Page 11 of Headstrong Like Us
My lip rises.
I “heart” his photo, and I scroll onto a pic of Oscar Oliveira outside Buckingham Palace. The caption:today #SFO #KitsuwonSecurities
He was in London last week. Leave it to the most tactical bodyguard to use social media to throw off fans and paparazzi about his client’s location.
I “heart” his pic too and keep scrolling.
Underneath Quinn Oliveira’s towel gym selfie, I type out a one-word comment.
Dead
We give Oscar’s younger brother shit in the comment section.
Donnelly:I love a thot
Oscar:needs more towel
Except for Thatcher and me, Quinn—the “Young Stud”—has more followers than the other Omega bodyguards, currently 8.4 million.
See, a lot has changed in security. When SFO gained public popularity and some fame, we were told to delete personal social medias.
But Akara recently started his own security firm, and we all signed onto Kitsuwon Securities Inc. with no hesitation. I’m more than happy to leave behind the stringent fuckers on Alpha and the ass-kissers on Epsilon, but they’re still in our rearview window—not out of sight.
Some members of the family still use Price’s Triple Shield Services, and only a small group has hired Akara’s new company
Those being: Maximoff, Jane, Charlie, Sullivan, Luna, and Xander.
Six clients.
Seven bodyguards.
A new company means new rules. Akara okayed personal social medias, and most SFO bodyguards just recently activated Instagram accounts.
Me included.
I sometimes forget how famous I’ve become outside of just security, but the 61.3 million followers definitely puts my fame into perspective.
Though, I’m nowhere near Maximoff’s 102 million, and I know he loves to one-up me at everything but I’m not trying to win any popularity contests.
I scroll back up to the string of unwatched Instagram stories, and my brows pinch. Maximoff posted a recent story that I haven’t seen—and fuck, I want to click into this.
I glance down at him.
His chest rises and falls with his deep breath, his dark-brown hair disheveled and his bodyweight against me. Seeing him content and relaxed, even in sleep, is one of my favorite things. I smile more, and carefully, I lower my phone’s volume to the quietest setting.
I raise the phone over my face and tap into the story.
Maximoff fills the screen, his hair wet after showering last night. He hooks me in. And he’s just sitting on the edge of his twin bed. I must’ve been in the bathroom when he recorded this.
I strain my ears to hear the video.
“Hey, everyone.” A warm, welcoming smile inches up his lips. “Thanks for the well wishes. We’re all okay, I promise.” His eyes toughen, not soften. “I really appreciate all the clothes and things you’ve sent us after the fire, but please send those to your local shelters. They need it a ton more than us. If you aren’t sure where you can send extra clothes and supplies to, keep checking out my stories and swipe up for links.”
Maximoff.My eyes drift to him on the air mattress. He’s so pure, it aches my chest. Everything fans have mailed to us, he already gave to a Philly shelter.
I feel extremely fucking lucky to be engaged to him. To be fully a part of his world and gain his comic-book-obsessed, bizarre-as-fuck family as my family—shit, I’m staying in his childhood house. A home that is warmer and packed with more unconditional love than mine ever was.
Maximoff doesn’t get too raw and personal on Instagram. It’d be easy to think the fire affected no one, destroyed nothing, changed only our location—but that’d be understating what happened.
