Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
“Sulli,” we all say, ribbing him together.
His brows crinkle. “Not Sulli.”
Oscar smirks. “It was a ninety-nine percent chance, Kitsuwon.”
Akara shakes his head. “Look, all the subtle Sulli shots at me can’t happen anymore. I know you’re fucking around, but at the FanCon, you threw out hints that I liked her as more than a friend in front of Maximoff, in front of her cousins. Sooner or later, they’re gonna stop thinking that’s a joke. So you all need to cut that shit. Just a friendly warning.”
I don’t mind backing off, but if I slip on accident, I won’t mind that either.
“Aye aye, captain,” I say with a bagel between my teeth while I grab the other half from the toaster.
“Sure thing, boss.” Donnelly raises his beer.
Oscar shakes the pretzel bag, his curly hair falling in his eyes. “How sure are we that you don’t like her as more than a friend?”
“Oscar.” Akara glares.
He puts a hand to his heart. “You know I wouldn’t give you shit, if you weren’t a buddyguard. It’s not a good look. Ask Donnelly.”
Donnelly swishes his beer. “Beckett and I look dope together.”
“Exactly. That’s weird,” Oscar tells everyone.
Akara looks about ready to strangle Oliveira. My lips want to rise, partially-somewhat entertained. The Omega lead points at Oscar with his beer. “I’ve been on her detail since she was sixteen. Her dad will have my dick under a knife if he hears you. Do not push it.”
I let out a low whistle at Oscar. “Keep forgetting that lube before you get fucked hard.”
“Taking one for the team, Redford. You’ve been fucked hard enough today.”
I nod a few times. That was a good one, and Oscar holds my gaze for a quiet beat and nods back, more serious.
“Who was it?” Donnelly asks Akara. “If it wasn’t Sulli texting you.”
“The rest of the Tri-Force.” Akara names the powers-that-be in the security team that consist of the current Alpha, Omega, and Epsilon lead: Price Kepler, Akara Kitsuwon, and Banks Moretti. “Let’s go in the living room. There’s big news.”
I lean my ass on the iron café table, but the granny-decorated living room has more seating than usual. Mismatched lawn chairs litter the floorboards, accompanying the ugly pink Victorian loveseat and the old rocking chair.
While Donnelly slumps on a lawn chair, Oscar stays in the kitchen archway, and Akara stands front-and-center blocking the brick fireplace.
It’s hard to miss Thatcher.
He towers next to the adjoining townhouse door. Closer to me than I prefer. Arms crossed, he eyes Jane’s cats that dart across the mint-green rug.
I’m hoping to keep the silent streak between us intact.
Jack Highland sits on the loveseat and fiddles with his Canon, but the starry-eyed jock isn’t here to film We Are Calloway. He heard what happened after the auction, and he came here to check on Maximoff and Charlie.
“Put the phone away for a sec, Quinn,” Akara tells the youngest bodyguard.
Quinn is bowed forward on the rocking chair. “How long will this meeting take?” He doesn’t pocket his phone.
“I don’t know,” Akara snaps, not putting up with anyone’s bullshit tonight. “You need to be somewhere? Leave.”
Quinn glances around at us, and ends up looking to me for the right answer. I’m not solving anyone else’s mini-dilemmas unless their name starts with Maximoff and ends with Hale.
Boyfriend privileges.
Before I can tell him off, Quinn starts explaining to me, “I matched with this incredibly cute girl on Tinder and her profile says she’s down for hookups. She can only meet me in like five fucking minutes.”
My brows hike, and Oscar tries to control his laughter. His little brother is asking for my permission to go fuck a girl.
“Man, I don’t give a shit what you do,” I tell Quinn.
Thatcher shoots me a glare. “That’s really your advice?”
There goes that blissful silence. “Technically, it’s not advice. It’s an opinion.”
Donnelly asks to see the girl’s profile, and Quinn passes him the phone. Jack leans over to peek at the screen.
“Be thirty minutes late, little bro,” Oscar tells his brother. “That way she won’t smell your desperation.”
Quinn gives him a weird look. “I’m not that desperate. I’ve gotten hundreds of messages since the Hot Santa video leak. But this girl is out of my league and she doesn’t care.”
In the public’s eyes, Quinn Oliveira became the Casanova of Omega. The Young Stud. And I can see Thatcher weighing Quinn’s dedication to this job. Like he does to me all the fucking time.
Thatcher catches sight of my glare, and he glares back.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket. Just as I reach for my cell, Akara tells Quinn to make a choice.
Donnelly shrugs and hands the phone to Jack. “It’s just pussy, Quinnie. You can eat it later.”
Jack doesn’t flinch, used to blunt talk. “She’s cute. You’d look good together, but I’m with Donnelly.” He passes the phone back to Quinn.