Sinful Like Us (Like Us, #5)

by Krista Ritchie

“This is going to be the biggest, most selfish event you’ve ever thrown, and you’re going to have to be okay with that.” Moffy stares faraway in thought.

I glance at Thatcher. I thought he’d be looking between Maximoff and Farrow, but his eyes are on me. Butterflies flap in my stomach, and I fumble as I file the florist contact list, then I clear my throat. “Um…” I shake my head. How strange and wonderful it feels to be seen—but for the right reasons. Not maliciously or perversely but adoringly. Lovingly. Protectively. Carefully. I grab onto words that flit past my brain.

A winter retreat in the Scottish Highlands with my boyfriend—I take a breath and smile. Brimming with excitement, I rock back on my heels and collide into Thatcher’s hard chest with a thud. I freeze. This is all allowed, Jane. We’re together, and the security team doesn’t have to sign off on our public interactions as part of a ploy anymore. He clutches my hips, and my lungs expand. While I lean against his body, I weave my arms behind him and slide my hand down his back pocket. His peach-perfect ass is all mine.

By the end, Farrow is grinning so wide that his smile reaches cheek-to-cheek. “Just say it,” Thatcher cuts in. “You like breaking the rules for her,” Farrow tells him matter-of-factly. Thatcher looks only at me, and my heart swells. No man has ever made me feel like a rare beauty worthy of sacrifice. He’s never sought after my fame or fortune. He’s just sought after me.

I hold his neck, and our eyes sink into each other. As though the world falls hush around us, as though meeting the safety I’ve always craved has the power to stop time and grow impossible gardens. As though we’re Adam and Eve and whatever sinful deed we commit, we’ll commit together. Wild pieces of my hair stick to my lips. His narrowed gaze is full of purpose and potency. He breathes hard. I breathe harder. “Thatcher.” I can’t leave my best friend. I can’t leave him, and I’m not ready to be dragged out of this bar like I always am when Maximoff fights. “You’re my eyes,” Thatcher says strongly. “Watch Banks. He’s helping Farrow and Maximoff. Copy?”

My pulse decelerates for the first time, and I realize it’s because I’m in Thatcher’s arms.

Thatcher has spent countless nights at this sports bar with his family. He’s told me about how his uncles would buy Banks and him beers when they were teenagers. Yes, even underage, and they’d watch football and blow off steam. He’s rigid against me, boiling. “You grew up in this shithole like the rest of us!” “And I made it out! Unlike you!” I cringe, hating every little jab that Tony loves to take. South Philly is a beautiful place, and I want to turn and defend Thatcher to the death, but I made a promise to watch Banks. Not coming to my boyfriend’s defense—it hurts like a billion blades in my stomach, but I force myself to stay pinned to his brother.

It’s very possible Thatcher’s introduction into my family will be grueling, taxing, and of the most theatrical, over-the-top caliber—and

Life is chess. And I need to be ten moves ahead of Charlie.

“Oh hey, you don’t have to get up for me.” Sulli knots her long brunette hair in a messy top bun. “Really, I can just fucking stand or take another stool.” Banks has already risen. “It’s not like you’ll block my view or anything.” He’s six-seven to her six-foot. “Go ahead.” He’s offering her the seat beside me. “Thanks.” As Sulli sits, she watches Banks and Akara clasp hands and pat each other’s back in greeting.

“It’s for comms?” Sulli stands and slugs his shoulder. “He’s not a cock!” Banks laughs. Sulli lands a fist in his arm too, and he hardly sways and just grins into a sip of beer. Akara smiles more and places his hands on her broad shoulders. “You’re not the butt of a joke.” “Yeah but Will is, and he’s not a fucking cock, Kits.” Banks tips his head. “We’re just callin’ it like we see it, mermaid.” She huffs. “Yeah? And his cock is probably ten fucking times bigger than both of yours.” Akara and Banks try not to laugh, and then Banks says, “No way in hell.” She goes still and glances down at their crotches. I can’t blame her. My curiosity has piqued too, but Sulli flushes a deep red, her breath shallow. She turns to me, an SOS signal in her green eyes.

“Murder with the Cobalt fam,” Donnelly says through a mouthful of cheesecake. “Those who slay together, stay together.”

First come the bodyguards. I count five. And then five famous faces bring up the rear. Charlie, Beckett, Eliot, Tom, and Ben. Every single one of my brothers. They’re all here, and they’re far too fixated on Thatcher like he’s tonight’s five-course meal.

“Do not cower,” I coach quickly. “Do not avoid their eyes. Do not show fear. They’re little fiends that will chew you up like you’re nothing more than a three o’clock snack.” A shadow of a smile plays at his mouth. “You smile now but they can smell blood in the water, and the second you cut open a weakness, they will poke and prod until you’re bleeding out.”

I’ve never been in this position with my siblings. I’ve never felt like we’re on a battleground and I stand opposite all of them.

He cups my hot cheeks, his large hands cocooning my face, and it helps me breathe somehow. I curl my fingers over his strong wrists.

Because the sky and Earth know that most of my brothers are tremendously arrogant.

