Page 105 of Lovers Like Us
I frown at the two new pictures. Mentally, I push past the photoshopped gore, and I fixate on the locations. The first pic is clearly set in Nashville, a sign in the back, and the second city landscape is recognizable tome.
Boston.
A rock lodges in my throat, and my muscles tighten. Nashville and Boston are the next two tour stops. And both haven’t been publicly announcedyet.
It can’t be a coincidence anymore, and if I woke up Omega, I’m certain they’d all say thesame.
“What is it?” Maximoffasks.
My jaw tics. “You have astalker.”
He’s not afraid. “Officially?”
“Officially. Whoever’s running this account knows about the tour before the public.” It’s someone close to the families, to security or crew, and if they have this kind of inside information, I wonder what else they have accessto.
24
FARROW KEENE
“I’m goingto ask you this once.” Thatcher confronts me on Christmas Eve. All of SFO—except for Oscar who drives us to Atlanta—are secluded in the second lounge. Not for ameeting.
Not for a lecture or a pointlessfight.
We’re allundressing.
For a Hot Santa Underwear Contest. Our clients are the judges, waiting for us in the first lounge. We randomly picked underwear styles out of a hat. From tame to nearly-naked. Akara dubbed tonight “chill” and “fun”, but everyone forgot Thatcher has no concept ofeither.
As I pull my black shirt off my head, I try to suppress an eye-roll. “Okay, ask me,” I say. Multi-colored bulbs flash to the beat of a holiday jingle, and more lights are strung throughout thebus.
Thatcher unbuttons his charcoal shirt. “Did you tell Jane and Maximoff about thestalker?”
I unbuckle my belt, a bitter taste in my mouth. I can name a hundred other topics that deserveanger, and keeping my client and his client in the loop isn’t one ofthem.
Akara, Quinn, and Donnelly undress around us, listening and watching a shit storm brew. I can already tell Akara is pissed. His eyes pierce me as he wads up his muscle-shirt in afist.
“Yeah, I told them,” I say easily. “I assume you overheard them talking aboutit.”
“I did.” His voice is strict. “There arerules, Farrow. Rules that protect the mental well-being ofMaximoff—”
“He’s desensitized to this shit,” I cut him off. “It’s more helpful keeping himinformed—”
“No it’s not,” Thatcher retorts. “We can gather intel without him. We know everything about his relationships, his life. There’s nothing he can give us that we can’t learnourselves.”
That truth bothers the hell out of me. I can consume his past without even speaking to him or asking for permission, and that’s not what I ever want to do. I prefer a less invasiveroute.
I extend my arms. “I told him the truth. I don’t regret it. I wouldn’t change it, and if you’re looking for something different, I can’t help you.” I understand the rule about keeping demented shitsecret.
I followed that rule when Lily was my client. It applies to her and kids like Xander. Anyone who may getanxiety.
But Maximoff hates being kept in the dark, and I don’t tell him every tweet, every bullshit internet post. This was a real threat, and he’s the last person who needs waterwings.
Thatcher steps forward. “I don’t carehow you feel about the rules. They exist for a reason, and like I told you in Cleveland, for every single one you break, there’d beconsequences.”
I glance at Akara as he tells me, “We’re deducting your pay. You’ll be fined a grand for every infraction.” He shoots me a no-nonsense look. “Starting with the one you justbroke.”
Meaning, I just lost agrand.
Itense.
