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My eyes widen at the sad mannequins lying supine on the carpet with scissors and pushpins, the frilly-edged drapes hanging lopsided on the window like a body smacked into them, and two antique chairs are tipped haphazardly on their sides.
Eliot is currentlystandingon a squeaky couch cushion, wearing nothing but blue boxer-briefs. Panting like he’s been chased around the tiny fitting room, he hoists his phone over his head.
“Eliot,” Beckett says as calmly as he can, jumping on the couch and attempting to grab the phone, but Eliot is six-four and Beckett is only six-one.
Eliot easily stretches his arm upward and out of Beckett’s reach.
Beckett remains even-tempered. He’s shirtless, his floral tattoos spindling up his arm, and since he’s in sweatpants, I doubt he’s seen the tailor yet. “I’m not playing around. Give me the phone.”
“You think I’m playing?” Unkemptragebrews in Eliot’s blue eyes. “I’m not giving you oranyonethe phone. You’ll have to take it from me.”
Beckett sucks in a tight breath. “Eliot, please. I’m not fighting you for the fucking phone.”
“Come on, man,” Ben says from several feet away. He’s the only one wearing suit pants, likelyThe Ben.The dark blue fabric is unbuttoned and unzipped—maybe it doesn’t even have a fly yet. “You don’t want to do this.”
“You’re wrong, baby brother. I knowexactlywhat I want to do,” Eliot sneers.
“Fuuuck,” Tom mutters, his hands on his head like he doesn’t know how to stop this car crash.
Confusion whirls my head. What the hell is going on?
“Luna?” That voice belongs to one of thefourother people in the room. I barely noticed the Epsilon bodyguards.
I hate that they’re wallpaper to me, but I do remember their full names, even if some just go by last names only. They’re all in between their early-thirties and late-twenties, and right now, the Wreath brothers, Chris Novak, and Ryan Cruz Jr. are posted near an ornate full-length mirror, watching the Cobalt brothers self-implode.
Of the three, Ian Wreath is the most senior at maybe thirty-three, thirty-four-years-old? He’s already taking a step towards me, the authority clear.
The distraction is enough for Eliot to swing his head to me. “Luna?”
Beckett takes the moment to steal Eliot’s phone.
“Wait!” Eliot lunges, but Beckett is quicker and nimble, able to jump from the couch and add distance.
“Luna,” Ian Wreath calls out again, seriousness coating his voice. “Where’s your bodyguard?”
“She’s outside waiting in a car,” I lie with utter ease. Teleportation might not run in the family, but I know lying does. I could’ve inherited this power from my parents.
Ian stares me down. He’s what the security team calls a “buddyguard” and I’ve been around him enough to recognize that this stare-down is weird. Way too odd for comfort. In the past four years as Tom’s bodyguard, he’s been super hands-off. Like chill to the max.
Right now, he is anything but chill.
Ian folds his arms over his chest. “All it takes is one radio in to see if that’s true.” He calls my bluff. “So I’ll ask you again, where’s your bodyguard?”
“You didn’t bring your bodyguard here?” Beckett suddenly asks, his concern tripling as he approaches.
How did this turn on me? Am I a magnet for attention? I’m supposed to be helping Eliot! I want to scream. But Tom is catching Eliot by the arm, and they’re whispering heatedly, pulling one another into the corner of the room.
Away from me.
Was I not supposed to even be here?
I feel like floating away. Teleportation is waymore useful than the ability to lie. Unfortunately, I’m stuck here.
“Luna?” Beckett waves a hand in front of my face, drawing my attention. Said hand also contains Eliot’s phone. “Where’s Frog?”
I focus on him. Beckett is earnest and worried, and the intention wasn’t to cause him alarm, so I just come clean. “She doesn’t know where I am. But I got here fine.”
“Fucking Omega,” Ian curses under his breath, then presses the mic at his collar.
