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)
My lip rises.
I “heart” his photo, and I scroll onto a pic of Oscar Oliveira outside Buckingham Palace. The caption: today #SFO #KitsuwonSecurities
He was in London last week. Leave it to the most tactical bodyguard to use social media to throw off fans and paparazzi about his client’s location.
I “heart” his pic too and keep scrolling.
Underneath Quinn Oliveira’s towel gym selfie, I type out a one-word comment.
Dead
We give Oscar’s younger brother shit in the comment section.
Donnelly: I love a thot
Oscar: needs more towel
Except for Thatcher and me, Quinn—the “Young Stud”—has more followers than the other Omega bodyguards, currently 8.4 million.
See, a lot has changed in security. When SFO gained public popularity and some fame, we were told to delete personal social medias.
But Akara recently started his own security firm, and we all signed onto Kitsuwon Securities Inc. with no hesitation. I’m more than happy to leave behind the stringent fuckers on Alpha and the ass-kissers on Epsilon, but they’re still in our rearview window—not out of sight.
Some members of the family still use Price’s Triple Shield Services, and only a small group has hired Akara’s new company
Those being: Maximoff, Jane, Charlie, Sullivan, Luna, and Xander.
Six clients.
Seven bodyguards.
A new company means new rules. Akara okayed personal social medias, and most SFO bodyguards just recently activated Instagram accounts.
Me included.
I sometimes forget how famous I’ve become outside of just security, but the 61.3 million followers definitely puts my fame into perspective.
Though, I’m nowhere near Maximoff’s 102 million, and I know he loves to one-up me at everything but I’m not trying to win any popularity contests.
I scroll back up to the string of unwatched Instagram stories, and my brows pinch. Maximoff posted a recent story that I haven’t seen—and fuck, I want to click into this.
I glance down at him.
His chest rises and falls with his deep breath, his dark-brown hair disheveled and his bodyweight against me. Seeing him content and relaxed, even in sleep, is one of my favorite things. I smile more, and carefully, I lower my phone’s volume to the quietest setting.
I raise the phone over my face and tap into the story.
Maximoff fills the screen, his hair wet after showering last night. He hooks me in. And he’s just sitting on the edge of his twin bed. I must’ve been in the bathroom when he recorded this.
I strain my ears to hear the video.
“Hey, everyone.” A warm, welcoming smile inches up his lips. “Thanks for the well wishes. We’re all okay, I promise.” His eyes toughen, not soften. “I really appreciate all the clothes and things you’ve sent us after the fire, but please send those to your local shelters. They need it a ton more than us. If you aren’t sure where you can send extra clothes and supplies to, keep checking out my stories and swipe up for links.”
Maximoff. My eyes drift to him on the air mattress. He’s so pure, it aches my chest. Everything fans have mailed to us, he already gave to a Philly shelter.
I feel extremely fucking lucky to be engaged to him. To be fully a part of his world and gain his comic-book-obsessed, bizarre-as-fuck family as my family—shit, I’m staying in his childhood house. A home that is warmer and packed with more unconditional love than mine ever was.
Maximoff doesn’t get too raw and personal on Instagram. It’d be easy to think the fire affected no one, destroyed nothing, changed only our location—but that’d be understating what happened.
Like I said, Maximoff has his leg around mine, and I can feel the wooden-carved hilt of a knife and leather holster on his shin. He hasn’t taken that off since the inferno.
He’s not paranoid or afraid of anyone.
I gifted him the tactical knife in Greece for his 23rd birthday, and it’d been stashed in his Audi the night of the fire. Even though the car is a burnt tin can, the knife survived.
Maximoff treasures so much of the normal shit in our relationship, like the little things we gave each other, and we lost a lot in that house. I’m a little bit concerned he’s trying to prepare for another “doomsday” where the only thing that survives is what’s on our bodies.
Because most of what we have left from the townhouse is what we walked out with, what we wore that night. We didn’t have time to grab anything but Jane’s cats and each other.
I focus back on my phone as a second video clip plays. On the screen, Maximoff glances towards the door, then looks into the camera. “So you know how I’m planning to marry this really, really aggravating guy? I’m pretty sure he’s in the bathroom right now, plotting ways to piss me off.” He tries not to smile, but he looks infatuated with me.
I’m grinning at the phone.
“Wish me luck. Signing off, your friendly neighborhood human.” He’s such a fucking dork. Right when I think it, voices begin to escalate outside the room.