Page 167 of Tangled Like Us
“Shitshit,” Luna curses.
I open my mouth, but the guy’s head pops out of the sheet in a flash. He stares up at Luna with wide, concerned eyes.
I know him.
Chestnut brown hair, tattoo sleeve, and cut muscles, trained in MMA—he’s a twenty-seven-year-old Omegabodyguard.
Paul Donnelly.
“What’s wrong?” he asks Luna, worried. He’s already turning his head towards the entrance.
Towards me.
I’m frozen.
She’s frozen.
Donnelly is like water on a hot summer’s day. Thawed completely, he moves. Carefully slipping out of the bottom bunk while also keeping Luna covered with the sheet.
He’s wearing black pants, but he grabs a tattered Van Halen tee off the floor.
Luna watches him, then looks to me, more wide-eyed.
My vocal cords loosen. “I’msosorry, Luna.”
Never did I imagine I’d walk in on my almost-nineteen-year-old cousin receiving oral sex. Let alone from a bodyguard. I haven’t even accidentally walked in on Moffy having sex withhisbodyguard.
I’m having sex with mine.
Oh my God.
This just became dreadfully more complicated.
“I’m going to come back later,” I manage to add quickly. I head to the door, backing away from this.
“Waitwait!” Luna whisper-hisses. “Don’t leave before I can explain.”
Curiosity has me in a vice. I waver.
I cave beneath the pleading look in her eyes. I do as she instructs and come forward. She shimmies up the headboard and snaps on a bra.
I have many questions. Like why Beckett’s bodyguard is in her room and going down on her.
I shut the door behind me. I’d love for Thatcher to be here, but he’s not even supposed to be in my bedroom. So I can’t call him in as a right-hand.
Donnelly fixes his safety pin that’s functioning as a cartilage earring, and he sits down on an alien beanbag. He appears cool, calm, like I didn’t just interrupt him.
Luna wiggles her shorts on underneath the sheet, and then she slides out of the bunk. Landing on her butt, rather than her feet.
She leans on the bedframe, hugging her legs. “So Donnelly was here to design my tattoo.”
Donnelly nods, slipping a cigarette behind his ear.
I notice his sketchbook on the floor. “I see.”
Luna points to the desk near him. “Donnelly, that’s for you, by the way. Just as payment for the design. I have cash for the actual tattoo.”
He’s in arm’s reach and stretches. Grabbing a burnt orange sweater, a green alien peace sign stitched in the middle. “Sick. Did you make this?”
