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“You want the cold-hearted truth?” His voice is a deep, pained whisper, so only I hear. “I’d be better off if you never even existed.”
well ya know what Charlie, Moffy was here first so piss off
Have you ever felt like you need something or someone? Just for one moment. Just one damn second. I’m rarely alone, but I’m not talking about Jane or my parents or any of my siblings or family. Have you ever felt like you’re missing something? Like a void exists, and you’re not sure how to fill that space?
I’m not used to unloading on people, but for some godforsaken reason, I want to unload on him. I know he can carry it.
Somewhere in some alternate universe, I’m a philosopher writing dissertations on that fucking smile. And its sheer effect on me.
His graveled voice wraps me up like safety.
“You want me, you have me. Let’s go, wolf scout.”
She’s still Janie. I’m still Moffy. And we’re best friends until the bitter fucking end.
Jane Eleanor Cobalt is my number one. My ride-or-die.
You’ve definitely seen Beckett pick up random girls at NYC nightclubs. You don’t know that he sometimes goes to private sex parties—the only reason I know is because he once told Eliot, who then let it slip to Tom. Who told Jane. Who then told me. Gotta love family.
I wanna hang out with Beckett
Donnelly smirks. “Farrow knows a little something about protecting and serving orgas—” “No.” Thatcher shuts that down.
She really felt like shit for not believing you.” “Good,” Jane snaps. Beckett continues, “She also told Dad they needed to cut out their hearts for the betrayal and gift each to you in a glass jar.” Jane tries not to smile. “Encore mieux.” Even better.
He steals the phone out of my hand. Basically, I let him have it. I’m not here to cultivate secrets and lies between us.
My dad has always been candid with me, but this is different. How he’s speaking—it feels like he’s reaching to a place he rarely touches and he’s splitting himself open. He’s fallible. Imperfect. He’s been telling me that since I was little, but my dad had always been a superhero in my eyes. He’s so human. It hurts.
“You think I care about the company? You could drive my business into the ground, bud, and as long as you’re breathing and alive and happy, I wouldn’t care.”
Twigs rustle in my peripheral. I crane my head over my shoulder. Two figures hide poorly behind leafless maple trees. Only about twenty feet away. 85% chance of eavesdropping. My dad gapes in mock surprise. “Christ Almighty, I wonder who the hell that could be.” Connor and Ryke emerge and glare at each other, shirking blame for being discovered.
“I accept,” I say, “but Janie’s gonna need more than that.” Connor nods. “I’m aware. She already asked her mom and me to write a three-thousand word essay on why we love her.” His lips pull upward, admiration for his daughter clear in his eyes.
I’d rather buy him a bottle of booze and call it even, but knowing Thatcher, he’ll want my firstborn and my coronary artery.
he’s perfect for Jane 💀
“What the hell are you doing?” She pants, “I read on Celebrity Crush that if you dance a lot, you can possibly, maybe, somewhat make your period appear.”
“I just kissed the fuck out of you, and now you’re thinking about your mom?”
He feigns confusion. “Let me get in my time machine. Look at that, I just kissed the fuck out of you. Not the other way around.”
I start to smile. I can feel us finding footing in our friendship again. And I think we’re going to land upright.
I pull Jane into a hug, and she immediately wraps her arms around my waist. This is home. This is safety and love. She is my best goddamn friend, and I don’t want anything to ever come between us again.
“I missed you too, Janie, and we’re going to get through this.” “Ensemble,” she whispers a Cobalt declaration in French. That means together. Together.
“I put on The Fifth Element—” “One of Luna’s favorite movies,” Jane says, already knowing. I nod. “And I made her a Pop-Tart.”
“Don’t ask him,” I tell Maximoff. “Donnelly tattooed Cobalts Never Die on his knee. He’d create imaginary curses for any family but that one.”
“Just tell me the diagnosis,” Maximoff says, still pinching his nose. “I need facial reconstructive surgery, right? A brain transplant tomorrow? Probably a full-body cast and a coffin fitting?”
