Alphas Like Us (Like Us, #3)

by Krista Ritchie

He knows my dad isn’t enthusiastic about any couple relationships online. Not even his own brother’s. He mockingly calls my uncle and aunt raisins. On the semi-flipside, my mom overcompensates and will tweet fifty times a day about us: #Marrow for life! This is what love looks like #Marrow Proud mom #Marrow Fans created our couple ship name, and it really stuck after my mom used it. “Does Loren not approve of your relationship—” I cut in, “He does approve.” My dad is just overprotective, and I think he feels like a better dad if he gives my significant other a hard time.

If anyone is territorial in this relationship.” I motion back and forth between his chest and mine. “It’s me.” Farrow tilts his head at me, his eyes raking me up and down. And he says, “I’m just as territorial of you, wolf scout.” He’s not letting me take all the heat to protect him.

Farrow Redford Keene is infuriatingly cool, and God, I can’t believe he’s mine.

He wasn’t trying to replace my old one with something flashy. He gave me what fit me.

“Technically, my insurance will be on mine, but personally I’d consider them both of ours.” Both of ours. I repeat that. Both of ours. “You’re smiling,” he points out before eating. Yeah, it’s hard to grimace. “What can I say? I like your personalies more than your technicalities.”

I’m still majorly pissed at Thatcher. More than even Farrow at this point. I don’t understand why Thatcher keeps shitting on my boyfriend, and if he does it again, I’ll snap on him.

We’re public, and I’m allowed to touch my boyfriend. So I stand up about the same time that he drops his boot. He gestures me over, but I’m already heading to his side of the table. When I sit beside him—so close that my thigh is up against his thigh and his strong arm wraps around my lower back—flashes

My boyfriend presses the speakerphone button. “Oliveira.” “It’s bad, Redford,” he says. “Your info has spread across the whole internet. Phone number. Childhood address. Names of your family: father, stepmom, stepsister, and ex-boyfriends.” Farrow shuts his eyes before they roll in a giant arc. “Your seventh-grade MySpace page,” Oscar continues, “the name of your pet guinea pig.” Scuttlebucket. The only pet Farrow ever had died when he was twelve. “Email address, any old usernames on social medias, a password to your bank account—” “Where’s the security tech team?” I ask, and Farrow hands me my phone. He puts his own cell to his ear, calling the bank to freeze his accounts.

Oscar tells me that the security team is calling an emergency meeting. Even though Farrow doesn’t have a 24/7 bodyguard and he’s not one himself anymore, he’s still being protected by Alpha, Omega, and Epsilon. They’re treating him like family. And I don’t just mean a part of the Hales—I can’t take credit for this. I think it’s mostly because the security team loves him. I hang up with Oscar.

“When you fuck with Farrow, you hurt me. So if you care about me at all, don’t come at him with things like I deserve better and he’s not good enough for me. Farrow Keene is the only one I let in. The only one.” I’d point at my chest if I could. “That’s not by accident. It’s because he’s more than enough for me. He’s every damn thing.”

“You all should know…” I pause, layering on severity. “…I’m Farrow Redford Keene, and I have a gigantic, massive crush on Maximoff Hale.”

“How you call me ‘man’ in bed,” he tells me, lowering his lips to mine, a teasing breath away. He must catch my confusion because he clarifies, “It’s the way you always say it with extra force. It sounds more like I’m your man. Not just any fucking man.” He raises his brows at me. “It’s hot.”

This is still new for me. But the more and more I allow myself to be vulnerable with Farrow, the more my life feels at peace. I’ve found someone who can ease me in this intangible, miraculous, cosmic way.

It’s been one week since he returned to his residency at Philadelphia General, and my brain translates a text as Farrow gifting me a piece of red construction paper shaped into a heart, glitter glued to it. Fuck. My. Sappy. Brain.

“You don’t need to deal with a new inexperienced bodyguard, bud. Take mine.” Thanks to my dad, it’s been an easier transition. But there’ll be times where I search for my bodyguard. Expecting to see that widening know-it-all smile and the cocky raise of his brows.

