Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
I unscrew the mustard bottle.
Lo focuses on me. “Are you willing to show my son the same respect that I’ve raised him to show you?”
Maximoff makes a face. “Where the fuck are these questions coming from?”
I watch as Lo digs into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. “Questions for the Overly Tattooed Boyfriend of My Perfect Son Dot Com.” He gives me an iconic dry smile. “I hate tattoos.”
“I know,” I say with a nod. “Good thing your son loves them.”
Connor and Ryke turn to Lo. Gauging his reaction. And Lo is narrowing his sharp-edged eyes at me, and very dryly, he says, “Does he?”
Maximoff pipes in, “I really fucking do.”
An amused smile breaks across my face. Fuck, I can’t believe he admitted that in front of me.
And Lo laughs, a real laugh, all before passing the questionnaire to his brother. Ryke reads the paper in silence.
“These are fucking terrible,” Ryke says, his gaze veering as our food parades over, and while we all dig into burgers and fries, we talk about the latest Fourth Degree movie, the Philadelphia Eagles, and how in July all three families have planned a trip to Greece.
But instead of Greece, we keep saying Tahiti in case anyone overhears. It’s the code name. That trip is approaching fast, and it spans over Maximoff’s birthday. It’s a vacation that I wasn’t supposed to be attending. Because I should’ve still been in a residency program.
Now that I’m out, I can go.
I notice Jack Highland setting his camera down towards the end. He speaks in Tagalog on his phone to someone. I hear the name Jesse. His little brother.
As we’re winding down eating, Connor asks me what’s one thing that surprised me the most about losing my privacy. The three of them reminded me that they were in their early twenties when they became famous after a scandal, and they knew what privacy felt like.
They weren’t born into fame like Maximoff.
I toss my napkin on my plate and lean back on my chair, considering his question for a half second before the answer reaches me.
I look between the three men across from me. “I consider my sexuality the fifth or sixth most interesting thing about me. Being gay isn’t all of who I am, but it’s definitely a big part.” I take a beat. “And I’d have to come out all the time. Whenever a girl hit on me, whenever I introduced a boyfriend, I’d have to say I’m gay over and over again.”
It wasn’t uncommon for most people to assume I was straight.
That’s changed.
“Being in a public relationship with Maximoff, broadcasted to the entire world, means that I don’t need to come out nearly as much anymore.” I start to smile with a laugh. “And that still surprises me.” It still kicks me in the chest.
Maximoff shares my smile for a second, and he nods to me like it’s a good feeling, huh? I prefer to live my truest self.
As terrifying as that can sound, there’s no freer feeling than being able to be me.
“Motherfuckers,” I swear behind the wheel of the Audi.
Paparazzi bang on the car windows so we’ll roll them down. The rapping fists on glass need to stop. We haven’t left the restaurant’s graveled parking lot yet. Maximoff’s dad and uncles inch ahead of us in a Land Cruiser, and security is behind us in another SUV.
Add on these other facts: lunch ran late, the sun has fallen, and each camera flash sears like a strobe light.
“MAXIMOFF!! FARROW!!!”
I slam on the horn. “MOVE!” I shout without rolling down the window.
Maximoff yells at paparazzi, “You’re going to get run over!!” He gestures them to get the fuck out, but they just crowd closer. Standing in front of the hood with hefty cameras.
It all goes to hell when the Land Cruiser finds an exit and veers onto the street. All the paparazzi that’d been crowding their vehicle suddenly rush ours.
“One of us should get out,” Maximoff says.
I assess him in a quick sweep. He’s been death-gripping his leg, and I know he wants to be in control in this situation. But he has no license. “Hold on. I’ll be able to reach the street.”
It takes a long second, but the tires meet the curb before I’m blocked in again. Hoards of cameramen put their own safety at risk. They are standing on the road.
Fuck.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Maximoff growls, squinting at the harsh glare. He yells at them through the windshield. “You’re going to kill yourself!!”
Flashes burst directly through my passenger window, and my aviators aren’t shielding the light. “I’m rolling down my window,” I warn Maximoff.
As the window rolls, the noise level amplifies, and I scream, “Move! Get the fuck out! You’re not allowed to do this!”
“FARROW!! MAXIMOFF!! Look here!!”