“I love watching a Harvard Dropout self-diagnose a nosebleed as a full-body injury.”
Sulli wavers uneasily, disliking confrontation.
same
Every damn time I’m with him, it feels like the first time we’re together. He’s inched under my skin, into my blood stream, definitely my brain—I’ve been a fucking goner since I was sixteen. And I still haven’t fully accepted this fact. That someone in my life is here for me. Because they love me. A romantic love. Not family, not solely friendship. It still seems unbelievable.
“Little did he know, I’m the best at everything I do.” My brows scrunch. “It’s like one minute you make sense and the next, it’s Klingon.” Farrow stares at me for as long as he can, then fixes on the road. “Not ashamed to say that I don’t know what the fuck that means.” “Let this go on every record that ever exists: I know something that you don’t.” Farrow glances back. “Enjoy this while it lasts because it won’t last long.” “I always last longer than you,” I retort. Farrow whistles. “The last time I made you come must’ve really fucked with your memory.” “Did you make me come?” I feign
...more
Donnelly licks my palm, and I wipe my hand on the side of his face. “You motherfucker.”
He grasps the hat rack. “True. I’ve fucked moms before.”
The Omega co-lead pretty much ignores me and Farrow, and he takes a seat near Jane’s feet. She scratches her neck and props herself on her arm. “Thatcher,” she greets. “Jane,” he greets too, like they haven’t seen each other all day. When clearly they have.
“Thought you might need this,” Thatcher says as he hands her a hot water bottle.
She clears her throat slightly. “Merci.” She nods to him. He nods back and leaves without another word.
“He must’ve seen my Instagram story. I said that I had cramps and forgot to bring a heating pad on the bus.”
“I just find him beautiful to look at. Like an Italian painting. He’s exquisite, don’t you think?”
I’m extremely attracted to turning him on and watching him get off. Fuck, I’m going to make him come hard.
I sense Oscar silently telling me to “stand down” and not intervene in a Cobalt-Hale feud. As bodyguards, we’re not allowed, but that’s my boyfriend on the end of someone’s glare. And I’ve never sat idly by and let a man I love fight a battle alone.
Farrow and I—we’re still in the early stages of our relationship. I’m pretty damn sure. Like 70%. If we’re basing the “stages” on time, then I’m confidently 99%. Because we haven’t reached a six-month mark yet and that seems like a solid relationship number. I think. Because if we calculate hours spent together, our number is ridiculously high—stop thinking.
Obviously I don’t know how any of this works. There’s no playbook for dating your bodyguard. If there was, I’d own about a million goddamn copies.
“I get it,” I say. “You don’t like anyone tying you down—” “One person can tie me down,” he cuts me off and then glances at me. “You’re smiling.” “I’m not.” I sort of was.
His grin has landed in James Franco territory. “I didn’t say that person was you.” I blink. “You ever hear of that annoying six-foot-three guy with bleach-white hair who died in a Chicago stairwell?”
“So let me try to understand,” I say. “You’ve known Donnelly for almost ten years, you let him tattoo you, crash at your place, you probably introduced him to security work, and you still don’t consider him your best friend. In fact, you refer to him as an infection.”
He rubs my thigh, almost to say, don’t overthink. Good idea. I hadn’t thought of that one before.
I never even dreamed about falling in love until I fell in love with him.
“Truth,” he reads. “Strangest place you’ve ever had sex?” One sip of whiskey, he answers, “Back of a Walmart outside.” He crumples the napkin. Oscar and Akara rib him for choosing Walmart, and he just nods.
A text message from my little sister Kinney at 3:24 a.m., a witching hour, means only one thing. I asked the Ouija board if you suck and the ghost told me yes. – Kinney
“Truth,” he reads, “how hot do you find your client—no, this is inappropriate, Oscar.” “I can explain,” Oscar says in a professional tone. “I meant for Akara to pick that.”
Thatcher loses his third dice. Out of the game. He picks his last truth or dare. “Truth, when’s the last time you jacked off?” He finishes off his whiskey. “Three hours ago.”
