Tonightis the first night. I’m at a darkly lit nightclub. Lights blink and flash, music thudding the floor.
See, I’m a damned good bodyguard. The best of the best. But I’m teetering between doing my job and being a prick. Maximoff is going to ask me to vet whatever stranger he wants to fuck, and my first instinct is to lie.
To tell Maximoff that the stranger is a dipshit.
A liar.
A psychopath or murderer.
Whatever I need to say to terminate the subsequent events.
All night, I’ve been silently convincing myself not to go that route. Not to be a jealous prick.Do your motherfucking job, Farrow.
It’s never been difficult. Not like this.
“Farrow, you can sit beside me,” Maximoff says. “They’re not going anywhere.” He gestures to the three men in black suits that guard the VIP couch, their hands cupped and eyes alert.
I made a phone call to Tidal Wave, the two-story nightclub, before we arrived. I let the managers know Maximoff Hale would be dropping by and he’d need extra security.
It’s been the easiest part of tonight. Seeing him entertain girls and guys with the sole purpose of getting laid—let’s just say I’ve chewed my gum stale.
I focus on the task at hand. Tidal Wave has decent security, but even with the additional manpower, drunk men and women try to snap photos and hop the VIP ropes.
All eyes are on Maximoff.
That, I’m used to. He has an endless sea of people to choose from. Yet, he’s now hiding out on the leather sofa and listening to the alt-rock band one story below.
Heavy bass booming, the metal floor thumps beneath my black boots. I stand above Maximoff, and I rest a hand on the couch by his shoulder.
Leaning closer to him, I say, “You trustthemmore than you trust me?” I motion with my head to the club’s security. “Or does this position just really bother you? Me, standing. You, sitting.”
He blinks slowly into wide, sarcastic eyes.
My smile stretches, and I laugh while I chew my stale gum. Easing back a little bit.
“You should’ve been a psychologist!” he shouts over the music. “That way you’d get a certificate or cash orsomethingfor psychoanalyzing me other thanthis!” He gives me two middle fingers.
I roll my eyes, my smile fucking killing me, and I decide to sit on the armrest next to him because he asked. Soft chatter echoes through my earpiece, but it’s not for me.
I tune most out and scan the crowds that keenly fixate on Maximoff. Most people point at him from the neon-lit bar. Then I steal a glance at Moffy, our eyes catching. “Is this position better for you?!” I ask.
His lips pull upward, and a small smile overtakes his agitation. “When I asked you to sit beside me, I meantnextto me!” He gestures with both hands to the available cushion.
Since I’m on the armrest, I’m sitting taller than him. Which pisses him off a little bit, but he gets handed things easily. I like making him work a little harder.
As the alt-rock song hits a crescendo, I shout, “I’m technically still next to you!”
“You love your technicalities!” Maximoff tosses his phone from hand-to-hand, his shoulders taut and eyes as alert as the club’s security.
I watch other people fawn over him from afar. Taking photos, gushing with their friends, makingcome hithersignals for him to join. I turn to him, wondering if he will.
Maximoff stays still, his dyed light brown hair thick and unruly.
I chew my gum, trying not to smile that much while I study him. He did an extreme close shave; his jaw smooth like cut, polished marble, and his scent is always chlorine and citrus.
Like summer.
He clicks into his phone, and his brows pinch in firm irritation.
