Omega, those of us who protect the eighteen-and-older children, are the ones spread out.
Our movements mimic our clients. We don’t choose where we live. We just live wherever our clients do, and bodyguard shuffles happen.
Someone quits to start a family or concentrate on their kids. Someone is fired for incompetence. Someone wants a life-change. Whatever the case, the three security leads will shift many of us once a vacancy appears.
That person just happened to be me this time.
I never became a part of the “cliques” of Security Force Alpha. Because I hate cliques. And I was too much of a maverick to be accepted by the older, regimented bodyguards. Now that I’m a part of Omega, I’ll see Alpha less, which is perfectly fine with me.
Moffy tucks in the last corner of my comforter. “So when security found out you’d be my bodyguard, no one sent you condolence cards or told you that you’d be better off rocketing to the fucking moon?”
He’s fishing for information on how security perceives him—because Declan obviously told him shit. “No one had time to send me cards,” I say. “But if they did, most would say good luck trying to steer that ship.”
“Sounds about right,” he says. “Is that it?”
Wow, he knows nothing. If I came face-to-face with Declan today, I’d shake his hand and say, you’re a fucking asshole. But I’d have to do that with two-thirds of the security team. We all have different relationships with our clients.
I prefer the mutual kind.
“No one would pity me.” I slide my empty duffel beneath my bed. “It’s not like when Oscar was transferred to Charlie’s detail. We all threw him a funeral.” I raise my brows in a wave at Moffy.
He smiles a bit and shakes his head a couple times. “Charlie.”
Charlie Cobalt, his nineteen-year-old cousin and the oldest Cobalt boy, is notoriously difficult to follow around. One day he’ll be in Ibiza, the next Paris, then Japan—he’s spontaneous, unpredictable, and out of all the kids, his frank tweets and comments go viral the most.
Only a second passes and Moffy’s lips start to downturn, his cheekbones sharpening. I’ve heard rumors from security that Moffy and Charlie don’t get along.
I’ve even seen them argue before. If he rarely hangs out with Charlie, then I’ll rarely see Oscar.
That’s how this works.
Maximoff checks his buzzing texts, but soon after, he slips his phone back into his pocket. “So today, I’ll have lunch at my place. You can settle in here, whatever you need to do, and I’ll go to my office in Center City about two. I’ll text you when I’m in the garage.”
“I need your number.”
His brows pinch. “We’ve never exchanged numbers?”
I chew slowly again. “We’ve never needed to, wolf scout.” When we were younger, I only saw him when I had to tag along my dad’s on-call appointments or the holidays the Hales invited us to. Labor Day cookouts, some birthdays. It’s not like Moffy and I were friends.
He was only fifteen when I was twenty. I was in college with friends my own age.
I tilt my head, watching him stare off into space. I wave my hand at Maximoff. “Did I lose you?”
He moves my hand away, mentally present, and then he reaches out. “Pass me your phone. I’ll put my number in your contacts.”
“Or you could just hand me yours.”
“No.”
I roll my eyes at the firm no, but I decide to just comply and give him my cell for now. It’s not an argument I need to win. “What about after your work ends?”
He types his number on my cell and hands it back. “Dinner plans are up in the air. I’ll let you know if I’m going to a restaurant.”
“Are you in for the night after dinner?”
Before answering, Maximoff pulls his damp shirt off his head and balls the fabric in a fist.
My brows hike at his sculpted body, broad swimmer shoulders, and lean torso that gleams with sweat. Photograph-worthy, a money-shot for paparazzi. Certain clients want money-shots “blocked” from cameramen. Some post money-shots on Instagram so they’re worthless for paparazzi to sell. Others don’t care.
His Rule #67: don’t worry about money-shots. It’s not important.
I eye the curvature of his long arms. “Is the gym a constant pit stop? Because your mom was a certified couch potato.” I used to spend my tiny free time at Studio 9 or passed-out asleep.
Maximoff rubs his damp forehead with his bicep. “The pool.”
“Just the pool?”
“Yep.”
I scratch my throat where my tattooed swords lie. “I can count eight places on your body that say you’re full of shit.” I casually point at his abs.
Maximoff scrutinizes me. “You look unimpressed.”
He’s used to people outwardly fawning. I begin to smile. “Because mine are better, wolf scout.”
He huffs, then glares and motions to me. “Take off your shirt and we’ll find out.”
I pop my gum. “I love a dare.” I pull my V-neck off my head and then toss my shirt on the mattress.
His gaze sweeps the black ink on my chest, ribs and abs—almost everywhere. My fair skin is a mosaic of skulls, crossbones, swords, rough swelling water and sailing ships. Colorful sparrows and swallows intersperse the gray scale pirate imagery.
I follow his eyes as they descend. All the way to the hem of my black pants.
Normally I’d think he was checking me out, but Maximoff has more ethical boundaries than a football field stacked on top of a tennis court stacked on top of a hockey rink. I bet he’d drive a sword through his heart before he broke his morality.
“Mine are better,” he retorts.
“We’re going to need an unbiased judge.”
Moffy glances at the door. “Janie isn’t home yet.”
“I said unbiased.”
“Find someone who doesn’t know me, and then we’ll talk.” He’s aware that’s impossible. Then he asks, “Is my list still in your back pocket?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll want to take it out and write this down.”
His list was thorough, but he definitely left out significant details concerning sex. I didn’t even see any mention of NDA’s on the paper, but he has to have those if he wants to fuck strangers and not have his underwear stolen.
I say, “I can memorize whatever you have to tell me.” I’ve already memorized his 132 rules in the car, and I briefly skimmed the eight pages. Steady hands, sharp mind—I graduated top of my class at medical school, which enraged half the faculty. I didn’t “look” the part. I heard “take out your piercings” and “cover your tattoos” daily.
And they nearly shit themselves when I got neck and hand tattoos my second year. Still, I graduated in the top one-percent.
Maximoff doesn’t prod me to grab a piece of paper. He barrels ahead. “At some point,” he says, “not tonight because I’m still digesting this new arrangement—”
“Relationship,” I correct, and his shoulders instantly lock. It definitely annoys the fuck out of him that we’re attached somehow.
He steps over my comment. “Soon I’ll go out to a nightclub, and I’ll find someone to fuck. It’s just about sex, NSA”—no strings attached—“a one-night stand, and I need you to remember this next part.”
“What?”