“12th and McKean,” he confirms, chest taut, and he rolls his sleeves higher.
I reroute my attention to the road and drive the speed limit. My approach to wild cameramen on Philly streets differs greatly from my best friend.
I avoid heavily trafficked roads. One-ways are my greatest allies, and the narrower the street, the better.
Maximoff’s license will be reinstated in October. Just next month, and I’m hoping Farrow can convince him to not exceed ninety or maybe take the passenger seat. I worry about Moffy trying to outrun paparazzi, especially after the crash.
I turn onto 12th . “Merde,” I curse aloud, suddenly noticing the coffee stain on my frilly white sleeve.
On this very important morning, I chose to wear a laced long-sleeve blouse, a faux fur cheetah vest, pastel jeans, ballet flats and an acorn squash-shaped purse, and the probability that I already made Celebrity Crush’s Worst Dressed List is inevitably high.
And it’s only 6 a.m.
Sometimes I believe the media relishes in putting me on blast. I could sneeze and tabloids and internet trolls would say I’m doing it wrong.
Normally, I wouldn’t care about the coffee splotch, but I also don’t want my appearance to read as disrespect.
I keep a hand on the wheel and lift my arm to my mouth. I bite the sleeve and try to tear the fabric off with my teeth.
Thatcher glances over with the same bold toughness.
I mumble, “This is more difficult…than it appears.” This is not working. In my head, I succeeded gloriously all over this idea, but reality likes to slap me with failures left and right. I spit the sleeve off my tongue.
His mounting silence is like a heater in a blizzard. Comforting. And irresistible.
I look from my coffee stain to him and back to the road, spinning my wheel and turning on to McKean. I sigh. “I suppose there are worse stains like blood or jizz.”
Jizz.
I talked about cum on my sleeve in front of my bodyguard.
My eyes gradually widen and widen. So what if I did? I tap the steering wheel, wondering what he’s thinking.
I look right at him for the countless time.
He stares unblinkingly at me, and in one quick flash, he reaches over to the steering wheel and takes my wrist in his large hand. “Can I?”
“Can you…do what?” I squint at Thatcher, my pulse speeding. I have to watch the street, but as his fingers brush my sleeve, I understand. “Yes.” I inhale. “Yes, you can.”
Thatcher suddenly rips the frilly lace right off its seams. In one motion, it’s gone.
My ovaries just exploded.
And my lips rise in a small smile. I give him my other arm. “Again, please.” Our eyes meet for the shortest, most exhilarating second.
He gently cradles my other wrist, and in one strong tug, he tears off more lace.
I haven’t exhaled yet.
Laughter from the radio hosts cuts the tension in two. “Cathy, that’s so wrong. No one will ever be a better lead for Wolverine than Hugh Jackman. He’s the OG.”
“I’m going to have to disagree with you, Jackie…”
I tune out the radio. “How much time do we have?” I bang my dashboard to jostle my frozen clock. Fixing anything I break is always low priority.
Thatcher checks his wristwatch. “Seventeen minutes.”
“We’re dreadfully close to being late.” I barely press the gas any harder.
Slow and steady, Jane.
Thatcher straightens up. “Don’t take Passyunk. Go to 19th .” His Philly lilt is thicker on the street name, and I trust his advice.
I’m driving through South Philly where he grew up.
Brick row houses dart past us, along with the occasional market and deli. Hundreds of personal questions nip at me, but even with his promise of transparency, I’ve been very particular about what I ask my bodyguard.
Thatcher is like a sacred text. I’m tempted to rush through the pages, but something has compelled me to draw out each line, each word. Reading so slowly and carefully so as to never miss a syllable. So a single book, a single person, could last me forever.
I look over at him and settle on a question. “Do your parents still live here?”
He runs a hand across the firm line of his unshaven jaw. “Our—my mom.” He blows out a heavy breath. “Sorry, it’s a habit, always being with Banks.”
I smile at the mention of his twin brother. He speaks more about Banks than anyone else in his life.
It reminds me of Charlie and Beckett. My twin brothers are extraordinarily close, but they’re not identical and they didn’t choose the same career path like Thatcher and Banks did.
“It’s sweet,” I tell him.
His brows pull hard together. One would think he’s never heard that word before.
I flick my blinker and take 19th . “Does your mom live alone?” Last month, I asked if he was close to his parents. We didn’t have long to chat at the time, and all he could get out was that his parents divorced when he was twelve.
Thatcher studies the traffic ahead of us. “My grandma still lives with her.”
Reading into his voice is difficult. Everything sounds cut and dry and simple, and possibly that’s just how it is for Thatcher. I’m used to a family that speaks in riddles and confounding subtext. If a Cobalt is blunt, usually we’re blunt with added flair.
He adjusts his seat again. “My mom remarried, so her wife is with her too.” He hawk-eyes the paparazzi behind us. “She’s openly bi. Been that way since she was a teenager. She dated girls before she met my dad—take a right on Porter up ahead.”
I nod, and my eyes flit to him. “Your dad isn’t still here then?”
“No.” Thatcher shakes his head. “He hasn’t been in Philly for a while. He trains SEAL recruits in Coronado.”
I do remember Thatcher said his dad isn’t an active Navy SEAL at the moment, but he used to be.
I crane my neck to check the rearview mirror. The Toyota is encroaching my bumper. “I have to go a little faster.” I press the gas and then rotate the wheel. Turning a sharp corner onto Porter.
I watch the Toyota mimic me and then slink right on up to my exhaust pipes. “Really?” I crinkle my nose at the mirror. “You’re still going to ride my ass?”
Paparazzi are either about to force me to push twenty-over the speed limit or to endure a minor collision with their car.
Thatcher is already rolling down the passenger window. He sticks his head and muscular arm a little bit outside, and the more he leans, the more he lifts his ass off the seat.
My eyes dart down to his black slacks that mold his butt like perfectly rounded fruit.
“Oh my God,” I breathe underneath my breath. I just checked out my bodyguard’s ass. It wouldn’t be the first time. “You’re most surely going to hell, Jane,” I whisper more softly to myself.
Two out of my five brothers will certainly be there, so at least I won’t be alone. But knowing Tom and Eliot, those two menaces will destroy all eternal pits of fiery damnation the second they enter.
There will be no hell left for me to even occupy.
“Back up!” Thatcher waves for the car to move.
The Toyota hardly budges, and I tighten my grip on the wheel.
“BACK THE FUCK UP!” Thatcher yells in a deep, threatening voice that I’ve heard before. Life-or-death seriousness coats each word, and I can only imagine his features are as caustic.