Tangled Like Us (Like Us, #4)

by Krista Ritchie

“Jane,” he whispers. “You don’t have to say a fucking word, if you don’t want to. I like all of you. Every part.”

“I love your lips,” I tell him. “They are quite soft and kissable.” Light reaches his eyes. “I love your freckles.” “I love your ears.” They’re prominent when he tucks his hair behind them. They frame his face very well. He leans in closer, our mouths a breath apart. “I love your thighs.” His hands dip down between them. His lips on mine. Our tongues caress in a frenzied, hot kiss. I only part to breath out, “I love your throat.”

Four of my brothers fill the screen. All the ones who are currently living together in Hell’s Kitchen. Beckett and Charlie share the couch while Tom and Eliot sit on the floor. I can see all of their hands, like a wide shot, which just means that Beckett must have called me from his laptop.

Beckett has always been the most private of all my siblings. Of the seven of us, he’s the only one who doesn’t appear on We Are Calloway, and he refuses to do interviews unless the ballet company requires him.

He holds up his phone. “We’re all going on a Cobalt social media blackout,” he says. “In solidarity.” A social media blackout. He quickly explains that means deactivating our Twitter accounts. Deleting all Instagram photos. They hurt one of us. We’re all going dark. Yes. This is a perfect plan.

“Ensemble,” I tell him. Together. All four of my brothers repeat the word. And then Eliot grins, mischievous twinkle in his eye, and he says something I’ve heard him recite a thousand-and-one times. But tonight, it’s never felt truer. “‘Let me play the lion too…I will roar.’”

“So Carpenter loves attention. Licorice hates it. Walrus is the rebel. Ophelia is the princess. Toodles is a sloth, and Lady Macbeth a wise, old owl. That about right?”

This girl is heaven-sent, and I’m fucking an angel. And gripping a one-way ticket to hell.

you don’t know me and you sure as fucking hell don’t know my type. If you did, you’d realize it’s the girl right next to me.”

He’s considered the king of this American dynasty—and he’s Jane’s dad. Guys on the team say Connor Cobalt is all-knowing, all-seeing like the Wizard of fucking Oz and if you have the honor of protecting him, you’ll come back with a higher IQ.

“Shitshit,” Luna curses. I open my mouth, but the guy’s head pops out of the sheet in a flash. He stares up at Luna with wide, concerned eyes. I know him. Chestnut brown hair, tattoo sleeve, and cut muscles, trained in MMA—he’s a twenty-seven-year-old Omega bodyguard. Paul Donnelly.

“Tom, Eliot and I have this theory that you can make anything fun, given the right circumstances. I’m making science fun. With sex.”

My mom taught me that there are some things mightier than friendship. Sisterhood.

“But maybe we should ease them in. Start with a simple, we have something to tell you and it’s not terrible. It could be wonderfully funny from certain viewpoints.” I don’t know whose viewpoint would call me fucking Jane wonderfully funny—but it’s definitely not mine.

And that was that. My relationship with Banks is one of the purest forms of love, and I’m selfishly glad that I have him to confide in again. I’m already thinking about all the shit I want to talk about. Ask him for advice. Lord fucking knows I needed his advice weeks ago.

I try to follow their logic. “So Maximoff smells like summer. I smell like spring.” Where is this going? Sulli nods. “And Farrow has white fucking hair. And Thatcher always wears those plaid flannels like he’s about to chop some wood in the forest.” Uh-oh. Luna beams. “Farrow is winter. Thatcher is fall. Which makes the four of you the Seasons.” She claps her hands accidently. “You have your own friendship name. We do our best.” She pounds a fist with Sulli.

I don’t want to be in the room when her dad sees that photo online. He might have a stroke. Hopefully Aunt Lily is with him. She always knows what to say to calm Uncle Lo.

I uncap the green cream. One dollop on my finger, I smear the green facemask down his nose like sunblock. My lips lift. “Mr. Moretti, I do say, you are quite handsome.”

And Ophelia is at the foot of the bed. Curled up watching me fuck her owner. We’ve shooed her off the mattress four times already.

She wrote: Thank you a thousand times. For everything. My lungs expand. I tear her note off the pad. Pocketing it, and then I write on the top blank one. It’s my honor to be with you in everything.

“And being honest, I didn’t know what Jane saw in you. I didn’t think you’d ever break a rule to give her what she wants and needs, and the fact that you did—it makes you someone I don’t mind hanging around.”

And ladies and gentlemen, behind me is a sword, a cannon blast, a shoulder to cry on, a stroke of hope—my mom.

sound of heels clicking on floor breaks our attention. Our heads swerve nearly in unison at the doorway. Poised and unflappable, our mom and dad push inside with purpose and determination. Each in their finest formal outfits. Black dress and tailored suit, respectively.

Powerfully, Beckett rises. Graceful like water, he puts a foot on the cushion to stand, and that’s when I’m certain—this is for me. He turns. Eyes on mine. “Sacrifice.”

This is a riddle I’ve just solved. My family loves riddles, I love riddles, and this one was meant to rip down my defenses. To be open to love, even if it hurts.

“Whose idea was this tonight?” I ask curiously. Everyone looks to Eliot. It worked well. Because my chest floods, and I hold on to the possibility that I might be hopelessly in…

Very softly, she says, “You would’ve been my Tarzan, and I would’ve been your Jane.”

Maximoff calls from the distance, jogging over like she’s in mortal danger. He’s dressed as Captain America.

He’s the Winter Soldier, but with his regular dyed, bleach-white hair. SFO has been talking about how Farrow and Maximoff broke the internet when they stepped outside together.

He’s been nice towards me specifically. And Banks too. I didn’t know why until I asked Jane. She said Charlie told her, “Thatcher chose his twin, knowing it’d be harder to be seen as an individual.”

I walked past this morning and saw Donnelly pinching his watery eyes. He was called here earlier to talk to the Tri-Force. They’re transferring him off Beckett’s detail. It wasn’t such a shock, really. Beckett learned about Donnelly’s deep-seated family history with drugs, and he didn’t want his bodyguard around cocaine. So he requested a transfer.

“I’m falling so terribly in love with you,” I say, my heart speaking for me. It feels good and right and perfect. “I think I’ve been falling for you for some time now.”

Thatcher is my most powerful catnip. I’m transfixed to him, all the while dazedly placing my bin, with Walrus, under the bed.

“I’m not afraid of Tony. The things he says just make my skin crawl, which is my number six.” I point to the notebook. Thatcher glances at the page. “Six, do not converse with me.”