Damaged Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 1)

FOR SEVEN CONSECUTIVE NIGHTS, Maximoff buries his time in charity work. I’d think it’s penance for the pub fight, but he’s drowning himself in work to avoid his old nightclub routine. Where he “finds someone to fuck”. He’s been delaying that since I became his bodyguard.

Except for tonight.

Tonight is 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 trust them more 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 or something for psychoanalyzing me other than this!” 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 meant next to 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, making come hither signals 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.

I slide down onto the cushion beside him and spot the pink Celebrity Crush logo. Closer, I can speak without shouting. “I thought you don’t actively check tabloids.”

“That was before I busted my knuckles open and had thousands of people threatening to refund their dollar raffle entries.” Now October, the raffle for the Camp-Away went live this 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 through Celebrity 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 eyes feels the 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.

After a short, silent beat, he says, “Thanks for being honest with me. I mean it.”

I hear the deep sincerity in his voice. “Anytime, wolf scout.”

Our arms touch unconsciously, and when our heads turn towards one another, our faces are only a couple inches apart.

The air seems to crack with that familiar, hard-to-breathe tension that I felt weeks ago when I massaged him. Our gazes grip securely.

In my head, I can be his bodyguard and sleep with him.

I’m that good. And it’s that simple.

In his head, I’m not sure what’s going on up there.

He inhales strongly, his chest rising, and his gaze bores into mine, searching for a sign. Mine caress his like the stroke of flesh against flesh. I want to slide nearer. I want to wrap my arm across his shoulders and close the two-inch distance.

My muscles tighten as I stay still, pulse pounding. And the next look he wears, I know that look. The look that melts his forest-green eyes and softly and forcefully begs, kiss me.

I breathe, my body doused with kerosene. Lit on fire, and just before I make a move, a sound, a clearer, more visible acknowledgement for him, his gaze just drops.

Off of me completely. To the ground, then the bar where girls start squealing in glee at the eye contact he gives them.

I grit down, pained like someone ripped out a rib. I comb my hands through my hair, and Maximoff stands up.

I stand not a millisecond after. “Where are you going?” I ask tensely.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, and then shakes his head like he’s trying to catch his bearings.

“We need to talk,” I say, but he can’t hear me over the sudden switch in songs, a hardcore rock anthem blasting. He’s already leaving the VIP area.

I follow. Step-for-step beside him, and a stool instantly opens at the crowded bar. Maximoff smiles at a short brunette in a sequined mini-dress. “You can sit!” he tells her. “Don’t get up for me!”

I restrain an eye roll.

She giggles.

He flags down the bartender and orders drinks.

For his safety, I have no other choice but to do my job. I stand behind him like an intimidating authority, someone that says don’t fuck with him. Since he wants to be approached tonight, I shouldn’t be scowling this hard.

I’m out of the way, but in the way. Unseen, but seen. All of those oxymorons are killing me tonight.

She gasps and says, “No way!” a thousand times.

Moffy leans down, cups his hand by her ear, and whispers for a full two minutes. Her eyes glow like she hit a jackpot, and she nods repeatedly.

I can only imagine that he’s telling her he wants to fuck her. In a subtler way but still blunt. Upfront. Sex only.

I spit my gum into my wrapper, my jaw aching. I pocket the thing, and then the girl hops off the barstool and heads for the bathroom.

Maximoff stays by the bar, and since this is my first time being his bodyguard while he’s trying to get ass, I’m somewhat in the dark. It’s not like he listed this in his rules.

He faces me. “We need to talk!” He has one-hundred percent padlocked his feelings. I glare, his face so impassive, so inexpressive—you’d think he’s channeling Connor Cobalt. His uncle who can will away emotion whenever he likes.

I hate it.

I step towards him and whisper in the pit of his ear. “Are we discussing your flirting techniques?” I unwrap a new piece of gum while he struggles to hide his feelings.

Let it out, wolf scout.

He gestures to me. “I assume you’re asking for advice.”

I smile and pop gum in my mouth. “That’s funny, I assumed you wanted advice from me.”

“You should look up the word joke because I don’t think you know the definition of funny.”

I whistle. “You’re just on a fucking roll today, aren’t you?” He can’t answer. A server swoops in with his earlier drink order. Club soda for him and a cocktail for the girl. She sets the cocktail on the bar, and I grab the club soda off the tray.

I pause before I put my lips to the rim. “You’ve never taken a sip of alcohol,” I say to Moffy, “which means you don’t know what it tastes like.”

