Unlucky Like Us (Like Us, #12)

by Krista Ritchie

Charlie’s always been direct. Blunt. He shoots shotgun shells at close range, so you have to pay attention, but someone usually gets hurt.

“Sometimes I think Charlie wants to feel a kinda pain that he can’t reach, and he targets people who he believes can take it and give it back.” “Like your brother?” I realize. “Yeah, like Moffy.” She shrugs. “It’s just a theory.”

pretty sure Charlie admitted to that in CLU so you’re onto something luna

“Considering he doesn’t go after me at all and just tried to warn me against you, he probably thinks of me as a sheep.” Luna baaahs like a lamb. I smile over and baaah right back. “I called you hot if you didn’t get that.” She grins, cheeks flushed. “Understood it, since I called you a hot lambchop. Guess we’re still speaking the same language.” “Guess so.”

God, I’d love to fling my arm over her shoulders. Can’t. Feels intimate. So was calling her hot, but fuck me, I see a clear path to her, it’s...

“Joke’s on Charlie though ‘cause you’re definitely not a sheep, but I’m fucking glad he thinks you are.” “Why?” “Because if he went at you, I’d be in his face.” Can’t even imagine how Farrow has felt watching a gu...

“I never saw you as a pumpkin kinda guy, but it could work.” “Artichoke is more my style?” I watch Jane out of my peripheral. She’s on the move, and I casually spin towards her and everyone follows after me. “Uh-uh,” Luna shakes her head. “Maybe a zucchini since it pairs well with your eggplant.” My cock. I grin. “Stop making so much sense. It’s…” Turning me on.

“Alright,” I breathe. “What is it?” “At the Fanaticon Convention, she’s planning to meet up with another guy.” My nose flares and stomach overturns. “Who?” “I don’t know his name, but I call him Wonder Bread.” “‘Cause he’s a basic white boy?” “No, it’s because his username is StaleBread89.”

Pure fucking relief. I end up laughing. Shouldn’t have doubted Luna. I feel badly about that, but in this second, I could literally walk on the moon.

Frog scrunches her face at me. “What? It’s not funny.” She comes in closer and whisper-hisses, “I thought you like her. I know I assumed it, but I’m usually not that far off. And she’s awesome. You should love her, actually. She’s that amazing, and she’s way better than you, honestly. Fuck you—” “Frog,” I laugh, touchi...

As we walk around the center of the maze, the fountain between us, we steal glimpses of one another. Our eyes catch in quiet, tender seconds, and I almost hear music. I like thinking that moments carry melodies, and being with Luna is like listening to the exultant hum of my soul. I’ll never get tired of the sound.

On one knee, I quickly peer between her legs. No baby’s head is breaching through Jane. Good signs? I have no clue, but I can one-hundred percent tell she’s dilated. A lot. And that definitely means labor. Meredith Grey would be so proud of me, I think.

“Ambulance is on its way. You’ll get out of here in no time. Then you can laugh about how you almost had a garden baby.” Jane focuses on my voice and her breathing. “You can call her Olive Garden Moretti.” She almost laughs, the noise caught in her throat. “Thatcher…hates that restaurant.” I know. “I don’t know what he’s got against it. Their breadsticks are dope.”

“I don’t want to do this without him. I don’t want to.” She wants her husband. She wants Thatcher, and she’s sobbing. My heart splits open because I know I’m not a good stand-in for the love of her life. I wouldn’t want this either.

Now get Thatcher on the line.” Thatcher is in my ear in a millisecond. “Donnelly—” “You’re gonna talk to your wife through comms. I won’t be able to hear you, but she can.” So carefully and quickly, I detach the radio and pry out my earpiece. I tell Jane, “You won’t be able to respond to him, but Thatcher is gonna walk you through this. He’s right here.”

“Can you hear him?” I ask Jane. She nods, her body easing like her husband is a morphine drip. Before I draw back, she catches my hand to squeeze it in appreciation. Relief spills tears out of the corner of her eyes. “Thank you.”

I know some people think I’m this toxic thing, infecting everything I touch. But I can’t be the reason this baby doesn’t take her first breath. I can’t. I can’t.

As I place the newborn in Jane’s arms, the waterworks hit me too, seeing Jane embrace her baby, kiss her soft cheek, instantly love her. Life is strange and beautiful, and moments like these, I’m grateful to be alive.

