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One that could change my entire life.
Am even ready to tell my parents I’m not straight? To tell Jesse? To tell all of Oscar’s friends and everyone else we know?
My throat closes.
Inhale. Exhale.
I breathe out and let those concerns go for tonight.
Oscar comes back to bed. Lying next to me, he reaches over my chest to pull the cord to a lamp. “It’s five a.m.,” he says. “You should get some sleep.”
We both should.
But we’re awake another hour. We lie on our sides, hug each other’s frames, and whisper about his job, my job—the top-secret aspects that we can’t really share with other people. Details about the famous families. If we discuss sex, we might actually do more, so we make a concerted effort not to bring up what just occurred.
We talk until we put the moon to bed and wake the sun. Bright rays cast over the loft, the bed, us. Sleep catches up. Sleep that I don’t want but my body demands.
And finally, our eyes begin to shut.
21
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
This motherfucker.
I stare with a strained wince at Gabe Montgomery in the Studio 9 Boxing & MMA Gym. The new temp I’m training acts like his head was screwed on ass-backwards.
“But like…” He rubs his temple. “If I’m in front of the client in a crowd, how do I see them?”
Leaning a hip against a boxing bag, my Cheeto freezes halfway to my mouth. “You can glance over your shoulder, Gabe.”
He shakes his head, wavy blonde locks falling across his pale white forehead. “But wouldn’t it just be like easier to walk behind the clients?”
I slowly chew and take out my aggravation on my Cheeto. “Then how are they going to make it to the door?” I ask. “They can’t push through paparazzi and crowds like you can.”
Gabe’s delts are the size of honey baked hams. This kid is only twenty-two, same age as Quinn, and he’s built like a bulldozer. Security doesn’t usually hire guys this built because their endurance tends to be in the gutter, but Gabe passed all the entry-level tests.
Too bad he’s an idiot.
“Huh,” Gabe ponders all of this. “So…I make the path?”
I nod slowly and pop another Cheeto in my mouth. Kitsuwon Securities needs a good batch of temps to run efficiently, which means all of us on Omega have to clock in time training new guys. So while I’m here teaching Tweedledum, Charlie Cobalt is in New York with another temp on his detail.
I just hope Gabe can retain some of the shit I’m throwing at him. He can’t be such a lost cause if Thatcher Moretti referred him to Kitsuwon Securities. Apparently, he’s fresh out of the Navy and friend of a friend of a family member. If you ask me, we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel these days.
I glance at my watch. We’ve been working through basics for the past three hours while Studio 9 is closed to security only. We’re the only ones here right now.
“Give me twenty laps around the gym,” I tell Gabe. “And we’ll call it a night.”
“Right on.” He darts off. I watch him sprint. Alright, the kid is fast for being that big. I’ll give him that.
The gym door blows open, and I hear a cascade of shouting and squealing. “MAXIMOFF! FARROW! MAXIMOFF!” and “MARROW FOREVER!”
I yearn for a forever-in-love stable relationship like Farrow has with Maximoff, but damn do I not want that cacophony and headache brought by the media. The Oslie rumors are bad enough.
Farrow is grinning at his husband as they stroll in. The Hale prince looks high-key irritated at whatever Farrow said or did.
Where’s the popcorn?
I dig into my Cheetos.
“Can you wipe your memory?” Maximoff asks the guy with a near-perfect photographic memory. “Scrub the last two minutes and tack on another century. Except don’t erase all the parts where I remind you that I’m smarter and hotter.”
“You mean the parts where you lie?”
I laugh, and it draws half of their attention to me while they approach.
Maximoff growls out his frustration. “Seriously, you didn’t hear what I said.”
“I heard a fan outside ask who your celebrity crush is,” Farrow grins wider, “and I definitely heard you answer, my husband.”
“Aww,” I pile on the teasing with the bat of my lashes.
Maximoff is bright red. He looks to Farrow. “It’s like you want me to shove you in a gym locker or something.”
“Or something,” Farrow laughs.
I have a theory that no one taught Maximoff Hale how to flirt. He literally does the kindergarten sandbox “I hate you” maneuver with Farrow, and largely, it’s probably because he’s never needed to flirt to get cock or pussy. He’s a fucking celebrity.
They kick off their shoes to walk on the gym mats. Coming closer, they weave through the hanging boxing bags.
I pop a Cheeto in my mouth. Trying not to let bitterness replace good-natured humor. Maximoff is balancing Ripley on his waist, and while Farrow takes earplugs out of their son’s ears, I hear Maximoff say more quietly, “I just want our son to know I love you. When he sees media footage, I don’t want him to think I don’t care about you.”
