Page 8 of Alphas Like Us
He unscrews the milk cap, but his attention stays on my bag. “What’s withthat?”
“My father got a call. I’m helping out one last time.” I take a large bite ofapple.
He chugs milk from the jug. “Tell whatever Hale needs you that I saywhat’sup.”
“No,” I say easily and head for the door, “and man, stop assuming the worst about the Hales.” The parents are addicts, but they’re in recovery and sober. And they’re better than most mothers and fathers that Donnelly and I grew uparound.
“Can’t help it.” He wipes his mouth on his bicep. “They’re the Bad LuckCrew.”
I roll my eyes and clutch the doorknob. “You may be assigned to one ofthem.”
“Nah, I already requested the Good Luck Crew.” He means the Cobaltfamily.
I smile into another bite of apple. “Have fun with that.” I kick open the door, en route to MaximoffHale.
When I’m in the elevator, I pull out my phone and contemplate calling or texting Moffy for more information, to ensure he’s okay, but I don’t even have hisnumber.
Fuckinghell.
I pocket my phone. Not long after, I take a cab to my father’s house in Northwest Philly, pack the supplies and medicine in my bag, and I reach the airport in plenty of time to board the private jet. Moderate turbulence and decent shut-eye later, I’m on theground.
An unknown source has already granted me access to Moffy’s dorm hall. If I made an educated guess, I’d say Security Force Omega is on top of this clandestine emergency. But Maximoff isn’t aware that any doctor is coming, as far as Iknow.
His dorm room is on the fourth floor next to the communal bathroom. I knock on the scratched wood. Waiting. Nonoise.
Answer, wolfscout.
I knock again. Complete silence, even inside the hall. Most students must be on campus, the old dorm quiet in theafternoon.
After another knock and more silence, my jaw hardens. In the email my father sent, he left an instruction:if Moffy doesn’t answer the door, call his bodyguard to openit.
He could be unconscious on the floor. I’m not wasting time or handing over that easy task to someone else. I turn the knob.Locked.
No hesitation, I pound my boot in the wood. The doorbangs, but it needs a couple more kicks to bustin.
I don’t even prepare for the second kick before the sound of footsteps echoes on the other side. He’smoving.
Good.
I expel a heavier breath through mynose.
The door opens to a nineteen-year-old, six-foot-two celebrity with a jawline cut likemarble.
Instantly, his forest-greens catch my brown, and I meet his questioning gaze. I run my tongue over my silver lip piercing and break eyecontact.
Quickly, I sweep his swimmer’s build for visible signs of a wound. His jeans are loose on his legs, his green tee tight on his chest. I don’t see an injury, and an earbud cord dangles over hisshoulder.
He must’ve been listening to music, unable to hear meknock.
“What are you doing here?” Moffy asks, voice firm. He even peeks over myshoulder.
“It’s only me, wolf scout.” I push further into the cramped dorm room before he can shut me out. I whistle at the unmade bed to the left, a Harvard crimson comforter rumpled and sheets balled. “Bad roommate?” I ask and drop my bag to thefloorboards.
Maximoff crosses his arms, his biceps bulging. “That could be my bed.” He nods to the messyarea.
“No,” I say matter-of-factly. “That’s your bed.” I point to the orange comforter tucked into the wooden frame. “And that’s your desk.” His oak desk is wedged nearby, a philosophy textbook cracked open and a highlighter uncapped like I caught him in the middle ofstudying.
“Great.” He rakes a hand through his thick, dark brown hair. “Now that you’ve Sherlock Holmes’ed my dorm, you can leave happy. Missionaccomplished.”
