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)
And the world seems to still.
His chest collapses, breathing heavily beneath me, and I pant a little bit too. In the calm, the quiet, our eyes never detach. Dirt streaks his cheekbones and jaw, and I’m sure mine are similar.
I look deep into this guy and remember why I’m awake, why he’s here. I could’ve told him to go back to bed, but I didn’t. We spend an insane amount of time together, but whenever I’m around Maximoff, I only want him to draw closer, and I think, another minute, another hour.
And then those minutes turn to days and hours to weeks, and before I even blink, I’m consumed. Hook, line, and sinker. He has me.
Maximoff clutches the back of my neck. If his eyes could speak, they’d be whispering, kiss me, fucking kiss me.
Before he tries to bring my head down, I cup his jaw and lean forward. Our breaths are ragged, but not from wrestling.
My mouth slowly skims his, teasingly close, and his chest expands in a wanting breath. Fuck. I hold his face with two hands, and we both close the short distance.
Our lips meet with hot power, and everything bursts inside of me. His skilled tongue parts my mouth, and I bear more weight on him as he drives the kiss deeper. Like he’s reaching for the center of my soul.
And then a five-note jingle bell chime interrupts the most cinematic moment of my entire life.
“Shit,” I curse and sit up but I’m still straddling him.
“What was that?” he breathes hard and props himself on his elbows.
I take my phone out of my pocket. “I set that noise for notifications.” Specifically for the @maximoffdeadhale account.
Maximoff rubs his lips like he still feels me on them, and he watches me unlock my phone and pop open Instagram.
I frown at the two new pictures. Mentally, I push past the photoshopped gore, and I fixate on the locations. The first pic is clearly set in Nashville, a sign in the back, and the second city landscape is recognizable to me.
Boston.
A rock lodges in my throat, and my muscles tighten. Nashville and Boston are the next two tour stops. And both haven’t been publicly announced yet.
It can’t be a coincidence anymore, and if I woke up Omega, I’m certain they’d all say the same.
“What is it?” Maximoff asks.
My jaw tics. “You have a stalker.”
He’s not afraid. “Officially?”
“Officially. Whoever’s running this account knows about the tour before the public.” It’s someone close to the families, to security or crew, and if they have this kind of inside information, I wonder what else they have access to.
24
FARROW KEENE
“I’m going to ask you this once.” Thatcher confronts me on Christmas Eve. All of SFO—except for Oscar who drives us to Atlanta—are secluded in the second lounge. Not for a meeting.
Not for a lecture or a pointless fight.
We’re all undressing.
For a Hot Santa Underwear Contest. Our clients are the judges, waiting for us in the first lounge. We randomly picked underwear styles out of a hat. From tame to nearly-naked. Akara dubbed tonight “chill” and “fun”, but everyone forgot Thatcher has no concept of either.
As I pull my black shirt off my head, I try to suppress an eye-roll. “Okay, ask me,” I say. Multi-colored bulbs flash to the beat of a holiday jingle, and more lights are strung throughout the bus.
Thatcher unbuttons his charcoal shirt. “Did you tell Jane and Maximoff about the stalker?”
I unbuckle my belt, a bitter taste in my mouth. I can name a hundred other topics that deserve anger, and keeping my client and his client in the loop isn’t one of them.
Akara, Quinn, and Donnelly undress around us, listening and watching a shit storm brew. I can already tell Akara is pissed. His eyes pierce me as he wads up his muscle-shirt in a fist.
“Yeah, I told them,” I say easily. “I assume you overheard them talking about it.”
“I did.” His voice is strict. “There are rules, Farrow. Rules that protect the mental well-being of Maximoff—”
“He’s desensitized to this shit,” I cut him off. “It’s more helpful keeping him informed—”
“No it’s not,” Thatcher retorts. “We can gather intel without him. We know everything about his relationships, his life. There’s nothing he can give us that we can’t learn ourselves.”
That truth bothers the hell out of me. I can consume his past without even speaking to him or asking for permission, and that’s not what I ever want to do. I prefer a less invasive route.
I extend my arms. “I told him the truth. I don’t regret it. I wouldn’t change it, and if you’re looking for something different, I can’t help you.” I understand the rule about keeping demented shit secret.
I followed that rule when Lily was my client. It applies to her and kids like Xander. Anyone who may get anxiety.