Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I stand right next to Maximoff.
He gestures the girls forward. “Want a photo?”
More screaming. “THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!”
I increase my radio volume to drown them out, and I eye their pockets and purses and hands. Staying alert. Eh, I don’t typically do this for preteens.
The chance is low.
The risk is low.
But I realize I’m more vigilant than I’ve ever been. Most bodyguards would add precautions. And I don’t mean extra security. They’d tell Maximoff to change his lifestyle. Sacrifice these interactions. Be less public.
He’d feel choked, and I still want to provide him that safe middle-ground. Shit, I love giving him what other people can’t.
I’m not forcing him into a cushioned room with no windows unless it’s dire.
I just can’t do that to him.
16
FARROW KEENE
We’ve reached the one-hour mark of the Cleveland FanCon. The crowds are massive. Crew and assistants buzz around the conference room like invisible insects, and temporary security manages the long, weaving lines of excited fans.
My sole focus: Maximoff Hale.
Five velvet-roped aisles lead to plain-white backdrops. Jane, Maximoff, Sullivan, Beckett, and Charlie stand in separate aisles.
Different lines.
Less chaos.
Fans cue up and wait for their turn to meet their favorite celebrity. A line coordinator motions for a twenty-something brunette girl to approach Maximoff. She wears a FanCon shirt and eagerly sprints towards him, throwing an arm around his neck like they’re long-lost friends.
He hugs back, smiling genuinely.
I stand only a few feet away, hands cupped in front of me. I’m out of the photos, but close enough in case there’s trouble.
“I’m such a big fan. I love you so much!” She speaks hurriedly. “Are you okay? How’s your nose? Who brought you breakfast? Did you have a nice shower? Oh my God, I can’t believe this is real. I’m meeting you right now.” She pets his arm.
I chew my gum a little harder. This is the sixty-seventh time I wish I could say he’s mine. I know what I like and what I don’t like, and I’ve never been into people “caressing” a boyfriend.
But I’ve also never dated a celebrity.
“I’m good, I promise.” He squeezes her shoulders in a side-hug. “What’s your name?”
“Penny. Oh my God, please say my name.”
“Penny,” he says with a bigger smile.
She squeals.
“Want a picture or autograph?” he asks. “Q&A will be later. Hopefully we’ll be able to answer some of your questions then.”
“Yes, yes! Can you sign my shirt?”
“Yeah, definitely.”
An assistant is ready and passes Maximoff a Sharpie.
Penny clutches his bicep while he uncaps the pen. I hone in on her hand that veers to his chest, dives down his waist, and even reaches his belt. I wait, wait, and her hand moves south—I step in, my mere presence an electric shock.
She jolts backwards, wide-eyed at me and my tattoos.
“Try to keep your hands above his waist.” I’ve repeated this phrase too many times today.
Before she pales, Maximoff smiles again like nothing is awry. Distracting her from being called out. “Where do you want the signature?”
“The back of my shirt. Thank you so, so much.”
When she leaves, his eyes briefly flit to me in thanks.
I nod. Dick-grabbing crisis averted. The only person touching his cock will be me.
Oscar’s voice floods comms. “Now confirmed, this is taking forever.”
We’ve barely made a dent in the lines.
“It’s Sulli,” Quinn says through mics. “Someone tell her to stop having twenty-minute conversations with fans.”
Oscar returns. “Look at you, little bro, trying to take charge and keep an eye on a Meadows girl.”
I click my mic. “Shit, it’s like he’s Akara.”
“He wants to be,” Oscar says, his tone half-joking.
“Fuck you, bro.” That was a real fuck you.
“Hey,” I cut in. “He’s fucking with you, man.” I’ve seen some Oliveira fighting flare-ups on the bus, and to be honest, I don’t like it. I prefer all of us ribbing Quinn and him smiling at the end. Not this pile of shit.
“He’s a fucking asshole,” Quinn growls.
I can’t believe I’ve gone from mentor to mediator. I speak into my mic. “Akara, this is all yours.”
“Chill on comms,” Akara says, “and leave Sulli alone. She’s new to this. I’m getting her line coordinator to usher people out faster.”
“Smart thinking, boss,” Donnelly adds.
Thatcher has been absent from comms, and I quickly scrutinize Jane’s line next to me. Three feet from her, he stands like a brick wall, hands cupped in front. Zeroed in on fans who excitedly bob up and down.
“Maximoff, this is for you!” A boy hands Maximoff a scrapbook he made. I watch the friendly exchange.
“Redford,” Oscar says in my ear. “Look at Charlie’s line.”
I reroute my attention for only a second and crane my neck to the very end of the set-up. Charlie is the furthest from Maximoff, and his line is almost empty.
One blonde girl snaps a picture, and I read Charlie’s lips that move with one word: bye.