhales a heavier breath. “It’s been the inverse.” He’s pushed Maximoff away.
Jane even believes Charlie could want to use her and Maximoff as babysitters for Beckett, Eliot, and Tom. He’d be shirking responsibility onto them, just so he can travel the world with no burden.
It’s impossible for Maximoff to say no when someone needs help, and he loves gathering all the responsibility. So I understand why this is eating at him, but Charlie needs to stop blowing up his phone. It’s manipulative as fuck.
He shoves his phone in his pocket. “Even if I said yes to New York, we all agreed that the majority vote wins.”
But Charlie knows that if Maximoff decides on NYC, all the girls will want to follow. He’s basically the leader of these families.
We drop the topic, and as we go to leave, I spot the swarms of paparazzi through the glass door. Maximoff prefers that we walk side-by-side, but I’d rather be out in front. “Compromise: how about I lead us out of here, and you can drive.”
I toss him the keys.
“The motorcycle?”
I nod. “Yeah, I’ll sit behind you.” Where he loves me. I fit on my helmet to block out camera flashes, and he’s already doing the same.
“Deal.”
6
FARROW KEENE
Maximoff slows the Yamaha in deadlocked traffic. Shit. I lower my feet to stretch, and I hang onto the back of the seat. Craning my neck, I try to see past an SUV. Looks really backed up.
I lean forward again, my gloved hand on his waist. He turns his head back, careful not to smash helmet-to-helmet. With Bluetooth intercoms built into the helmets, we don’t have to yell or flip up our visors to communicate.
“Let’s switch spots,” I tell him. “I’ll lane-split.” It’s illegal for a motorcyclist to drive between two lanes of traffic in Pennsylvania, but I’m willing to risk the law.
“I can do it.” He’s about to turn around, but I catch his bicep, stopping him.
“You haven’t even had your license back for a year yet.” If he’s ticketed, they might revoke it again.
In the past seven months, Maximoff has actually let me behind the wheel about forty-percent of the time. Which is more than I thought he would.
“If I’m pulled over and lose my license, it’s a win for you.”
He’s not wrong.
“Fair enough.” I let go of his bicep and hold his waist. He turns forward, revs the throttle, and drives between stationary cars.
Vehicles honk at us as we squeeze past their parked asses. I flip them off, and Maximoff speeds up and veers onto the nearest exit ramp.
Free of traffic, we’re back in the middle of the road, and we reach the bakery on time. But we drive into another issue.
At least a hundred rabid, screaming fans are congesting the parking lot. Some even hoist homemade signs. Maximoff slows so he doesn’t run anyone over, but hands are all over us.
I’m not getting used to the “I touched a celebrity” pet. I’m not letting this be normalized for me. I want to always protect Maximoff from ass-grabs and dick-grabs and caustic hands, and I’m not resigning to the fact that this is just a burden of fame. That this is his life and my life and the only way to rise above is to say have at me.
My lips lift at a thought:
I’m going to be his Winter Soldier.
For decades.
For life.
Keeping one hand on him, I motion the overly emotional boys and girls to stay back, most of them tear-streaked and screeching. I lower my feet, my boots lightly scraping the pavement, and I gently push some fondling hands off Maximoff.
I shake my head as they stand in front of the fucking bike. Quickly, I tear off my helmet. “Back up! We’re trying to park!”
Some teenagers pull their friends out of the way, and they create a path for us.
Thatcher Moretti is in my ear, and surprisingly, his strict voice isn’t as grating as it used to be. “Thatcher to Farrow, the bakery’s location has been leaked.”
Obviously.
Maximoff parks, and girls bum-rush us. A few ask us to sign their posters, and I hand Maximoff a pen. But I’m not participating.
I have a cold-shoulder reputation, and most fans don’t expect me to do anything but protect him.
Maximoff quickly scrawls his name in the corner of a MARROW 4 LIFE! poster and another one that reads: please invite me to the wedding! 267-555-8898
Sorry not sorry, the guest list is set.