Can I shotgun you?

The hammering pain inside my bones dulls as my brain processes those four words.

Can I shotgun you?

It sounds sexual in my head. Maybe it’s the way Farrow said it, his voice quiet but rough but silky-smooth all at once.

Or maybe it’s because I have no goddamn idea what shotgun entails.

I know about “calling shotgun” in terms of a passenger seat in a car. And I’ve seen a guy puncture a hole in a can at college and shotgun a beer. Neither of which seem that relevant right now.

So I’m lost and too inexperienced to make complete sense of his question.

I swallow a ball in my throat. “With…?” I can’t even get any words out; a stabbing sensation detonates again and again. Fucking Christ.

Imagine a nonstop sledgehammer banging on your bones and insides—and you can’t cast the sledgehammer aside.

It just slams and crushes.

Ignoring this torment—it’s close to impossible.

I clutch Farrow’s knee in a death-grip. God, I’m nearing a point where I just want to pass out.

I need this to end.

I need this to end.

“Donnelly,” Farrow calls, and to distract myself, I try to focus on things that my brain loves. Like Farrow Keene’s precise movements. How he stretches his arm out and takes something from his friend.

I try to concentrate on his age.

Twenty-eight. Six years older than me. I breathe through my nose at a sharp pain. Brain, you annoyingly love that he’s older. Don’t act like you’re disinterested now.

Twenty-eight. He’s twenty-eight.

I shut my eyes for a longer second and open them slowly. Lying down between his legs with my head on his thigh, my view mostly consists of the ceiling rafters and Farrow.

My head is in his lap is a song that plays too softly on repeat. That track should be blaring and drowning out I_Feel_Like_I’m_Dying.mp3 and Fuck_This_Shitty_Feeling.mp3.

Farrow bends somewhat over me, blocking the rafters from view. Pieces of his white hair fall to his lashes. “This is a blunt,” he explains, pinching the blunt between two inked fingers. “Shotgunning is where you take a hit from me. You don’t need to hold the blunt. Okay?”

He’s asking for my permission.

Because he’s a good guy. He’ll tell you he’s not, but he is.

I think for half a second and then nod with my chin. Giving into my body’s pleas. I’m not as afraid of weed like I am Vicodin or Oxy.

And it helps that I trust Farrow with my body. I’d never fucking agree to this without him.

“Okay,” Farrow repeats in relief, and he collects a lighter that’s thrown on my bed. I can’t tell from who.

But I just watch Farrow. Every damn movement. How he puts the blunt confidently between his lips. How he cups his hand around it while he strikes the lighter.

How his eyes lock on mine.

You wouldn’t even believe how much this helps. Just observing Farrow. Because for a fleeting second, I forget I’m in pain, and I’ll take that second, even brief. Christ, I’ll take anything.

A flame eats the paper as he inhales. Blunt now lit, he blows smoke up at the twinkling rafters. After that, he spins the blunt backwards, the burning end facing his lips.

I’m confused about how this works.

“Suck in the smoke, wolf scout,” Farrow tells me. “That’s all you need to do.” With two fingers, he places the blunt between his teeth, burning end in his mouth, the other side sticks out—and he leans over me again.

Lowering his head down.

Down.

Until the paper is an inch from my lips. Our mouths are lined up like an upside-down kiss.

His large hand sheathes my jaw. Protectively. Comfortingly. His other palm rests on top of my hand that death-grips his knee.

Farrow has told me how cinematic we are together, and I realize that I didn’t fully get it. Not until now.

Not until this blissful, out-of-body moment crawls to slow-motion and our intimacy intoxicates me. Dizzies me. Fills me to the brim. And I haven’t even inhaled a thing yet.

I could freeze-frame this second for eternity. But it plays out.

With the burning embers in his mouth, Farrow exhales. Smoke billows from the unlit end, and I breathe in. A silky line of smoke trickles down my throat.

I cough. Fuck.

He lets go of my jaw to take the blunt out of his mouth. Assessing me, and I try to relax and adjust to the new sensation. Smoke plumes around us, the smell more pungent than cigarettes, and Farrow draws back down for another hit.

He blows out, and I suck in smoke again. Trying not to cough this time.

My muscles unbind, and with a few more inhales, my hand loosens on his knee. I’m not spinning like the edible made me feel.

Probably since pain is my current state. Slowly, my joints ease like oil drips into every rusted crevice, and the torment begins to dull. Pushed to the background.

“One more time,” Farrow says to me, his husky voice too damn sexy. My brain starts tuning into the Farrow 69.1 radio station, volume on blast.

