He slowly scrolls down to the first bullet point, and I see words: Maximoff Hale fights with his fists first and talks later. Exactly like Ryke! Compare the most recent video of Maximoff losing his cool at a Philly pub with this old video of his Uncle Ryke Meadows outside a diner.
Maximoff plays the video of his uncle and increases the volume, barely audible in the club.
Ryke must be no older than twenty-five in the footage. Unshaven, tan from the sun, brooding, tabloids like to call him an aggressive jackass.
Ryke grabs his helmet off his black Ducati.
“How’s that Calloway pussy, Ryke Meadows?!” A preppy-dressed man snickers, jumping up on the curb near Ryke.
“Go fuck yourself,” he growls, hardened to stone and white-knuckling his helmet. He cements to that one spot, zeroed in on the man like a predator to prey. The look in Ryke’s eyes feels the same as the look that was in Moffy’s.
The man snickers. “If you don’t tell me how Calloway pussy tastes, then I’ll just find out myself. Starting with the youngest one—”
Ryke lunges and swings—
Maximoff abruptly clicks off his phone. The screen blinks to black. Taking a huge breath, he asks me, “Did that video remind you of me?” He stares me dead in the eye. Building defenses against my upcoming response.
I want to be transparent with him. No hoarding secrets, no doling out lies, but this truth will hurt him a little. I suck in a breath through my teeth. Pinching my fingers, I say, “Seventy-five percent.”
Maximoff digests this silently and then he eyes my fingers, obsessed with my hands for some precious reason. “Your seventy-five percent looks a hell of a lot like two-percent.”
I smile, and as the music booms, I have to raise my voice. “Then you’re not looking closely enough!”
“Purposefully!” he shouts back, gripping his cellphone in a tight fist.
I chew my gum, assessing his tense state. Turning my head into his neck, my lips a breath from his ear, I say, “Lean back with me.”
“What?” He stiffens.
I raise my brows. “He’s never relaxed on a couch.” I let out a long whistle. “The new things I’m showing him.”
Maximoff realizes what I mean. He pockets his phone like he’s accepting a bet, and then he slides back until his spine hits the leather. His shoulders unwind, somewhat.
After a short, silent beat, he says, “Thanks for being honest with me. I mean it.”
I hear the deep sincerity in his voice. “Anytime, wolf scout.”
Our arms touch unconsciously, and when our heads turn towards one another, our faces are only a couple inches apart.
The air seems to crack with that familiar, hard-to-breathe tension that I felt weeks ago when I massaged him. Our gazes grip securely.
In my head, I can be his bodyguard and sleep with him.
I’m that good. And it’s that simple.
In his head, I’m not sure what’s going on up there.
He inhales strongly, his chest rising, and his gaze bores into mine, searching for a sign. Mine caress his like the stroke of flesh against flesh. I want to slide nearer. I want to wrap my arm across his shoulders and close the two-inch distance.
My muscles tighten as I stay still, pulse pounding. And the next look he wears, I know that look. The look that melts his forest-green eyes and softly and forcefully begs, kiss me.
I breathe, my body doused with kerosene. Lit on fire, and just before I make a move, a sound, a clearer, more visible acknowledgement for him, his gaze just drops.
Off of me completely. To the ground, then the bar where girls start squealing in glee at the eye contact he gives them.
I grit down, pained like someone ripped out a rib. I comb my hands through my hair, and Maximoff stands up.
I stand not a millisecond after. “Where are you going?” I ask tensely.
“I don’t know,” he mutters, and then shakes his head like he’s trying to catch his bearings.
“We need to talk,” I say, but he can’t hear me over the sudden switch in songs, a hardcore rock anthem blasting. He’s already leaving the VIP area.
I follow. Step-for-step beside him, and a stool instantly opens at the crowded bar. Maximoff smiles at a short brunette in a sequined mini-dress. “You can sit!” he tells her. “Don’t get up for me!”
I restrain an eye roll.
She giggles.
He flags down the bartender and orders drinks.
For his safety, I have no other choice but to do my job. I stand behind him like an intimidating authority, someone that says don’t fuck with him. Since he wants to be approached tonight, I shouldn’t be scowling this hard.
I’m out of the way, but in the way. Unseen, but seen. All of those oxymorons are killing me tonight.
She gasps and says, “No way!” a thousand times.
Moffy leans down, cups his hand by her ear, and whispers for a full two minutes. Her eyes glow like she hit a jackpot, and she nods repeatedly.
I can only imagine that he’s telling her he wants to fuck her. In a subtler way but still blunt. Upfront. Sex only.
I spit my gum into my wrapper, my jaw aching. I pocket the thing, and then the girl hops off the barstool and heads for the bathroom.
Maximoff stays by the bar, and since this is my first time being his bodyguard while he’s trying to get ass, I’m somewhat in the dark. It’s not like he listed this in his rules.
He faces me. “We need to talk!” He has one-hundred percent padlocked his feelings. I glare, his face so impassive, so inexpressive—you’d think he’s channeling Connor Cobalt. His uncle who can will away emotion whenever he likes.
I hate it.
I step towards him and whisper in the pit of his ear. “Are we discussing your flirting techniques?” I unwrap a new piece of gum while he struggles to hide his feelings.
Let it out, wolf scout.
He gestures to me. “I assume you’re asking for advice.”
I smile and pop gum in my mouth. “That’s funny, I assumed you wanted advice from me.”
“You should look up the word joke because I don’t think you know the definition of funny.”
I whistle. “You’re just on a fucking roll today, aren’t you?” He can’t answer. A server swoops in with his earlier drink order. Club soda for him and a cocktail for the girl. She sets the cocktail on the bar, and I grab the club soda off the tray.
I pause before I put my lips to the rim. “You’ve never taken a sip of alcohol,” I say to Moffy, “which means you don’t know what it tastes like.”
He stares at me, blank faced. “Is there a question in there or are you just Nancy Drew-ing shit out loud?”
“I’m more of a Hardy Boy, but nice try.” Our eyes lock, more headily, all the while I put my lips to the glass and sip.
Sharp alcohol bites my tongue. “It’s spiked with vodka.” I look for the server.
“Just let it go. It’s not a big deal.” When he sees me searching for a server, he adds, “Farrow, it’s fine.”
He refuses to complain, but he can send back a spiked drink. And if the act makes him feel like an asshole, I’ll fucking do it for him.
Maximoff tells me, “Declan would just drop it.”
“I’m not Declan,” I remind him for the forty-fourth time this week. I catch a server’s attention. “I need a bottled water, sealed.” I give her a fifty-dollar bill.