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)
Maximoff smiles like he won something. “Looks like you wanted to kiss me.”
I walk backwards. “Never said I didn’t, wolf scout.”
My words and smooth tone must relax him. He oozes into the pillow, as much as he can for being in a sling and without heavy pain medication.
It’s always hard to leave when I love being around him. But this’ll be our regular routine when I restart my residency. And to be honest, I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Exiting the attic, I skip rapidly down the narrow staircase. Cats dart out from under the Victorian loveseat, and then I scare Walrus with my foot. He scurries beneath the iron café table.
“Stay there, you little bastard,” I warn, slipping through the adjoining door. Shutting out the calico cat behind me.
As soon as I’m inside security’s townhouse, I’m met with a stench that I can’t pinpoint.
Let’s just say it smells worse than Ben Cobalt’s rank B.O.
Akara looks up from the leather couch. “I know,” he says, clutching a Lucky’s Diner paper coffee cup, “I can’t figure out which one it is.” He motions with his index finger to the mound of boxes and envelopes. Packages are scattered across the coffee table and the hardwood floors.
Wicker laundry baskets, that aren’t used for laundry, line the brick wall. A name written on a travel tag is attached to each one. And a heavy-duty trash bag hangs off the fireplace mantel.
The smell stings my nose. “I’d say it’s rancid, but I’m not sure that’s the right word.” I step over Quinn’s spread of packages that pile up at the door.
“It’s probably food,” Quinn says, slicing through a cardboard box with a utility knife.
“Even spoiled food doesn’t smell like that, little bro,” Oscar replies, ripping open a manila envelope. He’s seated on a leather barstool at our high-top table. Security’s furniture is more comfortable and less pastel than everything in the neighboring townhouse.
And it’s not a surprise that Oscar is in Philly. Or Donnelly, who straddles the armrest and flips through a few letters. All of SFO spent the night since Charlie and Beckett are crashing in Jane’s room, and Sullivan is asleep in Luna’s bedroom next door.
We all stayed out late for trivia night at Saturn Bridges. Maximoff said most of his cousins would normally pass on those invites. But Charlie showed. Beckett showed, and so did Sulli and Luna.
Whenever they all assemble together, Omega inadvertently gathers. And very fucking soon, my role with the famous ones and security will shift drastically. I don’t try to predict how it’ll feel.
All I know is that I’ve never been afraid of the great unknown, but I’m definitely cautious going forward since I’m leaving more things behind than usual.
I pluck latex gloves out of a box. Every guy already wears a pair. Mail day is a minefield of the good, the bad, and the disgusting.
Oscar unfolds a letter. “Dear Charlie,” he reads. “Get Well Soon.” He crumples the letter and free-throws it into the hanging trash bag.
“Cold,” Donnelly says, reaching for a yellow mailer.
Thatcher glances up from a letter he’s been reading. “Charlie doesn’t want to read his fan mail?”
“The guy rarely does.” Oscar balls another letter. “I’ve been instructed to destroy all condolences.”
I snap on my gloves and tuck one-fifth of Maximoff’s mail under my arm. Drumsticks lie next to a carton of to-go coffees. I frown and pick up a wooden drumstick. “What’s with these?” I ask Akara.
He answers while texting. “Some teenage girl mailed them to me.”
That makes little sense. “How does the public know you were on the drumline?”
To my knowledge, most personal facts about SFO haven’t been unearthed. Especially since we deleted our social medias.
Then again, I haven’t been actively checking social media threats or keeping in touch with tabloid shit. When my relationship went public, I relinquished that responsibility to the tech team.
Just making that choice made me realize I was already pulling away from security.
Akara looks up from his phone. “Did you know Brock Carson from high school?”
“Never talked to that debate nerd, no.” I twirl the drumstick between my fingers.
“That debate nerd posted our yearbook on Reddit.” Akara returns to texting. “There’s a whole thread trying to find info on ‘Maximoff Hale’s boyfriend’ and they spotted me in the yearbook’s band section.”
I roll my eyes. Not thrilled that people are digging this hard into my past. I consider myself a fairly private person. Not many ever step into my business unless I let them. But I chose to be a public figure. I’ve known how invasive this could be.
Still, the creep factor is real.
“Let me guess,” I say, walking backwards to the open barstool opposite Oscar, “my senior photo is floating around the internet.” I had green hair in that picture.
“All over,” Akara nods.
Predictable.
I drop the mail onto the high-top table in a heap.