Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 174544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Okay, I know he’s Jane’s husband and father of her child and not just a bodyguard, but honestly that makes it worse. He’s a Cobalt by Marriage. A CBM as Eliot put it, and there are certain things that Cobalts by Blood don’t even know about Tom and Eliot. Things I’ve been sworn to take to my grave.
Thatcher waits for me to say more, but I spin on my heels and sprint to the elevator.
“Where are you headed?” Thatcher calls out, needing to keep tabs on me, and this is when I know he’s talking to me as a bodyguard and not my cousin’s husband or a roommate. Being a new dad clearly hasn’t affected his concern for my safety.
Quickly, I yell, “I’ll be back soon! Have a good day! Tell Baby Maeve and Jane I said howdy ho!” Sprinting away, I’m high on adrenaline as I enter the elevator. I realize I might not be useful to Donnelly right now, but I can be useful somewhere else and it feels good.
Only problem: I don’t want to involve Frog.
I haven’t wanted any bodyguard on my detail lately.
Venturing in the city without security isn’t new to me either. Tom, Eliot, and I aren’t like our older siblings. Paparazzi aren’t always lurking around every corner. They aren’t always riding the bumpers of our cars. And I’m aware that my stories leaked only a week ago, but with Maeve Moretti entering the world, the spotlight has shifted. And if there’s a lightbulb still directed my way, that’s what my hoodie (aka superhero disguise) is for.
I draw the black hood over my head, and I make myself small. Discreet.
A while ago, I asked Charlie how he takes rideshares in Center City and Manhattan without being spotted. He told me he has an account with a fake name. The next day, I set one up for myself.
Maybe I am my own hero, after all.
I smile, confidence reemerging bit by bit. I pop open the rideshare app on my phone under my alter-ego Illyana Dallas and request a ride. My phone beeps.
FROG
You going out? Thatcher called and told me you were leaving the penthouse.
Guilt blooms like a freshly plucked flower. This one is my own fault. If I ignore Frog entirely, then she can’t be blamed. It’ll be on me instead, and I’ll just be one of the difficult clients to work with.
Like Charlie.
And yeah, some in my family might say I shouldn’t be taking pointers from that cousin of all my cousins. But I’m not Moffy. I don’t make the right decisions all the time, and maybe I understand Charlie more in that instance.
I guess this means I’m less in leagues with the Captain Americas. More in leagues with the anti-heroes of the world. The Lokis, the Deadpools, and the Magnetos.
I wonder if Frog knew she was protecting a sometimes-villain.
My heart pangs as I think of her in the past tense. Frog is a good person, and she’s been an amazing bodyguard…a friend. After Beckett’s bodyguard was hospitalized last week, I just keep picturing Frog with two black eyes and broken bones. It’s easier sneaking around alone, and I don’t want to see anyone on my detail get hurt.
I leave Frog on read just as my ride arrives.
With little traffic, it’s not long before I’m dropped off in another part of Center City, an intimidating six-story brick building in view.
The Philadelphia headquarters for Calloway Couture. Garments are designed, tailored, and shipped to retailers and the famous CC boutiques from this building.
It’s not a shock Tom pinned this location. Aunt Rose designed a special line of men’s suits for the spring, and all five of her sons agreed to model the clothes for a fashion ad. Each suit is even named after them. The Charlie, The Beckett, The Ben. Eliot and Tom were able to approve some of the design elements to their suits too, and I remember they needed to schedule a fitting.
Which must be today.
I’m already out of the rideshare and standing on the curb. Still unrecognized. It’s an intoxicating feeling, and I let it carry me to my best friends. Once I’ve passed through front door security, flashing my ID, they give me directions to the Cobalt brothers.
Less than three minutes later, I push into the cozy-sized fitting room and drop my hood off my head.
Ohhhh no.
My eyes widen at the sad mannequins lying supine on the carpet with scissors and pushpins, the frilly-edged drapes hanging lopsided on the window like a body smacked into them, and two antique chairs are tipped haphazardly on their sides.
Eliot is currently standing on a squeaky couch cushion, wearing nothing but blue boxer-briefs. Panting like he’s been chased around the tiny fitting room, he hoists his phone over his head.
“Eliot,” Beckett says as calmly as he can, jumping on the couch and attempting to grab the phone, but Eliot is six-four and Beckett is only six-one.