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Charlie keeps talking, and I nod Beckett towards his siblings.
“No.” He battles emotion. “You have to stop her. If my parents hear that you let her do this, they’ll never accept you. Do you want that?”
I narrow my eyes on him. All I’ve wanted is for her family to fully accept me. Beckett knows that, and I realize what has to be done.
I click my mic on my collar. “Banks to Farrow, barricade the door. Don’t let Beckett out.”
“Done,” Farrow responds.
I leave my post with a determined, assured stride, and I lower next to Jane on the floor. “Make me a line,” I tell Charlie.
He frowns for a millisecond before smiling.
I finally look to Jane.
Her lips are parted, eyes wide. “Thatcher?”
“We do this together,” I say. “You and me.”
Tears gather in her eyes. I brush them away.
“People do stupid things when they’re in love,” Charlie says, but it’s not in disdain. It’s warm, heartfelt and he looks at me like he’s acknowledging that I am stupid-in-love with his sister. And fuck it, that’s the best outcome there is.
Three lines streak the table. I’ve never done cocaine, but I can’t think of a better reason to. My mind is right. That’s all that matters.
“You ready?” Jane asks.
“I’m good to go.”
She smiles.
I hold her hand, and we dip our heads down to the table with Charlie.
“Stop!” Beckett shouts. “Wait, just stop!” He storms over and places a hardback book on top of the cocaine lines. “Don’t ever.” He’s speaking to his sister and brother. “Not for me.”
Jane tenses. “Only if—”
“Yes, okay. Yes. I’m going to stop. I won’t use anymore. Not for performances or rehearsals.”
“Or anything,” Charlie says.
“Or anything,” he promises.
“Because if you do, I’ll be your roommate,” Jane reminds him. “Thatcher, Charlie, and I will be using every single day—”
“I know. The threat still stands, I heard you,” Beckett nods. “I know, sis.”
We all are on our feet.
“It’s not just a threat,” Charlie says. “It’s an oath.”
Beckett surprisingly nods. “Okay. Let’s spit on it.”
“No.” Jane begins to smile. “This one has to be done with blood.” She turns to me, and I unsheathe my knife, the kind every bodyguard here is armed with, instead of guns.
The four of us make a blood pact in the tower room. Jane glances at me while Charlie cuts his palm, and we share an acknowledgement that Beckett’s promise could be temporary. The only thing stopping him from using isn’t a pact. It’s not Jane. Or me. Or Charlie.
It’s himself.
And the moment he decides this isn’t worth it, he’ll start again. But for now, we all settle with taking his word. Hopefully it means something.
37
THATCHER MORETTI
20 Days Snowed-In
Akara has called an emergency security meeting, Epsilon bodyguards included—and no one is throwing jabs or backhanded horseshit. We gather around the circular breakfast table in the cold kitchen and carry complete focus and intensity. Committed to the same purpose, the same reason we’re here.
Our clients.
These families come first.
We’ve sworn to put them before our feuds, before our personal problems, before our hunger and aches and pains and needs.
Akara unzips his wet jacket, the sat-phone on the table. “Here’s the deal, guys. The village’s inn is a ten-hour hike on foot, and the owner said she has enough provisions to house six people if we can make it there.”
“Scots are dope,” Donnelly says.
Residents here have been more than friendly. Over a few days ago, a Scottish local trekked here to check up on us. Just in time too. He helped us fix another burst pipe. Without the generosity and kindness of the Scottish residents, we couldn’t stay here long in these conditions.
“We have two problems,” Akara announces. “1. We can’t leave until the winds die down—and from what she said, it didn’t sound like anytime soon, and 2. Only six people can go.” The change of scenery, getting out of this house—it’ll be like a life raft for some.
The priority list is unspoken.
Six clients are in Scotland: Jane, Maximoff, Charlie, Beckett, Sullivan, and Luna. They come first. Along with the little sister of two bodyguards. We take care of our own.
Joana Oliveira is high-priority.
Which makes seven. But we all know Maximoff will volunteer to stay behind.
“You only want six people to go on the ten-hour hike?” Oscar asks for clarification.
Akara nods. “Just six.”
Quinn frowns. “Why not send bodyguards as escorts? We can go with the clients, drop them off, then hike back here.”
“We can’t risk it,” Akara explains. “If the weather changes, you won’t be able to return to Mackintosh House, and we have to respect the fact that they’re letting six stay. It needs to be a group of two bodyguards and four clients.”
Tension stretches in the brief pause.
Akara peels off his gloves. “Most of them are nearing breaking points. It’s not a secret.”
Chairs creak as men lean back or shift.
I cross my arms, my jaw hardened. Bodyguards—we’re used to the grind. Being snowed-in for almost three-weeks with little communication back home is more or less a cakewalk, but it’s not as easy for these families.
Being useless to the people we protect, especially as they unravel—that’s a hundred times harder than splitting a bowl of oatmeal eight ways.
Which we did this morning.
“We have to priority-rank them,” Akara says. “High is critical, medium is urgent, and low is fine to stay. I want an evaluation of your client and a rank. We’ll go around the table, and if anyone has information about the client being discussed, you need to share.”
Going counter-clockwise, we start with O’Malley. Beckett’s bodyguard.
“His hands are raw,” O’Malley tells us. “He’s been washing them too many times a day. He needs to go back to PA more than anything.”
“It’s not an option,” Akara reminds him. “How would you rank him?”
“Critical.”
Everyone is nodding.
Quinn scoots forward, elbows on the table. He brushes a knuckle over the scar under his eye. “Okay, so Luna has been pretty emotional…” He stops himself short. “I’d say she’s critical.” He’s being tight-lipped on his client’s behalf.
He picked this shit up from Farrow. Who gives half-answers and vague responses duri
ng debriefings. The bare minimum.
Flat-out, it’s annoying.
Akara gives him a look. “How does that make her critical?”
“She’s been crying.” Quinn tries to clarify.
Oscar pulls on a Yale sweatshirt. “Is she homesick?”
“No, that’s not really it.”
My eyes narrow on Quinn. I understand it’s uncomfortable to unleash private information about the clients we’re closest to—but Akara needs this intel in order to make a call.
I glance at the Omega lead. “She’s the one who ran out of birth control.” This might be affecting her hormones on some level.
Quinn shoots me a glare. “What if Luna didn’t want everyone to know?”
“We’re fucking past that, Quinn,” I say seriously.
Akara nods. “We could be here for another three months, guys. This isn’t the time to censor any shit. You know something, say it.”
Donnelly smacks a pack of cigarettes on his palm. “She’s been having bad cramps too.”
“There’s no more pain meds,” Farrow reminds everyone.
“She’s critical,” Akara agrees with Quinn, and we move on.
To me.
But at this meeting with Epsilon, I’m Banks Moretti. Which means that my client is Maximoff Hale, shared with Farrow.
So I turn to him beside me. “You go ahead.”
Farrow balances back on his chair legs. “Maximoff isn’t sleeping. He’s probably clocked in two hours in three days, and that’s being extremely fucking generous.”
“Is he taking Ripped Fuel?” O’Malley asks, actually being cordial.
“No.” Farrow shakes his head. “He’s just stubborn as fuck, and he feels responsible to help get everyone home.”
Akara nods. “Where would you rank him?”
“Urgent, but he’s going to place himself as fine.”
Maximoff won’t take up a spot that his cousin or sister could fill.
We continue, jumping over Donnelly who has no client here.
Oscar sounds deadly serious as he says, “Charlie can’t be here. I’ve never seen him locked in one place for this long. He can’t handle it, and I’ll tell you right now, he’s critical and he’s number one on the priority list.”
