I wipe my oiled hands on my black pants and then I grab the phone, cased in a blue zebra-print hard-shell. “How serious are you about being a masseuse?”
She elbows a piece of hair off her freckled cheek. “If I really enjoy it, then I’ll research how to become a professional masseuse and go from there.” She nods to the phone. “The video should be in my ‘recently watched’ list on YouTube.”
I wait to unlock her cell. “And what happens when you have a customer who wants a ‘happy ending’ from the famous Jane Cobalt?”
Maximoff glances at Jane, exchanging a look like they’ve both discussed the safety risks before.
Whenever I scroll through social media for security threats, the ones surrounding Jane Cobalt range from disgusting, plain creepy to violent. They’re both also aware of how some people perceive them. All it takes is a Twitter account:
I’d spank the fuck out of Jane Cobalt. I wanna see her cry.
Tie that bitch up and choke her good #JaneCobalt
Jane Cobalt likes it just like her mom. Ridden rough & hard, put away wetttttttt!!!
I’m gonna bang Connor Cobalt’s daughter until she can’t walk straight.
Omega is very protective of Jane without her realizing. In the past three weeks, we’ve intercepted her mail since a sick little shit keeps sending her ball gags. I’ll never broadcast this to Jane either. Security wants all of them to live without constant fear.
I agree.
We read and deal with all the fucked-up, demented shit so they don’t have to.
Jane shrugs and squirts more oil on her hands. “I’d have to screen my customers. It comes with the territory.”
“Of being famous,” I say.
“Of being the daughter to Rose and Connor Cobalt,” she clarifies. “Everyone watches me through the lens of my parents.”
Maximoff cracks a crick in his neck and mutters, “For better and for worse.”
I understand.
Their fame derives from their parents. Not from themselves. Rose and Connor Cobalt just happen to be notorious for having sex tapes leaked to the media. Specifically BDSM. Therefore, the public assumes their oldest daughter is just like her mother.
The security team has an intimate, inside perspective. Really, the truth. And I know Jane isn’t into BDSM.
Jane places her palms on Maximoff’s back but waits for the video. “YouTube,” she reminds me, and as our eyes meet, she adds, “I’m already lucky that I have the opportunity to take this time to find a passion. And I’m lucky that I can even consider the idea of being a masseuse. If I find what I truly love, I can’t let my fame stand in the way.”
I glance at Maximoff.
His jaw is a razorblade. He’s concerned about security risks, too. He’s seen those tweets. And I have a feeling that he’s just indulging her ambition for the moment and is banking on Jane landing on something safe.
I swipe into her phone too easily. Jane. “Where’s your passcode?” I ask, my tone very kind considering two-thirds of the security team would scold her like she’s a kid right now.
“I don’t have one,” she says. “They’re infuriating, and if I lose my phone, I’ll wipe the data clean immediately. Plus, I have nothing incriminating. I delete all my texts, and I upload most of my photos and videos to Instagram already. There’s nothing anyone can steal.”
Maximoff smiles, proud of his friend.
Her preparation reminds me of something the security team says about Jane. That she acts carefree, but her whole life is outlined and planned to her liking, and she juggles just as much, if not more, than Maximoff Hale.
While I find the video, I tell Jane, “Lightly rub his shoulder blades, and you won’t hurt him.”
Maximoff grips the back of the loveseat harder, and he licks his lips again. I find myself watching him, and as I near the armrest, closest to his chest, he’s more eye-level with my belt.
Maximoff stares off into space. Where’d you go, Moffy? I wave my hand at him, but he’s lost in his head.
“Farrow.” Jane’s blue eyes twinkle. “How many massages have you given before? And why?”
Alpha also calls her Jane “Curiosity Killed the Cat” Cobalt.
I scroll through her YouTube “recently watched” feed. “Too many, and look up the main purpose of a massage and you have your answer.” I discover the video and whistle. “How To Give An Amazing, Super, Fantastic Massage.” I press play and find a blurry image of two high school girls. “No.” I shut if off. “Let me show you.”
Maximoff wakes up, glaring at me. “No.”
“Welcome back, space cadet.”
He flips me off and repeats harshly, “No.”
Jane shakes out her arms, tired already.
“You have to use your whole body,” I tell her, and to him, I say, “Let me demonstrate so she can copy me.” I’d love to give him a massage for more reasons than just to help Jane.
Maximoff gestures to my chest. “You don’t know how to give a massage.”
“And you really missed the part where I just said I’ve given massages before.” I place Jane’s phone on the coffee table. “I know how to do a lot of things better than average. I’m good with my hands.”
“Great.” He’s being more headstrong over something I thought he’d forfeit for Jane. I hone in on his stiff posture and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“Maybe Farrow is right,” Jane says, “maybe I could use a real live demonstration.”
“Maybe Farrow is full of shit,” Moffy replies.
“Maybe Maximoff is scared of getting a massage from me,” I refute.
“You’re wrong.” He stands, facing me with as much self-confidence as Atlas bracing the world. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. “So what now?” He’s agreeing to a massage.
I use my boot and push the coffee table away from the couch. Then I throw a pillow onto the ground. “Lie down, wolf scout. Let me change your world.”
8
MAXIMOFF HALE
I’m so fucked.
I breathe through my nose. Suppressing whatever tries to heat my veins and disorient my head. Lust? Irritation? Infatuation?
I stare him directly in the eye. Unabashed, but I keep thinking, never in my goddamn life have I wanted to accept an order like that one as badly as I do now.
I’m highly aware that I’ve always been drawn to alpha males. The kind of men who want to top me as much as I want to top them. I get my way almost every time, but just toying with the vulnerability of being with someone just as strong, just as dominant, lights me up to the fucking max.
Imagining that person while I stand here, right now, I realize that Farrow Redford Keene is the penultimate match.
He’s your bodyguard. Thank you, moral conscience. It’s why I refuse to let my gaze slip down to his mouth or his six-foot-three build. I don’t even let him read my reaction for long.
I retie my loose drawstring pants. And then I kneel on the rug before lying on my stomach. A position I rarely find myself in.