“Because despite loving to be in control, you’re not a controlling fucker, Maximoff. You don’t make other people’s choices for them. You’re just there for them.” And when he needs to be reminded of that, of anything, I’ll be the first to tell him every time.

“The media took my privacy; you haven’t taken a thing from me, Maximoff. You’re giving me something so fucking precious: your chaotic, messy, bizarre-as-fuck family, and I also love them as they fucking are. Plus, I look forward to coming home and putting out wildfires with you. It’s not that complicated.”

Your doubts are always my concerns, and I’m here for you anytime, every time.”

Kinney already texted me, our cousin Tom Cobalt, and then Oscar and Farrow the details about the meet-up. She picked a date in June. LGBT Pride Month.

Both of us looking at each other and feeling the void of Donnelly at the Catholic church. Whenever Oscar says “realness” to anything, Donnelly cuts in with, because you’re the realest motherfucker I’ve ever seen. Especially during the times when it doesn’t make any sense. But it fit too perfectly there.

“All I’m saying is that Maximoff’s dad is no joke. I thought he was the funny one. Sarcastic and shit. But I almost pissed myself.”

“Why do you keep looking less like yourself and more like everyone else?”

“This guy wants a basic bitch. Go let him date a basic bitch,” Donnelly says while he finishes my ink. “Don’t turn into one.”

Donnelly tattooed a wolf with a pirate eye-patch, and two letters are inked on the patch. WS.

Connor Cobalt, Ryke Meadows, and Loren Hale have already claimed the other side of the wooden table. Three larger-than-life men. Each one had a profound impact on Maximoff, and it’s always clear to me when I speak to them just how great their influence was and still is to this day. Hell, I see them as different sides of my boyfriend: Connor is mental. He taught Maximoff intelligence, emotional restraint and confidence. Lo is emotional, the sarcastic, loving and empathetic pieces of him. And then Ryke is physical, all determination and stubbornness and unshakeable strength.

“Are you always this vague?” Connor asks me. “Good question, love,” Lo says and motions for me to answer.

Maximoff mouths something to Ryke, and that prompts Ryke to throw a wadded napkin at Connor, who easily leans back and dodges the affront. “Excuse the Rottweiler,” Connor tells me. “Continue.” Ryke rolls his eyes and buries his attention in a menu. He mouths, sorry, Mof. I’m a little bit surprised that Ryke Meadows isn’t going hard on me like the other two.

Lo doesn’t flinch. “Are you willing to watch out for my son’s well-being tonight?” Maximoff covers his face with his hand, a second away from groaning. “All nights,” I answer, trying not to laugh at my boyfriend’s distress more than anything. He’s making this easier on me.

“No DC at the table,” Lo snaps. “I swear to all living Marvel things, I grabbed the wrong child in the Home Goods store.” His eyes almost soften when tells me, “I lost him in the toilet section carrying around a plunger in aisle four.” “I was three,” Maximoff explains to me. “I thought it was a sword.” I smile picturing that, and this is one of those moments where I can feel Lo’s love for his son. I didn’t have that. It’s just a fact. But when I have kids, I want to give them that kind of unconditional, overwhelming attention and care.

“In other news, I was offered a condom sponsorship this morning.” Ryke almost spits out his water. “You have seven fucking kids.” “Royal sperm,” Lo quips. “Don’t fucking encourage that,” Ryke says and points at Connor’s billion-dollar grin with a butter knife.

Lo focuses on me. “Are you willing to show my son the same respect that I’ve raised him to show you?” Maximoff makes a face. “Where the fuck are these questions coming from?” I watch as Lo digs into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. “Questions for the Overly Tattooed Boyfriend of My Perfect Son Dot Com.” He gives me an iconic dry smile. “I hate tattoos.”

“I know,” I say with a nod. “Good thing your son loves them.” Connor and Ryke turn to Lo. Gauging his reaction. And Lo is narrowing his sharp-edged eyes at me, and very dryly, he says, “Does he?” Maximoff pipes in, “I really fucking do.” An amused smile breaks across my face. Fuck, I can’t believe he admitted that in front of me. And Lo laughs, a real laugh, all before passing the questionnaire to his brother. Ryke reads the paper in silence.

