“That’s a fucking terrible superpower.”
“No kidding.” Xander hot-potatoes his toasted pastry. “P.S. Dad is throwing a party in honor of your license suspension today. Everyone is pretty happy.”
“I saw the group-text.” The party is parents only which is kind of bullshit since it’s about me. I eat another chip. “Are you happy about it too?” I ask.
He shrugs and then looks at his pastry. Xander reaches some pretty low lows, and our parents hawkeye him a lot. They’re even more aware of his health than I can be.
Xander barely lifts his gaze to the camera. “I overheard Thatcher saying the CampAway’s new format is ‘life-threateningly’ dangerous.” Thatcher Moretti is his 24/7 bodyguard, but young girls bombard Xander so often that Banks Moretti, Thatcher’s identical twin, is also on my brother’s detail.
“Thatcher is one of the stricter guys,” I remind Xander. “He’s probably overreacting.”
“Yeah but…” A tense beat passes before he tells me, “I need you to live long, Moffy.” He pauses, his eyes glassing a little bit. He scratches his nose and then rotates the camera to face his paper plate.
I stare hard at the phone.
My whole life, I’ve seen the media and nameless, faceless human beings shit on the people I love. Over and over. Clawing with no end in sight. Trying desperately to tear them apart. Ripping at the jugular. I walked on a sidewalk at ten-years-old and heard the word rape thrown at my mom in threat.
You wonder why I didn’t become bitter at the world.
You wonder why I don’t resent the world.
Because I knew I needed to become something that could withstand the world.
For my siblings, for my family, for anyone who’d grow up after me and need someone to defend them when they can’t defend themselves; when they need a shoulder to cry on or a safety net to fall in—I’m here. I’ve been here.
I’m always here.
Strongly, I tell my brother, “I’m not going anywhere, Summers.”
22
FARROW KEENE
BLACK AND ORANGE Halloween streamers and pumpkin lanterns drape Maximoff’s kitchen cupboards. I line up bottles of liquor on the countertop. Tequila, vodka, and flavored rum. I also purchased two six-packs of beer, a jug of orange juice, and a liter of Fizz.
Maximoff scowls at the haul.
I arch my brows. “You told me to buy a variety.” I wave to the bottles. “This meets your requirements.”
Unsaid Rule #1: Maximoff Hale cannot, under any circumstance, purchase alcohol himself.
Not unless he’d like a front-page headline saying he broke his sobriety. To save himself that headache, he had to ask me to make a liquor store run.
His grocery list said: lots of different alcohol, Different types. & Chasers.
I already annoyed him about his bad punctuation and random capitalization. One of my favorite things to do. And I’ve pointed out that for a guy who’s overly precise, this was the vaguest list he’s ever given me.
Maximoff crosses his arms over his dark-red crewneck, a domineering presence in the cramped kitchen. At the sight of his shirt, my mind drifts for a second.
I’ve noticed he’s been ditching most of his green shirts for red. A deliberate, calculated change.
The public associates most of the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts with their favorite colors.
And his dad’s is red.
Ryke’s is green.
I’d never tell Maximoff to not care about his dad. Hell, it’d be impossible for him to even try not to care. But the more he attempts to prove his dad’s worth, he’s essentially more and more and more like Ryke Meadows.
It’s a shit Catch-22. There is no winning, and he’s smart enough to have already figured this out. Maximoff is just too headstrong to let go and do nothing.
“What about whiskey or scotch or bourbon?” Maximoff asks me. “You didn’t buy a single dark liquor.”
I lean a hip against the counter, our bodies naturally close due to the small space. Maximoff draws even nearer, our knees knocking. We’re alone in his townhouse.
For the moment, at least.
I hook two fingers in the waistband of his dark jeans. “Remind me,” I say, voice husky, “what’s the goal tonight?”
Maximoff stares at my long tattooed fingers, lost in his head all of a sudden. He uncrosses his arms. And he clasps my wrist.
He drives my hand down his jeans. My mouth curves, and I gladly pull us closer, chest-against-chest, and I slip my palm beneath his boxer-briefs.
His heady forest-greens rise to my mouth. His ravenous, forceful expression sears my body and contracts my muscles. I can practically see all the ways he wants to fuck me in the reflection of his eyes.
“Besides the obvious goal,” I whisper. “My cum in your mouth.”
He hardens beneath my firm grip, but his hand is still wrapped around my wrist. “You mean my cum, your mouth.”
So that’s how it’s going to be tonight. Playing for the lead. I smile, not giving into his demands that easily. “I said what I said.”
“The goal…” he remembers. “The real goal tonight…” Maximoff pulls my hand out of his jeans. To clear his head for a second. I comply and rest my elbows on the counter.
I help him verbalize the “real” goal. “Is to get your cousin drunk.”
Maximoff scowls at the whole scenario. “Or like she said, ‘I want to know what it feels like to be fucking drunk.’ Which could be one beer or three or twenty vodka shots.”
“Twenty shots,” I repeat flatly. “We’re trying to get her feel-good wasted. Not kill her.”
We’re not talking about Jane Cobalt.
His nineteen-year-old cousin Sullivan Meadows asked him for advice about partaking in a “quintessential adolescent party night” with booze included. Something she’s never done since she dedicated her time to competing and swimming as a professional athlete.
For three hours, this was all security could talk about. Our coms convo went something like this:
Donnelly: does Moffy know anything about booze?
Me: he knows vodka is clear.
Akara: don’t get me started.
Oscar: someone convince Jane to convince Charlie to go so I can be there.
Me: or we could just have fun without you, Oliveira.
The younger Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts all refer to Maximoff for advice, help, anything. And while the guy is great at many things, he’s not great at everything.
Like alcohol.
Apparently his cousins and siblings don’t care about good advice. Just his advice. It speaks volumes about their sheer love for Maximoff. And their lack of common sense.
Maximoff returns to his first point of contention. “Feel-good wasted can include dark liquor.” He glares as my amusement brims to the surface. “What?”
“Thank God for my drunk adolescent behavior. You see, we want to start her with the basics, not level her up to a graduate degree in drinking.” I count off my fingers, staring with my thumb. “No whiskey, no bourbon, no scotch, no puke.”
He blinks slowly into a no-nonsense glower. “You’re getting off on this.”
“Getting off on what?”