Page 111 of Lovers Like Us
“Quinn Oliveira,” Jane announces, drawing my attention for asecond.
Holy shit.My eyes widen. Quinn is only wearing a redbow. The plastic kind used for gift-wrapping, but it’s large enough to cover his package. He holds the bow so it won’tfall.
He must’ve drawn the worststyle.
Sulli’s jaw unhinges. “Fuuuck.”
Quinn laughs and walks more stiffly than the other guys. Farrow and I take our eyes off him at the same time. My head isspinning.
I hand Farrow my mug. “Sipthis.”
“The youngest bodyguard is a lovely Gemini and vegetarian,” Jane narrates. “He’s Brazilian-American, a former pro-boxer and the little brother to Oscar. You’ll want to bring this stud home to yourparents.”
Oscar and Donnelly clap, and Akara drums the steeringwheel.
Farrow takes a large swig of eggnog. “It tastesfine.”
“What?”It can’t.I motion for him to sipagain.
He frowns, confused.I’mfucking confused, and I need Farrow to solve this riddle, mystery, whatever-the-fuck I’m dealing with because I can’t see theanswer.
“Quinn,” Jane says, “which bodyguard in Omega inspires you themost?”
He hoists the candy cane. “AkaraKitsuwon.”
Akara waves in thanks from the driver’sseat.
Oscar claps. “My little bro, a kissass.”
Quinn lets out an aggravated sigh, and he ends up sitting next toJane.
Farrow swigs the eggnog and says, “He’s joking with you,Oliveira.”
“I’m over it,” Quinnmumbles.
Jane clears her throat. “And lastly, we have ThatcherMoretti.”
Farrow takes a third sip. “It’s notspiked.”
I lean back. Trying to relax at that news, but I still feel weird. I take off my beanie and pull my sweatshirt off, boilinghot.
Oscarwhistles.
I turn my head. Thatcher walks like a six-foot-seven brick wall in a redjockstrap.The fabric cups his dick. Nothing left to theimagination.
“Um,” Jane loses thought, “Thatcher…Moretti is a twenty-seven-year-old…and he’s quitetall.”
“The end,” Farrowsays.
“No,” Jane rebuts, but Thatcher has already stopped at the counter. “Merde,” she mutters. “Thatcher, if you were stranded on an island, what would youbring?”
“Aknife.”
Farrow rolls hiseyes.
“Spin around, Moretti,” Oscarsays.
Thatcher hesitates, but then he spins, elastic bands framing his bare ass. Sulli and Jane cheer, and the guys golf-clap. Except for Farrow, who couldn’t careless.
