“Then don’t make the announcement.”
“I don’t want surprise guests.”
Charlie lets out a vexed breath. “You just don’t want me there. And you can’t admit it, like a coward.” He stands.
I stand.
Someone raps the door. We quiet when it swings open, and Farrow stops himself from entering fully. He sees Charlie.
He sees me.
Farrow says to me, “Do you need me to come back later—”
“No. I’m almost done.” I watch Farrow slip inside and shut the door behind him. He leans his shoulders against the wood.
My focus returns to Charlie. “You’re unreliable and erratic. You’re not invited. And I’m not joking around, Charlie. If you show up unannounced, I’ll get security to escort you out.” I doubt I’d actually follow through with the threat, but I need to make my point clear.
Charlie doesn’t blink. “You’d use our security against me? There are only five bodyguards in Omega. One is at the door, and what would you tell them? Treat Charlie like the enemy.”
“No. You’re not my enemy. You’re my family, and the amount of energy I’ve spent trying to include you in the past could row a goddamn fleet of Viking ships—but you refused to jump on board. You wanted to do your own thing, and I get it. Go do your own thing. Stop fucking with mine.”
Charlie sits partially on the edge of the table, hand in his pocket. He turns his head to my bodyguard. “Tell me you see how big of a self-righteous asshole he is.”
Standing leisurely but on guard, Farrow says coldly, “I see how big of a prick you are.”
Charlie arches a single brow. “We both could be right.”
“Unlikely.”
“Then you’re a self-righteous asshole too.” Charlie stands. “Looks like you’re a perfect match for each other.”
I go rigid, even though he’s just referring to my bodyguard-client relationship. At that final note, Charlie exits—and I’m left hoping and praying that he’ll leave the CampAway alone.
31
MAXIMOFF HALE
FARROW INSPECTS my childhood bedroom like it’s a relic in a museum. He wanders to the wooden dresser and picks up The Fourth Degree action figures. His brown eyes swing to the black-painted walls, X-Men chalk drawings, and all the Batman posters.
He’s the first person outside of my family that I’ve ever let into my world this deep. And it’s not a fucking fantasy. I’ve dreamed up Farrow Redford Keene in this bedroom a thousand damn times. And usually he’s only on the bed.
You know—I prefer my reality. Where he’s a hell of a lot more than a good fuck.
I grab a wet bone off my orange rug. Tossing the thing on Gotham’s dog bed. Farrow whistles at the racks and racks of comic books and graphic novels that tower to the ceiling.
He runs his fingers down the spines.
I lean on my desk, arms crossed. “What does your old bedroom look like?”
“Messier than yours.” Farrow flips through a hefty graphic novel called Duncan the Wonder Dog by Adam Hines. One of my favorites. “Nirvana, Blink 182 posters tacked up, school books only, an expensive surround system, and a boxing bag.” He rotates the novel vertical as the panels flip. “In short, I was cooler than you.”
I force an irritated smile. “It’s like you want to be kicked out of my bedroom or something.”
His mouth stretches. “Or something.” He returns the graphic novel to its original spot and continues to meander around.
I can’t stop watching him. It takes a great deal of effort to check my canvas watch. “We can’t stay up here long. My parents should be home with Luna’s cake any minute.”
November 30th marks Luna Hale’s eighteenth birthday. Time fucking flies—I remember when she was just a baby and we’d tap each other’s noses and say beep beep.
As requested by Luna: no big birthday parties, no surprise family guests. Just a small dinner with immediate family, and later her best friends Eliot and Tom Cobalt will come over for a sleepover.
Farrow is here because my little sister has bad taste and has invited him to her birthdays since she was nine. Despite how much he aggravated me, Luna always liked him. Here he was, a pierced and tattooed guy who contrasted his blue-blooded clean-cut family. When you’re different from the pack, it takes more guts to be yourself.
Luna is drawn to people who experience that.
“I have a watch too, wolf scout,” Farrow says. “I see the time.” He sinks down on my small twin-sized bed. Comforter is a Spider-Man print. His brows pinch together.
“What?”
“This is one of the most uncomfortable beds I’ve ever sat on.” He rocks his ass on the mattress. “Fuck, it’s hard.” He leans back on his hands. “Is this why you’re so stiff all the time?”
The sexual innuendos stroke my cock. “My brother probably switched out his shitty mattress with mine when I moved out.” I flex my muscles and straighten up. Eyeing his lip piercing for a brief second—then his hair.
His hair is black.
He dyed the strands the other day, and I descend into this image of him—pretty much consumed. It’s not just that he appears older, or that his intimidation cranks to a higher newfound degree. He’s attractive with any hair color, any piercing, even minus all the tattoos or add them all together.
Honestly, it’s because the first time I ever saw this guy—he didn’t have white hair. Or blue. When I first met Farrow, his hair was jet-black. Like right now.
Today.
Farrow kicks a pillow aside and props his shoulders against my headboard. I imagine joining him, and he’ll pin me to the bed, then I roll him over, his stomach to the mattress.
Gripping his waist, tugging down his black pants enough to expose his perfect round ass, my mouth trails along his neck. And descends to the spot between his muscular shoulders—
“Maximoff.” His deep voice pitches me from a fantasy.
I lift my eyes.
He smiles.
“What?” I combat.
Farrow bends a knee. “Are you thinking about the philosophical meaning of the world or are you thinking about fucking me in the ass?”
Christ. I lick my lips, wanting my mouth against his mouth. Badly. I near the bed. “I wasn’t inside you yet.”
“Yet,” he repeats, his gaze sweeping my body in a boiling wave. He gestures me closer, until he stretches over and catches my wrist. He wrenches me onto the bed with him.
I’m on top of Farrow, my hands on either side of his head, but he hooks his legs around my waist and swiftly reverses me like I’m an MMA opponent. My head hits the pillow. He’s on top.
Farrow brings his mouth near mine. “You may dominate in the pool, but when it comes to submission moves and grappling, I’ll always have you beat.”
I breathe heavily. Chest rising and falling beneath him. One night, I asked Farrow to show me a submission move. True to his nature, he didn’t go easy. Not even on his boyfriend. I had to tap out of the chokehold in less than twenty seconds.
Farrow straddles my waist and sits up to reach into his leather jacket pocket. I’m about to say we can’t fuck here, but I stop myself when no condom appears.