As we stare out, watching the precious moments before they’ll wheel Jane to the ambulance, I feel Luna’s hand slip into mine. Softly, quietly…secretly. Even though my palm isn’t clean, even though she knows we shouldn’t—she’s still holding my hand. I encase mine around hers. For a moment. Before we have to let go.

“I should’ve said it earlier—” “Nah, man, you just had a baby. You only needed to think about her and Jane.” I know what he’s about to say. The gratitude is penned in the shiny browns of his eyes. Still, Thatcher produces the words, “Thank you, Donnelly.” I lift my shoulders. “Happy to be there.” I mean it. Being able to witness a new life coming into the world has reminded me why I love existing. Plus, I’ve always loved being in positions where people depend on me and rely on me. It’s why I’m a bodyguard.

Jane is glowing, her smile brighter than last I saw. “You want to hold her again?” she asks me. “Sure,” I breathe, and at Jane’s bedside, she passes over her little bundle of joy. I cradle her against my arm. The baby smacks her lips in a tiny yawn, and a wave of uneasy emotion crashes through me, clenching my stomach. I have a dark childhood. Probably worse than anything Thatcher even went through, and I have nothing against babies—but sometimes I do feel like they shouldn’t touch me.

We’ve already chosen a name.” Thatcher nods. “Took long enough.” “Oui.” Jane scoots higher on the bed, smiling over at her daughter. “We wanted to go with the letter M, preferably something Italian. Like Martina.” “Martina Moretti,” I nod. “I dig it.” “That’s not her name,” Jane says.

“After what happened, after what you did for me”—I’m shaking my head, but tears are already flooding her eyes—“you did help me, Donnelly. You made sure Thatcher was there with me.” Anyone would’ve done that, but I don’t argue. “What’d you name her?” is all I ask. “Maeve. It’s Irish,” Jane says. “It means she who rules. And in Irish mythology, she’s a goddess.” Irish. Because of me. My gaze clouds with more emotion, and I look down at Maeve Moretti. A baby goddess is the perfect addition to the Cobalt Empire—and to Jane and Thatcher’s new family.

Stay sparkly, space

Maybe I can fool myself for an afternoon. Or maybe…maybe I am in leagues with the likes of the Avengers, with the Seasons, and the Nerd Stars too. Is that possible? Are people heroes for themselves first? And then they can be heroes for others? I’m not sure I’ve completed the first task—just partially check-marked it. But that’s me, isn’t it? Half-finish things, never fully commit.

Charlie and Eliot are alike in some ways—it’s the Loki in them, the destructive, mischief-wielding power they cradle and toss like bombs.

“I cannot believe you called her to use her as your bargaining chip. She’s our best friend.” Tom glares. “And she has more sense than you right now, dude. Just chill out.” “Chill out?” Eliot’s eyes redden with more hurt. “Chill out? How would it feel if someone were to take your vocal cords and rip them out—” “Eliot.” Beckett gives him a classic what the fuck look.

“They fired you?” I ask Eliot. “Your troupe fired you after hearing about my stories?” Eliot shakes his head once. “No, they’re too spineless for that.” He glares at the ceiling. “They gave me an ultimatum. Either I leave the company or I stop associating with someone that would do damage to their family-friendly brand.” The fury in his gaze doesn’t subside when he looks to me. “First thing I told them was, you realize my parents have a porn tape out in the world? Apparently, past indiscretions don’t matter as much.” So he quit. For me. Because of me.

“I’m not afraid,” Eliot decrees. “Fuck everyone who thinks you wrote something gross or obscene. Fuck the fans who want me and Tom to stop being your friends.” Hot tears invade his eyes, like those last comments have punctured raw pieces of him.

Every piece of information hollows me out more and more. My mistakes have grown like thorny vines, twisting around the people I love. Guilt has become heavier like a weighted blanket impossible to throw off.

“It’s not your fault, Luna.” It is my fault. It’ll never not be my fault. I stare at the phone. Delete it, Luna. This time, I pull the trigger and delete the video. Eliot runs two angry hands through his hair and releases a guttural noise like he just lost his very voice. Did I rip out his vocal cords?

Am I…jealous? Because why do I want to tell Beckett that I slept with Donnelly like I’m one-upping him? Why do I want to claim Donnelly? But really, I wish Donnelly were here to claim me.

