Xander asked Farrow, Banks, and me to convince his parents to let him box again, and we agreed to be his advocates and to keep training him if he made a promise to stick to throwing punches in the ring. Or else, we’re out.
The only reason we’re not siding with his parents is because we all know how much boxing can help Xander feel empowered. Especially in situations where he feels helpless.
My brother leans back, realizing he has no radio on him.
“They wouldn’t have responded to you anyway, Banks.” My eyes sear, hating this part of being an identical twin. I slide a grave look to him. “My sins are your sins.”
He bites harder on the toothpick. “Not everyone is a knucklefuck who treats us like one person.”
“Not everyone is Akara,” I sling back since Akara is still speaking to my brother.
A rock lodges in my throat. I want to unburden Akara after the hole I sunk him in with the other leads, but I’m not in charge. I can’t help him anymore, and not being able to do anything of worth—that fucking suffocates.
I swallow hard.
Banks points to my radio. “Let’s just see. Pretend to be me and ask Epsilon for intel on comms. We practically have the same voice.” They won’t be able to tell the difference.
I nod once, and I click the mic at my collar. “Banks to Epsilon, anyone know Tony’s AO?” I ask for his area of operations.
Static crackles in my ear.
And then the Epsilon lead cuts in, “Not your business, Banks.”
I glare at the wall. Jon Sinclair shouldn’t be dismissing my brother that quickly. Banks protects Maximoff Hale often, and Maximoff is close to Jane. My brother should be able to ask about Jane’s new bodyguard.
“Fucking horseshit,” I mutter under my breath, switching a knob to Omega’s frequency. I tell my brother what happened.
Banks exhales his irritation out, pissed.
“Excuse me?”
Our heads turn as a middle-aged woman leans on a stool and taps the bar counter near me. Skin sags on her face, teeth yellowed. She reminds me of a neighbor we used to have who smoked three packs a day.
The sports bar is crammed with South Philly locals.
She gestures between me and Banks. “Are you two twins?”
“Yes, ma’am,” we say automatically.
Her face lights up. “And you spoke at the same time!” She laughs.
I try to remember this is routine. Before we even stepped through the doors, we were asked the same thing. Twice.
It’s aggravating me since I’m not in a great fucking mood. Banks ignores her completely and orders a beer. Leaving me to handle this interaction, which usually I don’t mind. It’s how we operate.
I lead.
He follows.
“How old are you two?” She places a hand on my forearm. “Do you do the same thing for work?”
Apologize. Move out. I start, “Sorry but we’re—”
“Mom,” a young girl cuts me off and whispers to the woman. We make eye contact, and quickly, she averts her gaze and blushes.
On any day, I’m intimidating, but I bet I’m glaring into every ring of hell right now. I rub my face, then drop my arm to my side.
Where are you, Jane?
I glance at the door that creaks open, an old man filing in and patting his buddies on the shoulders near a dirtied high-top table. I stay alert and keep track of movement in the bar. Habit. There aren’t famous ones here I need to protect.
Not yet.
She’s not here yet.
“Paige, look, they’re twins.” She beams at her daughter. “Aren’t they handsome?”
“Mom,” Paige hisses, eyes popping. “They’re the Moretti brothers.” People at the bar start to overhear and plaster their gazes on us.
But the one thing we’re used to is staring.
“The who?” her mom asks.
“They’re the bodyguards to the Hale, Meadows, and Cobalt families—and Thatcher is dating Jane Cobalt.” Paige speaks in a nervous rush.
Banks rotates to me. “You want something?” The bartender is still in front of us, waiting for me to order.
I nod. “I’ll take a water.”
Banks frowns slightly at me. He must’ve thought I’d order a beer. We speak in short glances, and I give him a look like, I’m still staying sober. He knows why.
A target broke into the townhouse last month, and with no evidence, it’s becoming more probable that we won’t know who broke in until a second attempt happens.
I have to be vigilant. I can’t lose sight of what matters. Of who matters. Everyone in that townhouse.
The intruder could’ve been Nate.
It could’ve been a stalker.
I don’t know who—I just have to be ready for them.
“Water?” the bartender repeats and assesses me with a long, incredulous stroke. His snide tone puts me on edge.
“Yeah,” I say concretely. “Water.”
He wipes his hands on a towel. “You aren’t gonna find sparkling water here.”
“We’re from here.” I scowl, acid running in the back of my throat. I’d take a punching bag and gloves right about now. Nothing grates on me like people trying to shove me out of the place where I grew up.
This is my fucking home. I’m South Philly born and bred.
“Doesn’t look like it to me.” He tosses his towel aside.
I don’t break his gaze. “Tap is fine.”
He quirks his brow. “You’re with a Cobalt, aren’t you? You’re probably drinkin’ some gold-infused sparkling water seven days a week.”
I glare, unblinking. What makes him think I’d tell him anything about the Cobalts?
“My brother doesn’t drink bougie water,” Banks says coldly to the bartender.
Banks has always thought even knock-off brand bottled water is bougie. Which he knows I drink a fuck ton of, so he’s just trying to push the bartender off my ass.
Somewhere on the other side of the packed bar, a man shouts, “Yeah, he’s just been fuckin’ a bougie girl!”
My narrowed eyes swerve and find the voice. Grease stains his white shirt, his middle-aged face weather-beaten and antagonizing.
He leers over the bar. “Women around here aren’t good enough for you? You gotta go eat that expensive pus—”
“You want your head inside your asshole, keep fucking talking,” I growl, blood coursing hot through my veins.
Banks chews his toothpick and stands threateningly off the stool. His arms crossing over his firm chest.
The guy looks between us and our towering heights and cut builds. His smile recedes with a breathy laugh, and then he raises his hands. “Just sayin’ what everyone is thinking.”
Banks says frostily, “No one asked you.”
He opens his mouth again, but people nearby yell at him to shut up and just drink. We all reroute our attention, and the bartender slides an ale to my brother and a glass of tap water to me.
Banks sinks back onto the stool. “What a fucking stunad.”
I nod, knowing he’s calling him a drunk idiot. I check my phone.
No new messages.
Charlie hasn’t replied. With a rough hand, I rub my sore jaw that I’ve been clenching. I push back some apprehension and grip my glass of water.