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)
Thatcher stares down at me, and I can hear my shallow breath in the quiet.
He’s a Marine.
I sweep him like I’m seeing more. “Why…?” I breathe. “Why keep your military service a secret from other bodyguards?”
Thatcher rubs his tense jawline. “If we told the whole team, they’d start asking why we chose the Marine Corps over the fucking Navy when our dad is a SEAL.” He pauses. “And I can’t get into it.” His jaw muscle contracts, his eyes brutally narrowed like he’s seared them looking into the sun. He turns his head from me, more so to fix his radio again.
I understand the rawness of painful moments that, without realizing, soon become painful pasts. Most of the time too sore to touch or talk about.
In the last year, I’ve barely been able to speak about the HaleCocest rumor or Nate, my horrible friends-with-benefits who is a fuck-buddy no more.
“I won’t pry further,” I tell him.
His eyes dart to mine and stay on me for a longer beat. I wish I knew what he was thinking.
“I promise you,” I say wholeheartedly. “I’m honored that you gave me this much. Truly.” It’s more than he’s even given other bodyguards. I ask Thatcher who in the entire team knows about their military background, and he only says three names.
Bruno, Akara, and Price, the Alpha lead.
Apparently, Price found out during Thatcher’s initial background check for the position, but Price agreed to keep the information private.
That’s it.
Those are the only people Thatcher and Banks ever told.
He inhales stronger, and we’re somehow even closer, his boot touching the tip of my shoe, my chin a breath from his chest.
“Jane,” he starts, but his mouth snaps shut as my phone rings.
I rarely desert a call. I’m about to apologize, but his attention is wrenched to comms. His hand flies to his ear and his other touches the mic at his collar.
“Say again?” He speaks through comms.
I find the blue zebra-print phone case in the pit of my purse, and as soon as I look at the Caller ID, my stomach falls out of my butt.
Something horrible is happening. Because Moffy is not supposed to call me.
This morning, he made me a cup of coffee for my first day at work, and he specifically said, “I’m not texting you. I’m not calling you. Not until five p.m. when you clock out. Today is about you , and you’ll kickass as long as you stay focused on yourself. Alright? No family distractions.”
I wavered, cup of coffee between my palms. “What if someone is in trouble—”
“You’ll be my first call,” he assured me. “But it won’t happen.”
It won’t happen.
I waste no time. Phone to my ear. “Moffy? What’s happened?”
4
JANE COBALT
“Janie…are…” Maximoff’s voice crackles with static.
My heart thrashes in my chest. “Moffy? I can’t hear you.”
“…I…bad.”
Bad.
I cage breath and pull my phone down to check the signal. I barely even have a single bar. Back to my ear, I speak quickly. “Moffy, who’s in trouble? Are you okay?” I wander down the aisle for better reception, and Thatcher keeps pace beside me, speaking harshly in comms.
Which can’t be a coincidence.
When shit hits the proverbial fan, the security team and my family will hurtle into action in swift harmony.
“Moffy, are you still there?” I hear absolutely nothing, and then faint static. “Who’s in trouble? What’s happened?”
“…Janie…”
“Moffy!”
“…okay…I—” His voice cuts out.
Silence.
I inspect the phone screen. The call just dropped. “No, it’s not okay,” I mutter, prepared to redial, but then someone else is calling me.
My brother.
A photo of Eliot from Greece pops up on the screen: windswept brown hair, a squared jaw, and eyes that cajole and ask do you dare? Moffy often says that Eliot looks like Clark Kent, to which I’d agree. But my nineteen-year-old brother has always possessed the devilish charm of a comic book villain, not of Superman.
Eliot just moved to New York with our eighteen-year-old brother Tom, and both fire-obsessed menaces are now living with Charlie and Beckett in Hell’s Kitchen. Moffy and I have a bet on how long until they burn down the apartment.
I said four months. He said two.
But we’re both hoping for never.
What if they’ve put themselves in real trouble? But I can’t think of a situation where they’d be hurt or in danger this morning. They’re incredibly busy these days. Eliot just joined a new theatre company, and Tom is a lead singer in an emo-punk band. Beckett is a principal dancer of an elite ballet company, and Charlie’s daily whereabouts are a mystery, even to me.
I answer, phone to my ear. “Eliot, what’s happening?”
“Sister…” His deep smooth voice breaks to pieces with the spotty signal. “…fucking fiend.”
Eliot is often dramatic and hyperbolic, as we all can be, but hearing him call someone a “fiend” does not alleviate any sort of panic.
“I can’t hear you, Eliot,” I tell him. “What was that?”