Thatcher glares. “You never apologize for anything.”
“I caught the guy?—”
“The cats escaped?—”
“That has nothing to do with my fucking radio,” Farrow sneers. “Drop it, Thatcher.” One time I asked Farrow which guy he hated the most on security. He didn’t even hesitate before saying,Thatcher Moretti.Now I get it.
His strictness is the antithesis of Farrow.
I rip open antiseptic wipes. “Was it a brick?” I ask Thatcher, cutting into their tension. I motion with my head to the window. Security has sufficiently taped up a piece of cardboard over the cracked hole. Glass cleaned, curtains closed.
I’m trying to visualize the projectile.
“Don’t worry about it,” Thatcher tells me.Evasive.I’ve been reminded tonight that Thatcher is in the camp ofMaximoffasks too many questions. Maximoff takes on too much responsibility. Maximoff isn’t part of the security team. Remind him that any chance you can.
“I’m not learning about this online tomorrow,” I say firmly. “Was it a brick, a hammer, a goddamn UFO?—”
“A baseball,” Farrow answers.
Thatcher has a stern look that says,he didn’t need to know.Thatcher is used to protecting Xander, who is guarded from facts that stoke his anxiety. But I’m not the same as my brother.
And I’meightyears older.
“I asked,” I remind Thatcher.
He nods slowly. “You’re right.”
Farrow’s brows jump and then he gestures for the antiseptic wipes. “Give me.”
I hand them over, and he wipes the blood and gravel off his forearms, not even cringing. His pain tolerance has to be high. Evidence: every damn tattoo.
Thatcher sits forwards, hands cupped. Eyeing me.“The team has a few questions we need to ask you.”
“Alright.” My shoulders square. I rip packets of gauze open for Farrow. He seems out-of-the-loop on this pre-planned debriefing. Probably because he hasn’t been tethered to a radio.
Thatcher asks, “Who bit you?”
I go completely still. “What?”
Farrow places his hand on my shoulder blade and examines my back.
Thatcher clarifies, “Who gave you the two bite marks?”
I glower. “That’snoneof your fucking business.” I’ve never shared my sexual history with the whole security team. Not when Declan was my bodyguard. And definitely not now.
“It’s online already.” Thatcher passes me his cellphone, the screen popped up toCelebrity Crush’s homepage.
The first photograph shows me only in dark-green boxer-briefs on my street. In a second panel, they zoomed in on two reddish bite marks. One near the back of my neck. The other on my waist above the band of my underwear.
The headline:Maximoff Hale Caught with Sexy Bite Marks! Is He Into Kink?!
Before I even digest this, I spot another headline, another photograph from tonight. And then a photograph from over twenty years ago. I don’t blink as I read:Maximoff Hale Wears Green Underwear Like Ryke Meadows!
Great.
I’d beensodamn careful about wearing green. I didn’t exactly plan to run outside in my underwear tonight. Orever.
I return the phone to Thatcher, not faltering. “Regardless of the article, you don’t need to know who bit me or who I’m sleeping with—noneof that is your business.”