For once, thank you, brain.

Farrow is careful not to burn himself, like he’s done this a billion times, and he lowers his head again.

Now I gain enough energy to move my hand off his knee. I clasp the back of his head, gripping his bleach-white hair between fingers.

When I inhale the smoke, I see his lips curve upward.

He plucks the blunt out of his mouth, leaning back against the headboard, and he eyes me deeply. “Did you like that?” he asks.

I breathe better. “Not more than you,” I say, gritting down as I use one hand to sit up. The cool ice packs fall off my chest and thud onto the bed.

My first move is to go to grab them…with the wrong hand—goddammit. Pain infiltrates, and I try to remind my subconscious that my right hand is firmly bound in a sling for a fucking reason.

In a good distraction, Farrow breaks his legs open a bit wider, and I slide back until my spine meets his chest. His arm curves around my bare waist. At nearly the same height, our broad shoulders frame, almost parallel.

Before I ask for the blunt, he’s already passing me it. Knowing that I’d want to try on my own. I take a normal drag myself, and my throat burns. But I force myself not to cough.

I pass it back.

Farrow takes another drag too, and then he reaches out and hands the blunt to Donnelly.

I’m now unconscionably, totally, colossally aware of the eleven-person audience. Most of them pretend to be interested in Cape Cod chips or the mound of pillows on sleeping bags. But their eyes dart over to us and land on me.

I thought they’d look surprised. That I’d smoke anything. But like Farrow, they all seem relieved. Happy that I’m not suffering.

Blue eyes shimmering, Janie tips her beer towards me in cheers. If I didn’t have Farrow, she’d be next to me. Not wrapped up in a blue blanket beneath the window.

But I’m more assured than ever that Janie wouldn’t be able to fill Farrow’s spot in my life. Just like he can’t replace hers.

I need them both.

I want them both.

When Jane finally reached the hospital before my surgery, she broke down. My voice kept cracking, and she couldn’t stop rambling about the mathematical probability of life and death. And how she should’ve been in the car with me.

Tears leaked out of her eyes, and then we agreed that we’d survive this. We can survive anything with a bit of luck and a whole lot of love.

In the quiet but crowded attic, I tell my best friend, “Je suis vivant, ma moitié.” I’m alive, my other half.

She smiles into a sip of beer. “Je ne voudrais pas de toi d’une autre manière.” I wouldn’t want you any other way.

Farrow’s heartbeat thuds in a calm rhythm against my back, and we both see Luna perk up from her sprawled face-planted position.

“Does this mean you’ll get high with me, Moffy?” Luna asks, head propped in her hand.

Ever since the FanCon with the pot cookie debacle, I’m still forever processing the fact that my little sister has smoked weed before. My brows cinch, thinking about a situation where I’d want to be high while she’s high. I’m fine with her smoking if she’s careful, but I want to be coherent in that instance.

“Not a chance, sis,” I say truthfully.

“Not even right now?” Luna taps her nose since I’m out of reach and she can’t tap mine. A gesture we did as kids that kind of means hey brother, hey sister. Then she swings her gangly arm to Donnelly for the blunt.

“Nah.” He finishes the blunt himself. “Four Lokos and weed don’t mix.” He blows smoke off to the side.

“Dammit,” Luna mutters and says to me, “Next time.”

I smile. Feeling how much she wants to stay close to me, and I know letting her move in was the right decision. Now I just have to figure out if letting her do this auction is a decision I’ll regret forever.

* * *

Lights off by 2 a.m., everyone has crashed and fallen asleep in my attic bedroom. It’s pretty much what happens when you endure a massive doomsday and stay up late talking.

I can’t sleep.

I was conked out for so long after my surgery. Now my mind is wide-awake and playing mental catch-up: talk to my brother (later). A porn star bought you (Jesus Christ). Protect your brother, protect your sisters, protect everyone (always).

Don’t let Farrow go (I won’t).

Marry him.

Put a ring on it.

What if he’s not into marriage?

What if that’s why he rejected his ex’s proposal?

But we talked about kids. Twice.

Jokingly?

No, it was fucking serious.

I think.

You can have kids without being married.

Don’t name your son Batman.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Alright, my mind can shut the fuck up now.

I think I’m the only one awake until the clock hits 2:30 a.m. And I hear whispering. From the right side of the room.

It’s not Farrow.

He’s dead asleep turned towards me, barely stirring beneath the comforter. I try my best not to wake him. Farrow needs shuteye more than anyone.

His inked arm splays over my lower abs. I didn’t realize how badly I’d want to lie on my side until tonight.

