I drop my hand and breathe in flaming determination. “It’s not about what you think. It’s never been about what you think.” It’s about everyone else. He may see himself as a villain, but I won’t add to the demonization of Loren Hale.
It’s my job to showcase the narrative where he’s the hero. Where I’m the son that idolizes him, and I need everyone to see that.
His jaw cuts like a blade. His glare just as brutal. “No. No goddamn way are you changing who you are because you think the world needs to love me.”
“I’m not changing who I am,” I combat. “It’s just hair. It’s just a fucking color that I’m not wearing.”
“Then why aren’t you doing the ultra?” he refutes. “Give me another reason that you’d miss out on an experience like that. Go for it. I’m waiting.”
Fuck.
Off my shock, he says, “Yeah, Ryke called me the other day. He said Sulli told him you’re having second thoughts. All because my brother ran an ultra-marathon before. Moffy, do you see what’s happening here?”
I set my intense gaze on the star-blanketed night, and I make a decision right here. “I’ll do the ultra.”
“And you’ll stop dyeing your hair,” he adds. His unspoken words: you’ll let this go completely. Can I let go and do nothing? Can I live with myself?
I lower my gaze to my dad. “I have to keep trying.”
He just stares at me and says, “One day you’re going to look back and realize why you were wrong. You’re going to understand. One day.”
34
FARROW KEENE
“WHAT THE FUCK,” Maximoff mutters as he inspects a box of hair dye and then he rereads the back label.
We’re in my bathroom, same hellishly small size as his, but no decorations exist. See, both townhouses are currently empty. No Jane or Quinn around while they spend the night in Manhattan, visiting her twin brothers. So we have free reign of my place for today and most of tomorrow.
“Missing something?” I ask while I’m at the sink. I fit a #2 blade into my hair clippers.
“Gloves.” He rummages in a plastic bag of shit he just bought at the drugstore. That outing took three hours, extra security, and my knee in a fucker’s groin.
When we exited the store, a middle-aged photographer tried to grab Maximoff by the crotch. Tried being the key word.
The man ended up bent over in pain.
Maximoff may be used to hands all over him in massive crowds like a packed concert—people tugging at his shirt, his waist, even pulling at his hair and neck—but no way in fucking hell am I letting anyone cup his ass or grab his dick.
“More disposable ones are under the sink,” I tell him and set the bladed clippers on the edge. Our eyes lock in a hot beat. And he hones in on my abs, my shirt off and tucked in my back pocket.
He licks his lips. “I can get them.” Maximoff nears, then kneels and digs through the cabinet. His shoulder brushes my leg.
“You look good on your knees,” I say.
“Even better than you,” he rebuts.
My lips lift. “That’s not what you said last night when you came in my mouth.”
Maximoff shoots me a half-hearted glare. I’m going to be honest here: he’s basically smiling. Gloves in hand, he straightens up—and his chest accidentally bumps into mine.
Stubbornly, we don’t move.
His irritation and slow-growing smile surface with a look that says, you’re the one in my way.
I’m definitely starting to love this whole lack of space thing. I reach up and slide my fingers through his thick hair. “So you want to match your roots then?”
Maximoff stares off a little bit as my fingers skate along his scalp. He really likes that. His body shifts closer, waist knocking into mine.
I rake my hand through his hair again. “It’s not too late to go blue.”
“What?” He blinks out of his stupor. Where’d you go?
He didn’t hear me.
“Blue hair, wolf scout,” I repeat, massaging his head.
His brows knit. “I like your black hair.”
I almost laugh. I’d pay to see what he’s picturing when he tunes out his surroundings. “Okay, but I didn’t mean blue hair for me. I meant for you.”
“No way.” He turns, just to grab his box of dye, but my hands drop off him. “That’s something you can shelve in the never fucking happening category.”
I lean my side on the sink. “Isn’t that the category where you placed me driving?” I give him a look. “Seems like a flexible category.”
He flips me off. “It’s not.”
I watch him open the box and start to mix hair dye in a plastic bowl. Maximoff always dyes his hair himself, so the whole process isn’t new for him.
We share the mirror and the tight space in front of the sink. I plug in the bladed clippers.
Next to me, he tugs off his shirt. Damn, those abs. Maximoff throws his gray crewneck aside.
And he suddenly asks, “You think I’m a prude?”
Maximoff. “That wasn’t even on my mind.” I remember what Kinney called him two days ago. “But I see it’s been eating at yours.”
He rubs lotion on his forehead near his hairline. Just so the dye won’t stain his skin. “I’m just thinking about how I didn’t get a piercing with my siblings, and I’m thinking about what that means. And maybe it says I don’t love them enough to get one.”
“Or it says that you’re not easily peer pressured, not even by your siblings.” I stare at him through the mirror. “You refused a piercing, knowing you didn’t want one—that’s hot.”
He’s smiling. And trying not to. He puts on his gloves.
I push back the top, long black strands of my hair. I’m only lightly trimming the sides. “Anyway,” I say, “I don’t think you’re a prude. But you’re definitely another ‘p’ word.” I run the blade above my ear.
“It better be philanthropic.” Maximoff spreads dye in his hair like shampoo. In the mirror, he watches my hands more than he watches himself.
My smile widens. “Pure.”
He blinks into a glare. “I forgot that you don’t know the definition of purity.”
I run my blade over the same spot. “You can have a lot of sex and still be pure.” I’ll always see him as being genuinely good-hearted. “And if anyone disagrees with me, I don’t give a flying shit.”
His throat bobs like my words just fisted his cock. He tenses, and then slicks his hair back with dark brown dye. “You know why I’m going back to my natural color?”
“I can crack a guess, but no, I don’t know for sure.” I didn’t want to pressure him to tell me. I figured he’d open up when he was ready.
Our gazes meet through the mirror. “It felt right,” he says strongly. “I didn’t mind dyeing my hair lighter or wearing more red instead of green, but all it was doing was adding conflict in my family. So it felt right to go back.” He combs more dye through his hair. “I’ll find another way to show the world I’m proud of my dad. Just not this anymore.”
I trim the other side of my head. I’ve always believed he’s damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t, and all he can do is trust his gut instinct. He once asked what I thought, and I just said, “I’d go with the option where you’re not fighting with yourself.”