“See ya never, Betty!” Donnelly calls, and the front door slams shut. He jumps into his ripped jeans. “Can’t believe I stuck my dick in a Wawa hater.”
I pop my gum in my mouth. “You’ve stuck your dick in worse.” I straighten off the doorframe.
Donnelly buttons his jeans. “Nothin’ worse than a girl who hates Wawa.”
I whistle. “And your fucked-up standards persist.”
He grins and tugs his ragged shirt from last night over his head. He notices my trauma bag, and his mouth downturns.
I don’t unearth this thing from the closet every day.
Two minutes.
“Bike keys are on the bed,” I explain, chewing my gum. “I’ll be out for a while. You can use it if you need to.”
Donnelly doesn’t own a vehicle of any kind, and if he’s not borrowing my Yamaha, then he’s stuck on foot or with public transportation.
I veer into the kitchen, not loitering around any longer.
Donnelly follows close behind. “You tell your old man about being a bodyguard yet?”
I steal Cory’s apple out of a fruit bowl, and I glance back at Donnelly. “Not yet.”
A while back, Akara Kitsuwon suggested I try security training. He owns the Studio 9 Boxing & MMA gym, which became a hub for the famous families’ security team.
Donnelly and I were sparring on the mats, like we sometimes do, and in a break, I offhandedly mentioned being burnt-out from medicine to Akara.
Next thing I know, I’m in security training and Donnelly joins the ride. Now we’re both in the final course of training, and I’m one foot in medicine, one foot out.
Donnelly takes a jug of milk out of the fridge. “Been thinking about when you’ll tell him?”
I bite into the apple and hold Donnelly’s gaze for a short beat.
Once I tell my father that I’m quitting medicine to become a 24/7 bodyguard, I’ll lose him, and Donnelly knows this.
My relationship with my father is built on the notion that I’d become a doctor. That’s my worth. My life’s purpose. Remove it, and nothing is left.
Let’s put it this way: I was his student first, son last. Small talk was typical; anything deeper almost never happened, and sure, he was always busy like most fathers are. But I didn’t have a mother, and he didn’t hire a nanny or babysitter to look after me.
Instead, he put me in dozens of extracurricular activities. Made me fend for myself more than half the time.
And one of those activities was martial arts. I started at five-years-old and never stopped. It’s ironic that my love of MMA is what eventually led me to the Studio 9 gym, and ultimately, what opened the door to security training.
I can’t even be upset that I’ll lose my father with this career change. Because I don’t feel like I ever had a good one to begin with.
When will I finally tell the old man that I quit? I don’t make regimented plans like that.
I spit out my gum into a trash bin. “It’ll happen when it happens,” I tell Donnelly and eye the oven clock. One minute left.
He unscrews the milk cap, but his attention stays on my bag. “What’s with that?”
“My father got a call. I’m helping out one last time.” I take a large bite of apple.
He chugs milk from the jug. “Tell whatever Hale needs you that I say what’s up.”
“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 up around.
“Can’t help it.” He wipes his mouth on his bicep. “They’re the Bad Luck Crew.”
I roll my eyes and clutch the doorknob. “You may be assigned to one of them.”
“Nah, I already requested the Good Luck Crew.” He means the Cobalt family.
I smile into another bite of apple. “Have fun with that.” I kick open the door, en route to Maximoff Hale.
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 his number.
Fucking hell.
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 the ground.
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 I know.
His dorm room is on the fourth floor next to the communal bathroom. I knock on the scratched wood. Waiting. No noise.
Answer, wolf scout.
I knock again. Complete silence, even inside the hall. Most students must be on campus, the old dorm quiet in the afternoon.
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 open it.
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 door bangs, but it needs a couple more kicks to bust in.
I don’t even prepare for the second kick before the sound of footsteps echoes on the other side. He’s moving.
Good.
I expel a heavier breath through my nose.
The door opens to a nineteen-year-old, six-foot-two celebrity with a jawline cut like marble.
Instantly, his forest-greens catch my brown, and I meet his questioning gaze. I run my tongue over my silver lip piercing and break eye contact.
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 his shoulder.
He must’ve been listening to music, unable to hear me knock.
“What are you doing here?” Moffy asks, voice firm. He even peeks over my shoulder.
“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 the floorboards.
Maximoff crosses his arms, his biceps bulging. “That could be my bed.” He nods to the messy area.
“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 of studying.
“Great.” He rakes a hand through his thick, dark brown hair. “Now that you’ve Sherlock Holmes’ed my dorm, you can leave happy. Mission accomplished.”
“I’m not leaving,” I say seriously.
Maximoff isn’t an idiot. He sees my trauma bag. He knows I’m here because of the phone call he made to my father. I don’t need to spoon-feed him this information.
But we’re at a slight standstill because he’s not forthcoming about his injury. I examine him from about four feet away. He usually has a tan complexion, but he’s lost color in his face. And he’s sweating.