Page 129 of Lovers Like Us
Radio.–Thatcher
bro, get your radio.–Oscar
Everyone told me to text you to get your radio–Quinn
Could be serious or unimportant. I’m not panicked. I glance at Maximoff who reads his own texts before I leave for the living room. Finding my radio beneath a tufted chair. I crouch and grab thething.
Maximoff appears, phone in hand. His shoulders are squared like he could join a rescue team. I almost smile. Because this is his posture when he’s just brushing histeeth.
“And?” I ask while I untangle the cord to myearpiece.
“The girls left the club.” He uses his arm to rub water off his temple. “They’re at a 24/7 diner and asked if we wanted any food to-go.”
“Shit,” I curse, flicking a switch to my radio. “It’s dead.” I stand quickly and collect my pants, digging in the pockets. No batteries onme.
See, if SFO changed locations and they believe Maximoff will eventually meet-up with their clients, then they’ll want to stay in touch with me via radio. Hence, the onslaught of textmessages.
I step into a new pair of black boxer-briefs. “I have more batteries on the bus,” I say, grabbing my pants and belt. We parked the tour bus at the nightclub’s VIP parking. Only a ten-minute walk from thishotel.
I’m not going to be fined for pointless shit, and losing a grand for a dead radio is about as pointless as itgets.
Dressed fast, Maximoff and I breach the crisp night. He draws the hood of his Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt, and I zip up my leatherjacket.
Dallas still alive as the New Year rolls in, drunken people cheer on the sidewalks. Gold top hats on heads and feather boas on necks. More fireworks crack, but lessfrequently.
I love high-strung cities that neversleep.
Maximoff drinks in the frenzied atmosphere. No paparazzi or screaming fans interrupt the momentyet.
We walk step-for-step in sync, edging close to each other. He almost catches a yawn, but it escapes with a soft, “Fuck.”
My mouth upturns. The suite was a secure room, so I say, “You could’ve slept back at the hotel. I’m capable of grabbing batteriesalone.”
His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and he stuffs his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. “You’d probably get lost,” he says dryly. “Directional skills are the first thing to go after I make someonecome.”
I laugh once. “That’s cute, but you don’t need an excuse to hang out withme.”
He growls into an aggravated groan, “Fuck off.” The corners of his lips startlifting.
My smile is fucking killing me. It takes all my energy not to grab his hand. Instead, as we face straight ahead, I lean closer, and our shoulderstouch.
His carriagerises.
“Is that Maximoff Hale?” I hear the female voice, about twenty feet ahead of us. Clusters of women smoke outside an upscale bar. Mid-to-late-thirties, all in sequined cocktail dresses, they wobble in heels and zero in onMaximoff.
I lower my voice. “Ignore them. Don’t do anything.” His gut-reaction will be to acknowledge fans, but for the sake of his cousins and their anonymity, he can’t let this locationleak.
Maximoff is more rigid. He shifts his head slightly. His hood partially conceals his features, but not that well. We have to walk towards the women and the bar, just to passthem.
A woman cups her hands to her mouth. “MaximoffHale!”
“Can we get a picture?!” another womanshouts.
“I want more than a picture,” one says suggestively and tooloudly.
I’m not “gawking” at Maximoff or the women. Bodyguard 101 for this situation: stare straightahead.
Walk.
