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 don’t know that word,” I say sarcastically.
“Because I’m smarter than you.” Farrow soaks up my irritation like a sponge.
I blink slowly. “Thank you for the bucket of lies. I needed those—” I cut myself off because his phone buzzes not once or twice. Repeatedly. Incessantly.
Notifications start pinging too.
We both frown.
Farrow digs back in his pocket and pulls out his phone. I stand beside him, and he flips the cell over.
Texts pop up, one after the other.
OMG FARROWWW – 993-555-4343
Fuck me good, baby – 876-555-2908
You and Maximoff are the cutest. Just wanted to tell you that. Xoxo – 404-555-3888
Hey asshole, Maximoff is a good guy. He deserves better. – 202-555-1010
Fuck you. He would have never cancelled the auction. You’re a horrible influence. I hope you die. – 342-555-9876
That auction was for CHARITY. You’re too jealous for him. He could do waaaay better. –161-555-2800
Maximoff should be with a cute soft boy that he can cuddle and love. Not you. – 675-555-4323
My stomach nosedives off a hundred-foot cliff. We exchange a cautious look, and then his phone rings with an unknown number.
“Don’t answer that,” I tell him.
“Wasn’t going to.” Farrow skims the screen. “Give me your phone.”
I pull my cell out of my pocket. At the same time, someone calls me. Caller ID: Oscar Oliveira.
Farrow takes my phone, and I listen fixatedly. Ready and prepared for damage control. Another DEFCON 1, here we fucking go.
My boyfriend presses the speakerphone button. “Oliveira.”
“It’s bad, Redford,” he says. “Your info has spread across the whole internet. Phone number. Childhood address. Names of your family: father, stepmom, stepsister, and ex-boyfriends.”
Farrow shuts his eyes before they roll in a giant arc.
“Your seventh-grade MySpace page,” Oscar continues, “the name of your pet guinea pig.” Scuttlebucket. The only pet Farrow ever had died when he was twelve. “Email address, any old usernames on social medias, a password to your bank account—”
“Where’s the security tech team?” I ask, and Farrow hands me my phone. He puts his own cell to his ear, calling the bank to freeze his accounts.
“Tech team is preventing a phone hack. But, Hale, this info is coming from other sources. Like Redford’s friend-of-friend-of-friend’s social media accounts spread over fucking years. Anytime he popped up in pictures or by name, people are connecting it together and finding more info about him. It’s snowballing.”
Farrow speaks hushed near the sink. Talking to the bank.
“He’s being doxxed,” I realize.
His private information is being leaked for public consumption. I’ve tried to prepare for this doomsday. I’ve told myself for years that it could happen to whoever I dated publicly.
And I won’t let anyone, especially doxxers, make me regret our decision to go public. But fuck those people who do this to human beings for shits and giggles.
I’ve never had complete privacy. So I’ve never experienced what Farrow is going through right now. I imagine it’s like you’re suddenly being disrobed in front of the whole world. And you can’t grab the robe back—and I hate that I can’t shield him. That I have no power to protect him.
All I can do is just be here.
It doesn’t feel like enough.
Oscar tells me that the security team is calling an emergency meeting. Even though Farrow doesn’t have a 24/7 bodyguard and he’s not one himself anymore, he’s still being protected by Alpha, Omega, and Epsilon.
They’re treating him like family. And I don’t just mean a part of the Hales—I can’t take credit for this. I think it’s mostly because the security team loves him.
I hang up with Oscar.
“I need to piss!!” Knocking on the door.
“Fuck off!” I yell.
“…okay. Bye,” Farrow says before hanging up his call. He slips his phone in his pocket. He’s relaxed, but there’s a tinge of frustration and anger reddening his eyes that I can’t miss.
I just want to help.
Any way that I fucking can.
Farrow leans on the sink. “Looks like we’re not going to be fighting over who pays for this date.”
I near him. “They drained your money?”
“Two grand five minutes ago. Gone. The bank flagged the activity and froze all of my accounts.”
As soon as I’m in arm’s reach, we draw together. Instinctively, our hands roam and hold and grip. He whispers, “I don’t have any cash on me.”
I trace the wings on his neck. “I planned to pay anyway.”
He stares into me. “And I planned to ruin your plan.” His palm runs up back. Pushing me as close to his chest as possible with my sling.
I hug him tighter around the shoulders. His jaw skims against my jaw. His fingers massage the back of my head before clutching harder.
I don’t let go of him.
I can feel his chest collapse. I hold stronger.
Breath deepening.
We stay in this embrace for a long moment. Our pulses thumping together, and the world seems to go calm. And quiet.
As we pull back, our eyes say the same thing: