Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
I ask, “Is that what you’ll do?”
Akara looks pained. He pushes his black hair back. “Please don’t make me have to make that choice.”
Frog gawks. “Seriously, Nine? It should be an easy choice. He’s your friend.”
“We’re a family,” Akara says like it’s obvious. Is it? They are all in my bedroom. How the hell did SFO end up here? “But this side is also a business.”
My transition to Triple Shield—also business.
Akara has been trying to hammer that home. It’s not personal. It’s the best move for the entire team. On and on and on. But I don’t see how this is a power play for Kitsuwon Securities. Farrow can’t see it. Oscar can’t see it.
He gives me to Price for what? He got nothing out of this transaction. I told him that.
He said, “Please trust me. This is the best move for the future of everyone.”
Everyone but me, it feels like.
But I’d never hurt SFO. Even if I’m off the payroll. I’ve been trying to make this harder for Epsilon, not for them.
“I won’t self-sabotage,” I say quietly, not even cracking a joke about it. I just want to move on.
The air is thick. Akara tries to lighten it. “How come you’ve been staying here the past few days? I would’ve thought you’d be at the Hale’s with Luna.”
Banks asks, “Did her parents not like the PDA at the bar?” They know about the bar photos plastered in Celebrity Crush.
“Something like that,” I say, slipping my belt through the loops. Don’t look at Farrow. Don’t look at Oscar. But I do.
The night Greg died and Oscar picked me up, I confessed the predicament I found myself in.
The kitchen.
Luna’s pussy.
The table.
Lily.
The next morning, when Farrow called, asking where I went, I told him the truth too.
Oscar’s reaction was like someone choking on a golf ball. So I’m not surprised he’s struggling to stay composed now. His head whips from Farrow to me.
“The Yale boys know something,” Frog says, perking up. “Wait, if this has to do with Luna, I should know too.”
“Same,” Quinn says, more aggressively towards me. Like I’m sneaking around with his client, and granted, I am doing that. As her boyfriend.
Quinnie’s a good bodyguard.
“I’m staying out of this,” Farrow declares, eyeing me for a beat. He’s letting me unleash whatever I want.
I could be vague and slither my way out of this conversation. Something compels me to go in another direction. It’s odd to be cast out from SFO but also standing in a room with them. They’re people I love, who I’ve relied on and who’ve relied on me, and maybe spilling this is like hanging on to the essence of a fact I want to be true: They’ll always be here for me. Have they really left?
Will they really leave?
Whatever the case, I tell them, “Lily thought it’d be good if I left the Hale House.”
“Why?” Thatcher asks.
“She might’ve caught me eating Luna out in the kitchen.”
Frog gasps.
“Donnelly,” Akara says like a disappointed parent.
Banks is laughing.
Thatcher is shaking his head.
And Quinn asks me, “Is Luna okay?”
“I didn’t get to finish her, so in that sense no.”
Quinn glares.
Come on. “I didn’t hurt her,” I defend. Alright, maybe he’s taking his bodyguard duties a little too seriously. “You know me Quinnie.”
He eases. “I’m just looking out for her.”
“You don’t need to worry about her being with me. I’m always thinking about her,” I tell him.
“Does Loren know?” Thatcher asks.
“Not that I know of.” I look to Farrow.
Farrow chimes in, “Lily hasn’t told him, of what I know.” He makes a circle with his fingers. “All of us know, plus Luna, Lily, Maximoff.”
That’s it. Likely, it’ll have the same trajectory as when Jane walked in on us. It’ll disintegrate over time and be forgotten. SFO is good at keeping secrets. It’s what we do.
I highly doubt anyone else will hear about it.
12
LUNA HALE
“Your mom what?” Tom is slack-jawed, open-mouthed stunned.
I considered sheltering this catastrophic life event, tucking it away in the dusty corners of my closet, but this is my new beginning, where I share—and maybe overshare—to the people who matter most to me.
This morning, Aunt Rose and Uncle Connor invited friends and family to a pre-funeral breakfast, and Eliot, Tom, and I snuck away to the library, carrying porcelain dishes of croissants, pain au chocolat, and fruit.
The library is one of Eliot’s favorite spots in the whole Cobalt Estate. It could’ve been plucked out of a 19th century gothic novel, more macabre than modern. Heavy, velvet blue curtains frame a cold window, and a skeletal tree clinks against the glass. Dark wooden shelves seem endlessly tall as they reach the vaulted ceilings, and the only way to feel warmth is by sitting next to the crackling fireplace.
We’ve pulled three leather club chairs even closer to the hearth, and my two best friends are seated across from me. So I have a clear view of Eliot too.