It feels like every time I try to get close to her, someone else is in my way. Heat brews in my chest, and I’m on a rare edge that I usually meet when someone disses Philly or the Birds, or the occasion O’Malley insults me and my family. This edge, though, feels more fatal. More like I could push everyone off the cliff just to hold her hand.

“You alright?” I ask again. She nods, but her hand shields her mouth. Even so, she’s so fucking pretty. Her light-brown hair hangs in cute scraggily strands and frames her round face. She stuck green star stickers in the corner of her eye, and her lashes are shaded with a cool purple mascara.

“If you don’t want to swallow, you can spit in the plant over there.” Her flush inches higher with her smile, and it makes me grin back, especially as she says, “You never know what powers you might get by swallowing.” I smirk. “You seem pretty powerful to me already.” She grins into a gulp of water. “I am a swallower.” I make a rock on gesture.

“It’s a lot,” Donnelly says vaguely. Smart. Wise. He is a Ravenclaw after all.

Sometimes, in quiet moments, I pretend we’re a rare species that needs physical touch from a soul mate to survive. Connecting and reconnecting forever. And recently, I’ve been dying, starved, and longing for Donnelly to run his hands all over me.

“Donnelly tell them,” I say. “It’s just security stuff.” He’s still locked on to Beckett as he says, “It’s always been about her. At least for me, it has been.” My heart suddenly swells, his honesty singing inside of me. Is this really happening?

It seems like too many people in my life are vying to be Donnelly’s number one thought, his number one concern, and I understand the yearning. He has this rare ability to make you feel like the greatest, most powerful version of yourself. Being around him amplifies all the pieces I love: the weird, unashamed, daring, happiest side of me. Being without him is just lonely.

Donnelly comes closer. Slowly, nearly affectionately, he slips a cigarette behind my ear, his fingers lingering against the strands of my hair, tucking them back. My breath hitches, and the moment is a millisecond. But I grip on to it as he plucks another cigarette for himself. Eliot is observing. “Seeing you do that to Luna now with this new context changes everything.”

“You know what the most shocking part is?” “That you didn’t see it sooner?” I guess. “No, deception is strong with you. It’s that you asked for permission first.” His gaze veers over to Donnelly. “From her father. Why?” “Shits and giggles,” Donnelly says, fitting the cigarette between his lips. “I’d only be shitting myself confronting Uncle Loren with that,” Tom notes. “I’d just be giggling,” Eliot says.

“Lo knows I can’t have my family thinking I’m in love with her.” “Love?” Eliot’s grin has exploded. He buttons his slacks with an amused, delighted laugh. Tom is grinning now too. He told my best friends he’s trying to date me. That he loves me. It’s sinking in, and I feel my smile mushroom. Donnelly shares the grin. “You think I would do all of this just for a girl I sort of like?” “This is beautiful,” Eliot says, “and tragic all at the same time.”

“Like I didn’t regret checking the reactions to the article enough. My phone has abandoned me too.” “Maybe you just have slippery hands. Lemme see.” He reaches for my palm, and I start to smile as I let him hold my hand while he drives. Really, we press fingertips to fingertips, and slowly, his fingertips glide down my palm with featherlight affectionate touch. It’s electric, tingling my veins, and my breath catches in the quiet. “Verdict?” I ask. “More soft than slippery. Your phone definitely fucked you.” “Knew it.”

ELIOT Since you’re just friends at the moment with Donnelly, I propose that the friendship trio become a quartet. TOM I second this motion.

“Come to me, little cellular device.” I stretch my fingers. “Accio.” Nope, still don’t have magical abilities. But it doesn’t hurt to try.

I bend back down and hurry, trying to retrieve my phone. Accio. Accio! Mental spells aren’t working either, but my fingers brush the case. Almost there.

I grab a wider can off the shelf. A Four Loko. It contains alcohol, but he says nothing about it or how I’m not twenty-one just yet.

NOT THE FOUR LOKO 💀😭

He bites his jerky stick and hums a few bars with me. It’s a song he knows. One we danced to in Scotland: The Who’s “Baba O’Riley.”

Donnelly walks two of his fingers up my neck and cheek, until he’s touching my head. Our eyes only detach as he spins me in a slow circle—really, I turn myself with the movement of his fingers on my head, as though I’m a music box he’s winding.

Life doesn’t have to be that serious all the time, and sometimes it’s fun to pretend other species exist. Like you.

“Your worry looks angry,” I say. His blue eyes rest gently on mine. “‘Cause you’re looking at jealousy.”