I look between the three men across from me. “I consider my sexuality the fifth or sixth most interesting thing about me. Being gay isn’t all of who I am, but it’s definitely a big part.” I take a beat. “And I’d have to come out all the time. Whenever a girl hit on me, whenever I introduced a boyfriend, I’d have to say I’m gay over and over again.” It wasn’t uncommon for most people to assume I was straight. That’s changed. “Being in a public relationship with Maximoff, broadcasted to the entire world, means that I don’t need to come out nearly as much anymore.” I start to smile with a laugh. “And that still surprises me.” It still kicks me in the chest. Maximoff shares my smile for a second, and he nods to me like it’s a good feeling, huh? I prefer to live my truest self. As terrifying as that can sound, there’s no freer feeling than being able to be me.

Keep Maximoff safe.

“Farrow,” Maximoff calls out, breathing hard through physical pain. He sees the rain cascade onto the windshield. “Wolf scout…” I hear the crush of metal. My pulse spikes into a cutting breath. Slowly, I reach out for my boyfriend, and his hand is in mine. I bring his large palm to my face. He clutches tighter.

Fancy shit doesn’t compare to being with Maximoff. Just here. Now, and I want to give him the most romantic getaway that he’s never had before. For five days, no kids running around, no siblings to worry about, and no meltdowns he needs to clean up. All of that mayhem, which we both love to face head-on together, will come later.

“I keep thinking about the past three days here…” He gestures to his head. “I think about how I’ve loved every damn second. I love how we’ve just lounged in the sun, swam, fucked, eaten, and slept, but then I think, is it bad that I love that? I should want to leave the villa.”

“You don’t relax easily, but you’ve been extremely fucking relaxed the past three days.” I let go of his hand and squeeze two fingers together. “You have a big thing for ordinary shit, and I have a bigger thing for doing the ordinary shit with you.”

He’s the iron-willed guy I saw at Harvard who needed all of me, and I had to wait years before I could give him everything.

I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life.’ I think about that whole passage every time someone says Marrow.” Farrow looks enamored. “Go on.” I try to explain in my own words, and I gesture to his chest. “It’s in your bones; it’s what keeps you alive. The foundation of your body. To suck out all the marrow of life…I think about how Thoreau went into the woods and stripped life to the barest necessities. To learn what life is really made of, the feeling of water slipping between fingers, the chilled glass in my hand, the wind that rustles your damn hair. And I think about how I feel these barest things every day with you. To live life at its most essential level so as to fully live.”

bury you.” The Hales have dug graves for weaker transgressions than what he’s confessing. My dad, my grandfather, have ruined countless men. I can ruin him.

And then an SUV slams to a stop onto the pebbled path. We both go still.

“Redford!” Oscar yells from the car. His curly hair blows in the wind. He’s the only guy here from SFO. Bruno and the rest from SFA file in and close around the camera crew. “Confiscate their phones,” Farrow tells security before the words leave my mouth, and I watch six bodyguards all descend upon the trespassers to protect us.

“You’re not leaving,” Farrow sneers. “I already gave you that chance. Now you’re going to stay until we’ve—they’ve combed through your equipment.” “And then we’re pressing charges,” I say, my voice stilted.

“Happy Birthday, Moffy.” My uncle’s smooth voice tears my glare away from Rowin. Connor towers above me in navy swim trunks, his poise and stature god-like. My dad jokes about how Uncle Connor is immortal since he only looks better with age. “Thanks,” I say to him.

Connor squats so we’re more eye-level. “The lawyers just called me,” he says. “They’ve stopped most of the pictures from leaking. All that exists is the one photo, and that’ll be it.” His deep blue eyes soften with soothing powers. “I’m so sorry.” The one photo.

“A violation of privacy is a violation,” Uncle Connor says. “It doesn’t matter the severity. It’s okay to be upset, even in front of me.”

Uncle Connor nods, understanding. “If you ever change your mind”—he rises to stand—“I’m always here.”

“You shouldn’t be around someone who’s made it clear they literally hate you. Not only is that a toxic work environment, but Christ, he could fucking hurt you.”

“But if this is something you need to do, I’m behind you. Always.”