My arm stays around her shoulders while we face the menu. Sketches of different shaped cakes are scrawled in pink chalk.
Boom.
My head whips to the storefront. Hoards of young excitable girls push against the glass door. I’m talking enough bodies to flood the sidewalk and trickle into street parking.
I stand up, muscles constricted. “Our location got leaked.” Already. Jane and I don’t draw crowds like we’re a band at Coachella unless people post about us.
Janie starts scrolling through a Twitter feed. “…it looks like a fan tweeted that they saw the paparazzi outside the bakery.”
“Did they post the address?”
“Oui.” Yes.
“Great,” I say dryly, and I take my phone out of my pocket. A few cameramen flocked the area when I first parked my car. I don’t mention them every time I see one. It’s like pointing out the grass, cement, or the damn sky. They’re scenery to my world. Always there. Always present.
And sometimes fucking up my day.
“Back up!” Farrow shouts through the glass. Girls keep trying to yank open the locked door. Some pound on the windows. For as severe as his voice sounds, Farrow looks unconcerned by the growing masses. He grips the handle to keep the door from jerking against the lock.
Quinn yells at the fans to leave too. But my gaze is tethered to Farrow. I sweep his relaxed six-foot-three build, his supreme composure—all in the face of a high-stress situation.
Farrow turns slightly, keeping his hand on the door. And with one quick glance, his eyes touch my eyes.
Before he reads my expression, I rotate completely. I rub my sharpened jaw.
My phone vibrates in my palm. I see the names Luna and Kinney, my two sisters, and I read the incoming texts.
Moffy!!!!!! Xander won’t leave the house :’((( – Luna
I told him nothin’ bad will happen, but he saw his name trending on Twitter – Kinney
And #PhillyBakery – Luna
I text: it’s not that crowded here.
Don’t lie. – Xander
I rapidly text: I’ll be by your side when you walk in. I promise. I won’t let anyone touch you.
No response yet.
I look up. Farrow is watching me. I follow his precise fingers that touch a small, slender mic attached to his black V-neck collar. The microphone’s wire runs up to his earpiece and then down to a radio that’s clipped on his waistband.
All security wear coms, but if he’s touching the mic, it means he’s actively talking to other bodyguards right now.
“Are they bailing?” Jane asks as she sidles next to me.
“Probably.” If Xander stays at home, it means his anxiety is through the roof. Luna and Kinney will want to keep him company.
I try one last thing and text: I’ll distract the crowds when you come. I want to add that I’d kill for him. I’d move mountains and rip through stone. I’d do anything to ensure my little brother’s safety. So I type: I’ll take a bullet for you. I’ll do any fucking thing. Just get here.
I press send.
After a long pause, my phone buzzes.
It won’t work. It never works. – Xander
My muscles bind. I flash the text to Janie. “This’ll be two weeks that he hasn’t left the house.” My parents try not to hound him about the isolation unless it reaches one month. It adds to his anxiety, they say. But staying cooped up for weeks on end isn’t goddamn healthy either.
Jane frowns. “Next time, we should pick him up first.”
I nod in agreement.
7
FARROW KEENE
“Alpha to Farrow.” A strict male voice blares in my eardrum. I scrape late-night scrambled eggs out of my pan and into a ceramic bowl. In the kitchen of my townhouse, I toss the frying pan into the sink, lagging on replying to Price. The forty-something stern Alpha lead keeps acting like I’m still a part of SFA.
I’m on SFO.
And I don’t take orders from anyone. What I will do: listen to Akara’s orders and decide whether I want to follow them or not.
“Alpha to Farrow,” Price snaps.
I lean on the counter and eat my eggs at a leisurely but naturally quick speed. The oven clock blinks 11:23 p.m.—I’ve been home for less than twenty minutes. Enough time to piss, shower, and crack a few eggs. Three weeks into my new role and I’m already used to Maximoff’s fast-paced lifestyle.
He jam-packs his days, and his plans constantly change depending on paparazzi, family in need, and the hundred employees he manages at H.M.C. Philanthropies. Most security on his detail would be whiplashed, but his high-stress, hectic schedule reminds me of doing rounds at the ER.
I eat and breathe every second like it’s candy.
What surprises me the most: he hasn’t gone to a single nightclub or bar yet. He was the one who said it’d be happening “soon” but he’s been stalling. I don’t ask why because I’d rather not pressure him to fuck someone. When he’s ready, he’ll be ready—and I’ll have to keep him safe.
It’s what I focus on.
“Alpha to Farrow, Alpha to Farrow,” Price repeats harshly a few more times.
I should only be hearing Omega to Farrow. I touch my mic. “Farrow.” Let’s hear what he has to say. I eat a scoop of eggs, alone in the kitchen since my only roommate is sleeping. Jane’s bodyguard, Quinn, hasn’t grown accustomed to the strange hours yet. As soon as Jane headed in for the night, he practically passed out upstairs—despite my best effort to suggest grabbing a quick meal first.
Bodyguard 101: eat when you have a free second ‘cause you never know when you’ll find another chance.
Through my earpiece, Price says, “You need to ask Moffy about the annual Charity Camp-Away. We’ve heard rumors that he plans to open the event to the public this year, and the security team needs confirmation. Don’t take long.” The radio quiets.
Opening a controlled, private event to the public creates major security risks. Ones that I’d never ignore. But Maximoff has the power to do whatever he wants with the Charity Camp-Away. Not only as the CEO, but he built the highly praised and promoted December event years ago.
Wealthy donors will buy expensive tickets to the three-day camp retreat with him and several family members. They basically pay to huddle around a campfire with celebrities. And only extremely affable people can afford the tickets.
I’ve overheard many of his phone calls in the car, and he’s never mentioned a change in the Camp-Away’s format.
I click my mic. “Farrow to Alpha, where’d you hear these rumors?” Carrying my bowl, I pass through the archway into my living room. The wooden door beside the brick fireplace connects my townhouse to Maximoff’s.
“SFA traced the word public from his assistant’s email,” Price tells me. “We need more intel from Moffy. Respond with an affirmative.” When security hacks emails, it’s in favor of the families. Yet, I see the irony. We protect them, but in doing so, we strip away their privacy.