Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
He’s wearing pants now. And a gray crew-neck.
I crane my head to look up at him, and I start with, “I don’t have a condom.”
“I don’t fucking care about that.”
It swells inside of me a little. Because I failed today, as I typically somehow seem to do, and he doesn’t really care.
“Jane,” he says seriously. “I can tell something happened.”
I want to share this with him. More than I’ve ever wanted to tell someone anything.
I haven’t had that feeling with anyone but Moffy before.
“No one suspected me and you,” I whisper.
“You ran into someone?”
“Luna and another person.” I tread carefully because Thatcher is a loyal bodyguard to the entire team. “I’m trusting that what I tell you stays between you and me. A bodyguard is involved.”
His jaw sets sternly. “Did the bodyguard endanger your family?”
“No.”
“Was the bodyguard endangered in some way?”
“No.”
“I won’t say anything,” he promises.
I’ve never been good at brevity. I paint an uncomfortably vivid picture of what I stepped into and all the happenings thereafter.
Thatcher has a strict hand over his mouth. When I finish, he drops his palm to my hip. Holding me again. “No one can know,” he reaffirms. “Alpha and Epsilon will have Omega by the ass. If they think more of our guys are fucking the clients, no one will be safe.” He’s lumping himself in with the “fucking” part.
Factually, it’s accurate.
“She said it was a one-time occasion,” I remind him. “So their risk of being caught again is zero.”
We stare more knowingly into each other. Our risk is catastrophically high.
But it will go back to zero once our fake dating ploy ends. And everything will return to the way it was. No more late-night visits from Thatcher Moretti.
I ignore my sinking stomach.
36
THATCHER MORETTI
We made a plan. One that will unfuck Jane’s guilt.
The team recently approved her request for a double date. So we’re doing it now. The Tri-Force even threw me a fucking bone and let me pick the double date location in my area of the city.
South Philly. I chose an old bingo hall—since she’s never been to one before and she asked a million questions when I mentioned how Banks and I used to go as kids with my mom and grandma.
Bringing her to a place that I remember vividly from my childhood —it’s surreal.
Jane shifts her metal chair nearer mine during intermission.
We’re in the middle-left smoking area. I keep a vigilant eye on our surroundings and her, more than my bingo cards.
She leans close to whisper, “I know we agreed to be direct. But maybe we should be a bit less direct. Subtext could be better.”
I follow her focus.
Which is on Maximoff and Farrow, who stand in a winding line several meters away from us. They’re waiting to order hot dogs and nachos at the kitchen window.
Familiar.
Everything about this place takes me back.
The smell: like an old, stuffy wooden gym dipped in an ashtray.
And the people: disgruntled elderly patrons, who fill most of the long wooden tables and metal foldout chairs.
Most don’t pay attention to us. Truth is, they’re not interested in twenty-something celebrities. Everyone here is trying to win money. More than ever since Jane and Maximoff made an anonymous donation. They added an extra zero to the end of the winnings.
The jackpot is five grand.
They do that wherever they go like its second nature. How they were born and raised and meant to use their wealth.
My arm is draped around Jane’s shoulders. “There won’t be an easy way to tell them we’re sleeping together.”
“True.” Jane takes a tense sip of glass-bottled root beer.
I was going to buy her an actual beer. But I’m on-duty. Farrow is on-duty, and Maximoff doesn’t drink alcohol. Jane said she didn’t want to be the only one drinking tonight. So she asked what I used to get as a kid.
I came back with two bottles of root beer.
Jane turns more into my shoulder as she speaks. “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. I have a lot of adjectives to describe sex with her and that’s not even a fucking foot near my hundredth list.
“Direct is better,” I tell Jane. “We don’t want to lead this into a clusterfuck.”
Ever since Jane swore to protect Luna’s secret, she’s been feeling terrible for keeping two secrets from Maximoff, and I’ve been feeling like shit for keeping one from Banks.
So we’re unleashing this.
But looping them in means they have to keep our secret now. Putting a burden on them to relieve ours is selfish. And hard. I know. I already went through this once tonight with my brother.