I slide down onto the cushion beside him and spot the pinkCelebrity Crushlogo. Closer, I can speak without shouting. “I thought you don’t actively check tabloids.”
“That was before Ibustedmy knuckles open and had thousands of people threatening to refund their dollar raffle entries.” Now October, the raffle for the Camp-Away went livethis week, and the publicity has been uncontrollable. I doubt a fistfight will seriously hurt the hype.
Because it’s definitely not the first time he’s been caught publicly in one. All to defend his family.
Sometimes the fights are even nastier. He gets hit. Things get broken. Someone ends up sued, either him or the bodyguard. The fact that we evaded all those scenarios makes it a success.
The security team critiqued the video footage from the pub, and the only criticism they could scramble together was Quinn’s sudden outburst.
But I don’t blame him. The first time I heard the shit people said about Lily Calloway—to her face—I almost blew it.
We’re told all the time about the constant harassment these families receive, but until you meet it head-on, it doesn’t seem real.
Glancing at the phone, I say, “You’re trying to see how much damage the fight caused?”
He nods and scrolls throughCelebrity Crush.
I take constant surveillance of his environment and him, splitting my attention between the two. “Even if you have several refunds, more people will enter the raffle.” I try to steal his gaze. “You’re overthinking.”
“I always overthink. It keeps me…” Color just drains out of his face, eyes plastered to his phone.
My muscles bind. “Maximoff?” I lean into him, his shoulder taut and firm. Quickly, I skim the screen.
25 Reasons Why Maximoff Hale Is Like Ryke Meadows!
He slowly scrolls down to the first bullet point, and I see words:Maximoff Hale fights with his fists first and talks later. Exactly like Ryke! Compare the most recent video of Maximoff losing his cool at a Philly pub with this old video of his Uncle Ryke Meadows outside a diner.
Maximoff plays the video of his uncle and increases the volume, barely audible in the club.
Ryke must be no older than twenty-five in the footage. Unshaven, tan from the sun, brooding, tabloids like to call him an aggressive jackass.
Ryke grabs his helmet off his black Ducati.
“How’s that Calloway pussy, Ryke Meadows?!” A preppy-dressed man snickers, jumping up on the curb near Ryke.
“Go fuck yourself,” he growls, hardened to stone and white-knuckling his helmet. He cements to that one spot, zeroed in on the man like a predator to prey. The look in Ryke’s eyesfeelsthe same as the look that was in Moffy’s.
The man snickers. “If you don’t tell me how Calloway pussy tastes, then I’ll just find out myself. Starting with the youngest one?—”
Ryke lunges and swings?—
Maximoff abruptly clicks off his phone. The screen blinks to black. Taking a huge breath, he asks me, “Did that video remind you of me?” He stares me dead in the eye. Building defenses against my upcoming response.
I want to be transparent with him. No hoarding secrets, no doling out lies, but this truth will hurt him a little. I suck in a breath through my teeth. Pinching my fingers, I say, “Seventy-five percent.”
Maximoff digests this silently and then he eyes my fingers, obsessed with my hands for some precious reason. “Your seventy-five percent looks a hell of a lot like two-percent.”
I smile, and as the music booms, I have to raise my voice. “Then you’re not looking closely enough!”
“Purposefully!” he shouts back, gripping his cellphone in a tight fist.
I chew my gum, assessing his tense state. Turning my head into his neck, my lips a breath from his ear, I say, “Lean back with me.”
“What?” He stiffens.
I raise my brows. “He’s never relaxed on a couch.” I let out a long whistle. “The new things I’m showing him.”
Maximoff realizes what I mean. He pockets his phone like he’s accepting a bet, and then he slides back until his spine hits the leather. His shoulders unwind, somewhat.