I quirk my brows, lips parting. “You would jump naked over a fence for me?” His complete unwavering, sexy self-assurance says hell yeah. I rest my chin on his chest, looking up.

He’s straight-forward and direct. I talk like I’m taking every roundabout, side-street, and detour on a map, and lately we haven’t always crossed paths. He’s trying not to be lost inside metaphors and subtext.

We turn, just as Tom trots closer with buckles clinking on a black rocker jacket. Golden-brown hair artfully styled, mouth in a corkscrew smile, charm and mischief melded together. He’s eighteen and I’ve seen him grip a microphone like a second heart. Singing with every ounce of power and feeling inside of him. Captivating a screaming, frenzied audience with such tremendous ease. But in this moment, he’s not a lead singer of an emo-punk band. He’s just my little brother.

One who put toothpaste and shaving cream on our dad’s pillow, thinking he wouldn’t notice. (He did.)

One who was so afraid of Jurassic Park as a child, he crawled into my bed for ...

“You think it’s us?” He means the dead quiet. Eliot grins. “If it’s n...

If the God of War and hedonistic Dionysus birthed a child, they’d spit out my ni...

It’s best not to confront Eliot and Tom. They’ll joke around the truth like they’re batting an inflatable ball over my head, and I need answers. So I do the sensible thing...

I touch his arm. “Que se passe-t-il?” What’s going on? He winces a little. “Demande à Charlie.” Ask Charlie. I frown. “What’d he put you up to?” “Nothing. I want to be here,” Ben says strongly. “It’s important.” I wonder why our sister isn’t with them, but it’s a question for later. My voice is soft as I ask, “Then why do you look pained?” “Parce que. Je ne pense pas que cela te plaira beaucoup.” Because. I don’t think you’ll enjoy this very much.

His lips are noticeably downturned and face sullen. He locks eyes with Donnelly, his former bodyguard. I mutter under my breath, “It’s like a break-up.”

Beckett is a heartbreaker, I’ve come to realize.

The media talks about how we, Cobalts, are intelligent and witty. Poised and confident. But very few mention how deeply we feel.

How Eliot can summon tears out of cold-hearted eyes. How Beckett can make your awed gasp feel like the last breath you’ll take. How Ben can harness your empathy so you do the right thing. How Tom can wake the dead things buried inside you. How Audrey can bottle love and romance like it’s life’s greatest necessity. And Charlie—everyone thinks he has no soul but his is just the darkest, deepest of them all.

A coy smile inches up his lips. “You know I’m not.”

I zone in on the ornate head of the cane: a gold lion eating a snake.

“Why does this have to be a war?” “It’s only a war if you make it one.” “Then what is this, Charlie?” He sighs out an annoyed breath. “You know what this is, Jane.”

A test of loyalty. Interlopers beware. The Cobalt brothers will not let you through. Farrow endured a lukewarm version. Beckett took it upon...

For once, I would like my family to shelve the dramatics.

Charlie squats and rests his forearms on his knees, our eyes parallel. I’m just as smart, just as capable, just as strong as my dear brother.

I don’t back down. “We don’t need to do this, Charlie.” “Yes we do.” He leans forward. “Just remember we love you.” Heat builds in my body, and I whisper back, “I hate you right now...

I recognize the military lingo, but not all my brothers do. They send each other wary looks, and it creates a new tension. A new divide between them and Thatcher. As though we belong to two vastly different worlds, and it’ll take blood and sweat to pull him into ours. We can do this. I try to bolster courage as I come up beside my boyfriend. Thatcher clasps my hand and threads our fingers. We can jump over fences naked together. Don’t be afraid, Jane.

Cobalts are a tornadic force you don’t want to fuck with.

all five Cobalt brothers strewn across a U-shaped booth like they’re Apollo, Zeus—godly figures—posing for an oil painting to be immortalized.

And the Cobalt brothers—they’re cited as the “sexiest,” oozing some kind of ancient, sensual allure.

Trying to determine which one will be the flat-out hardest to please. Charlie Cobalt? He’s a wild card. Could be helpful, could be antagonistic. Could be something that I’ve never confronted before.

“Did you hear that, brothers? Thatcher, here, was respectfully fucking our sister.”

“It’s what I heard, dude.” Tom slouches back, lip upturned. “All Thatcher said was that he was respecting our sister,” Ben argues.

Eliot fists the neck of the wine and tells Ben, “It was said between his words.” “Subtext.” Tom drums his fingers on the table.

Empty bottles and half-eaten baskets of wings are cleared off the table. Familiar scents of cheesesteak and beer linger. I shouldn’t be surprised the Cobalt brothers wanted to stay at South Philly Brew since Charlie bought out the bar. But they could’ve easily just taken me to some upper-class, blue-blooded, rich-prick place where I’d have to feel my way in the dark to the finish line.

The security team is going to talk about this shit for years. Not because I plan to run my mouth about it.

Eliot is destructive. Most of her brothers are like ticking bombs on the verge of explosion. Just don’t set one off.

But I also can’t tell if he’s bluffing. There could be nothing but smoke behind the curtain.

Comms sound in my ear. “Take the wine from Charlie,” Oscar instructs. “He’ll appreciate it.”