Page 92 of Lovers Like Us
Farrow steals the cigarettes out of Donnelly’s hands. “Go bet on your Cobalts and leave the Hales alone. Or go for theMeadows—”
“No, off-limits,” Akara says, defending his client. There are some moments, some small, others big, that I see andfeelhow much love and pride they carry for the people theyprotect.
For three famousfamilies.
For us, and it means more to me than I can ever articulate. I end up smiling, one that courses through my whole body and brightens every fucking piece ofme.
We play the nextround.
Oscar loses and reads a truth, “Oldest person you’ve fucked?Maybe a forty-year-old a couple years ago.” He shrugs. “I was twenty-eight.”
Another hand, and I’m down a second dice.Here we go.I reach into the hat. Unfurl thenapkin.
I read the words silently. “I can’t drink,” I say with the shake of my head. A dare totake three shots of whiskeyis a hardline that I won’t let anyone peer-pressure me tocross.
Cigarette between his lips, Farrow tosses the napkin shred back in the hat. “Pick again.”Fuck me and his movements.My blood heats at his sheer confidence that matches and wrestle-fucksmine.
I choose again. “Truth,” I read the neat scrawl that I think belongs to Thatcher. “What’s your greatest fear?” I pause, not needing to contemplate long. “Watching someone I lovedie.”
Farrow rubs my back beneath my shirt, and we all roll again. Making bets, Donnelly loses his last dice and picks thethree whiskey shotsdare.
My phone vibrates as the guys start pouring shots. A text message from my little sister Kinney at 3:24 a.m., a witching hour, means only onething.
I asked the Ouija board if you suck and the ghost told me yes.–Kinney
She’s still pissed that she’s not allowed on tour. I text back:I love you more than the ghost hates me.I pocket my phone. At my choice of words, I instantly recall the past. Something my dad said to meonce.
I can practically hear hisvoice.
“You can hate me for two days, Maximoff, but I’ll love you for a thousand more.”I was almost seven, and my parents grounded me for the first time. I screamed, “I hate you!” at my dad. Not thinking, not realizing how much that must’ve hurthim.
And that’s what he toldme.
The memory sticks with me for a while, but I try to retrain my attention on the game. Donnelly downs his thirdshot.
Farrow swigs his energy drink and studies myexpression.
I’m alright. Our eyes meet, and I just move out of instinct more than anything. I wrap my arm around him, sort of clutching the base of his neck and shoulder. My thumb gently skims hisskin—
“You shouldn’t be touching,” Thatcher tellsus.
Fuck.I drop my arm. Feeling like shit. I don’t value touching Farrow over the jobs of SFO.Idon’t.
I’m just juggling a relationship with these major consequences—and I never claimed to be good at any ofthis.
Farrow snuffs his cigarette on the ashtray. “I was wondering when our chaperone would showup.”
“I never left,” Thatcher retorts. “Rememberthat.”
“I’m choosing not to,” Farrow sayseasily.
Thatcher opens his mouth, and Akara says, “Moving on.” Thatcher nods and the game continues with anotherhand.
Farrow loses. “Dare, let the person you least like write something on your chest.” He already tosses a pen at Thatcher, and then he grips the hem of his shirt. He looks at me with a rising smile that says,try not to get hard, wolfscout.
I glower, my tongue running over my molars.Don’t fucking smile,Maximoff.
He pulls his black shirt over his head, his tattoos and cut muscles in full view, but it’s his unabashed, casual confidence that almost strokes mycock.
