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Xander
Beckett
Tom
Their names disappear into a swirled design. Been thinking, eventually, it’ll be a planet, but I don’t have much time right now. It just needs to be unrecognizable.
I’m seeing my dad today, and I’m not making the same mistake twice. When I visited my cousin Colin at his row house, he spotted the tattoo and assumed I’m friends with all these names, and I’m not putting anyone else in danger.
My phone vibrates on the table. I stop shading the line between the r in Xander and the first t in Beckett. Peeking over, my stomach flip-flops.
Loren Hale is texting me. I’ve already sent him a message letting him know I’m meeting with my dad for lunch. I snap off one glove, just to tap into the text.
XANDER’S DAD
Meet me at Connor’s house first. As soon as you can.
My pulse is racing. I’m going to Papa Cobalt’s house. Which is commonly referred to as the Cobalt Estate. Connor Cobalt is going to be there—I’d bet money that I don’t have on it.
I tap out a short response.
K. See you.
I snap on a new glove and move faster on inking my ankle. Not my best work, but I’ll fix it later. Once I’m done, I clean up, sanitize my equipment, and apply a medical-grade waterproof bandage to the fresh ink. Without the buzzing, my ears catch noises throughout the penthouse.
The shut and open of doors. Footsteps pad around, sounding more human than cat or dog.
Is Luna awake?
I shouldn’t stick around to see. Seven other people live here, not including Baby Ripley. It’s better if I just slip out unseen. My radio is already attached to my waistband, and my gun is holstered.
I’m washing out my cereal bowl when the footsteps grow louder. They’re heavy. Can’t be Luna. Sounds like multiple pairs of feet.
Gotta go.
Gotta go.
I practically chuck the bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Kicking the thing closed, I whirl around to see Akara in crisp black slacks. He’s quickly tucking in his white button-down with one hand. The other is clutching his phone. Like me, he seems in a hurry.
Alarm bells are ringing in my head.
I’m not dumb.
But I try to play it off. “Nice pants, boss.” I nod to him while heading towards the exit. “You going to a fancy Thursday brunch?” I’m hoping those exist.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Akara says fast. “Donnelly.”
I catch myself midstride and swing back around to the kitchen. “Yeah?”
“I just got off the phone with Connor.”
Fuck. I figured, but it still dick-kicks me. My boss has been looped in on whatever Papa Cobalt is devising this morning. Akara is in charge of Omega. He runs Omega. But I never wanted this to extend to security. I want this to be a me and Loren Hale thing.
It’s better that way. Keep it small. Confined.
Private.
I walk slowly back to the kitchen cupboards. “What’d he want?” As soon as I ask, a six-foot-seven Moretti arrives. Toothpick between his lips, gray sweatpants low on his waist, he whispers to Akara.
That’s Banks.
For me, it’s too easy to tell the Moretti brothers apart, especially with how Akara unwinds more around Banks, and those two interact like they share a secret world.
They do share a wife, and I suppose they share each other too. I think they’re lucky to have found love that’s worth pushing through all havoc.
Love that endures together is the toughest love. The strongest.
I want that.
I want love that survives with me. ‘Cause I know I’m gonna survive in the end. No matter what.
Akara whispers back to Banks, and I wonder if I can sneak out. But if Akara is leaving for the Cobalt Estate with me, then what’s the point? I could make small talk. Ask how Kicking It With Kitsulletti workouts are going at Studio 9. They’ve been filming with Sulli for their fitness app.
I could ask when they plan to make the big “we’re married and expecting” announcement so I can finally share the love on Twitter.
I could say a lot, but the way Banks is eyeing me, up and down, stops me from opening my mouth.
He bites on the toothpick. “You going to see Connor Cobalt like that?”
Like a million bucks? I look classy.
I’m wearing a black band tee and ripped jeans. I even put on a watch. “Papa Cobalt hates AC/DC or what?” I ask.
Akara tells Banks, “I haven’t told him about the call yet.”
“He looks fine.” Thatcher has arrived, dressed in his Sunday best: charcoal button-down, black slacks. It’s the fall. He should be popping out the flannels.
“All your flannels in the wash?” I quip, my pulse on another ascent.
He can’t come with me too. I don’t even want my boss as a tagalong, really.
Thatcher curls a strand of longish hair behind his ear, just so he can fit in the comms piece. “I’m going to the Cobalt Estate with you.”