He stares at me, blank faced. “Is there a question in there or are you just Nancy Drew-ing shit out loud?”

“I’m more of a Hardy Boy, but nice try.” Our eyes lock, more headily, all the while I put my lips to the glass and sip.

Sharp alcohol bites my tongue. “It’s spiked with vodka.” I look for the server.

“Just let it go. It’s not a big deal.” When he sees me searching for a server, he adds, “Farrow, it’s fine.”

He refuses to complain, but he can send back a spiked drink. And if the act makes him feel like an asshole, I’ll fucking do it for him.

Maximoff tells me, “Declan would just drop it.”

“I’m not Declan,” I remind him for the forty-fourth time this week. I catch a server’s attention. “I need a bottled water, sealed.” I give her a fifty-dollar bill.

“Right away.” She darts behind the bar, scoots beside the bartender, and then tosses me a bottled water. When I turn around to Maximoff, he looks stunned.

He licks his lips, emotion raising his carriage.

“Take it.” I pass the water.

He holds the bottled water like he’s never seen Evian before.

“It’s just water.”

Maximoff is frozen still. “You didn’t have to do that.” He means get him the water.

“Okay, but I did.” It’s not the first time he’s been like this after I helped him. I step closer. “Don’t you see, Maximoff? There’s a cement wall in front of you, and you’ve just been told to be satisfied with staring at it.” He listens intently. “And so you just stand there, not able to see the other side.” The wall is paparazzi.

The wall is the people who spike his drink.

The wall is hecklers and his lack of privacy.

Screw it all.

“What’s the alternative?” he combats. “Me hating my life?”

“No!” I shout as chatter escalates around us. “It’s my job to help you over the wall! Declan may’ve told you to accept the shit in your life, but I’m going to give you what you’ve never been given!”

Like a bottled water, for one.

That’s a solution that Declan never thought of. Or maybe he just listened to Maximoff stubbornly say just let it go.

Maximoff opens his mouth to speak, but the brunette slips up beside him. Yanking his attention to the left, and he tells her, “Give me one more second! Your drink is on the bar!”

“Take your time! I’ll be waiting!” She bites her bottom lip and slides onto her stool.

My pulse is wedged in my esophagus.

Maximoff whispers in my ear, “The talk I wanted to have with you…” His voice is noticeably tight. “I can’t have her in my car unless she signs an NDA. So you’ll need to take her to the VIP section while I hang around the club’s security.”

This is really happening. I don’t blink.

Do your motherfucking job, Farrow.

Shit.

I have to stay professional. I have to give him what he wants, and if this is it…

I ask him, “You don’t want to be around for that conversation?”

He shakes his head. “My presence usually pressures them, and I want her to sign the NDA on her own terms.”

I have no real ability to nod or to even force a smile. My body refuses, but I’m able to lean back from him. A painfully cold acceptance mortars my features like brick on brick. This is about to be hell. A hell that I’m obligated to walk through, and really, it’s my fault.

For liking him in the first place.

In the briefest second, our eyes touch, but I’m the one who bails on the moment this time. My head swerves towards the bar. “Okay!” I yell back at Moffy.

On my way to the girl, I lower my volume on my radio, the soft chatter grating on me all of a sudden. Just when I look up at the brunette, a strong hand grabs my bicep from behind.

“Farrow, wait.” His voice is right against my ear.

Slowly, I turn to face him, and he breathes like he ran five miles to reach me.

I tilt my head, still hesitant about the direction this all may go. What do you want, Maximoff? Stopped in place, I bear hard on my teeth.

And then I freeze. I watch him subtly check out my features: my cheeks, my piercings, the freckle on my jaw, and he finally allows his gaze to drop to my lips.

“Maximoff—”

“I can’t do this.”

A pit wedges in my ribs. “Be more specific.”

“I’m going home.” He gestures to the exit with his water bottle. “I’m leaving right now after I tell her goodbye.” He takes a half a second to kindly say goodbye to the girl. Then his focus is on me.

Heaviness hoists off my chest, my lips beginning to upturn.

A night listening to him fuck someone else averted. And I didn’t even have to be a prick.

I move to lead him out. “I’m walking in front of you.” He’s already trying to push ahead of my stride, but he stops himself short.

And he says, “Walk beside me.”

I do. We move with equally strong, determined gaits, but we’re both sitting on the beginning of something unknown. And we carry our familiar tension like a third companion and a bomb.