He hangs up first.
Maximoff switches lanes and checks over his shoulder. “Now what’s the plan? Fake a log entry? Flee the coast, fly to outerspace?” He barely looks my way; the two paparazzi SUVs have multiplied into four. “Maybe we can build a colony on Mars,” he says, sarcastic. “Eat nothing but potatoes for the rest of our lives.”
“You’re referencing a movie I’ve never seen. Aren’t you?”
The corner of his mouth rises. But not for long. Real concerns lie beneath his dry wit, and I’m not letting them fester.
“I’ll be vague in my log,” I explain, chatter growing louder in my right ear. I pull the earpiece out and increase the radio’svolume. “It’s very far from a grim, dark reality, so stop packing your survival kits and just trust me.”
He’s used to tapping into “damage control” mode. But he needs to breathe and not jump the gun here. We’re just at the start of a marathon of secrecy.
Maximoff tries to turn his head to me, but he has to fixate on the paparazzi’s vehicles that swarm him. “You know that I trust you more than I’d trust anyone else. We’ve been on the same page about all of this: the no texting, no emails, even being careful with street cameras…and that’s meant—it’s meant a lot to me.”
My chest inflates as my mouth pulls in a wide smile. “I’m glad you feel safe with me.”
He makes a face. “Is that what I said?”
“In so many words,yeah.”
He can’t restrain his own smile, but then his lips downturn fast. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, and we go quiet as a blue sedan whips into the nearby lane. I spot the camera before the window even rolls down.
Maximoff accelerates.
I rotate and observe the SUV on our ass. From their front windshield, they point cameras at the Audi’s rear window. I silently count four…five, six and nowsevenvehicles on the road. For the sole purpose of obtaining money-shots of Maximoff Hale.
“Get off 95.”
“Not yet.” Maximoff cuts off the blue sedan and weaves skillfully in and out of the scattered freeway traffic. Frenzied excitement blares through my earpiece’s speaker, filling our concentrated silence.
“Cobalt Empire all together,” Oscar says.
“Dream team,” Donnelly sing-songs.
“The band is about to start,” Heidi, Eliot Cobalt’s bodyguard whispers into the mic. She’s on Epsilon, but Heidi is the only female bodyguard in the whole team. In her early fifties, she’s been with the Cobalts since Jane was born.
Maximoff switches lanes again, and he must feel somewhat comfortable because he asks, “Wish you were there?”
My brows spike. “Do you mean with the ‘Cobalt Empire’ or watching Tom Cobalt and his band performlivepublicly for the first time?”
“Either.”
I keep surveillance of the speeding paparazzi SUVs. And I remember when Maximoff’s seventeen-year-old cousin put together a three-person punk band when he was fourteen. Tom is the lead singer.
“I wasn’t one of the bodyguards who saw Tom learn to play guitar. I didn’t see him choose a band name or give my input.” I roll my eyes becauseOscarof all security members suggested the nameThe Carraways, a play off his middle name Tom CarrawayCobalt.
Tom chose The Carraways.
“And I didn’t watch his rehearsals or listen to him rework songs.” I crane my neck over my shoulder. I hate that SUV on our ass. “Seeing himliveat a small venue doesn’t mean that much to me.”
“Three, two,” Donnelly whispers, “…one.”
Tom’s deep, passionate voice and the fury of guitar, drums, and bass seep through the mic-line. I bet all nine Cobalt bodyguards are pressing their mic buttons so the rest of the security team can listen.
Maximoff smiles throughout the emo-punk song. “Tom.” He shakes his head and then finds a moment to glance at me. “He was only ten when I finally told everyone that I liked girlsandguys, and I didn’t think it’d matter to him. But I stoodin front of my family at Christmas, presents half-unwrapped, with goddamnJack Frostplayingin the background—and when everyone started hugging me and smiling, I looked over and Tom was crying.”
His eyes reddened, Adam’s apple bobbing.
My chest is taut with emotion. “He was happy.”