I crave to just turn into his hard chest.

But here I am, stuck on my back. If anything, it makes me want to speed through physical therapy that much faster.

“You can’t go on Sunday anymore?” Sulli mutters more loudly than she realizes. As much as I wished for bionic hearing as a kid, I don’t have that superpower.

I strain my ears to catch the reply.

“Sorry,” Jack whispers, sounding really apologetic.

My mind swerves onto one track: Jack Highland is awake while my little cousin is awake and everyone else is asleep.

I have no clue what that means. So I prop myself on my usable elbow and peer over Farrow to see…

My brows scrunch. Akara is awake too. Both guys lounge on the same air mattress, leaning on the brick wall. Right in between them, Sullivan slumps on a donut-shaped pillow and twists her frayed string anklet.

“Oh hey, you don’t need to fucking apologize,” my cousin whispers not as softly. “It’s alright.” Even in the dark attic, she looks noticeably bummed.

“Rain check?” Jack whispers. “I should be free next Sunday. We can go swimming then.”

“Yeah,” she nods, scooting up more against the wall. “That’d work.”

Akara is playing with her chocolate brown hair, and he coils a long strand over his upper lip in a fake mustache.

Sulli cracks a smile and shoves his chest.

I used to overthink their dynamic because in my personal experience with Farrow, teasing equals affection. But that can’t always be the case.

Right?

Now I’m being paranoid, but for Sulli’s sake, I can’t Hulk-Smash anything that makes her happy. I won’t. And her friendship with her bodyguard is pretty much centerfold.

Akara laughs lightly and whispers to Jack, “She thinks she’s a mermaid. You know, no swimming for one week means her legs grow back.”

“Hey, there is some fucking logic in the mermaid debate,” Sulli tells Akara. “I love water. Mermaids love water. Therefore I am a fucking mermaid.”

Akara ties a piece of her hair in a slipknot. “Sharks also love water.”

“They do,” Jack agrees. “And eels. Stingrays. Manatees.”

“Salmon,” Akara whispers. “Walruses—”

“Hey, maybe I’m a fucking walrus then,” Sulli jokes in another loud whisper. “I could also be a mermaid too.”

Akara loosens the knot in her hair and gives her a look. “You’re not a walrus, Sul.”

My elbow already aches from the crash, and being propped up this long isn’t that easy. But I strain my muscles for another second.

Sulli smiles softly. “Want to go swimming this Sunday, Kits? Just at the Hale pool.”

Akara winces a bit and scratches the back of his head. “I, um…” He glances at Jack.

Jack is staring at the Omega lead like they’re in on something that she’s not a part of. I can’t help but fucking glare. They haven’t noticed me yet. Probably not able to see me well since it’s dark and Farrow conceals most of my build.

“What?” Sulli frowns, looking between them. “Cum, shit, that’s your day off work, Kits. Fuck, I’m sorry. You can do whatever…”

This isn’t going well, and I can tell my cousin is scrambling for the right thing to say. She does this, and then she’ll just go quiet.

“It’s not that,” Akara says. “Well, it…kind of is, but Jack and I have this thing that day.”

What thing?

Sulli nods slowly. “Like a production-security thing?”

Exactly what I’m thinking.

“No.” Akara pauses. “Jack is friends with two girls from Penn that we’re going out with,” he whispers. “It’s a double date thing.”

Huh. That’s good that they’re finding time to date. I know it’s been hard for most of security. But the more I scrutinize them, the more I can’t read Sulli’s expression.

Maybe because she’s not sure what she’s feeling.

“Oh yeah,” Sulli frowns, fingers to her full lips in deep thought. “Yeah…” She shakes the cobwebs out of her head. “That sounds fucking fun. You deserve some P-in-the-V action. We can do whatever…swimming or you know, any time. And Moffy will swim with me—or not since his injury.” She winces at herself and then slumps down.

“Sul,” Akara whispers.

“EAT THAT ASS!!”

Greaaat.

The drunken street heckling wakes a quarter of the room. As Philly bars close, the jeers will escalate. And you know what?

It irritates the fuck out of me this time. I don’t care that my family and security can hear. I care that eat that ass has woken up my boyfriend, who’s been majorly sleep-deprived.

Farrow slips his arm off me, eyes fluttering open into a glare aimed at the window.

“LICK MAXIMOFF HALE’S WOUNDS!!”

My jaw sharpens.

Farrow combs a hand through his white hair, and I sit up more—he puts a hand on my leg. I read his gaze quickly: don’t rush outside. And I spot the heat in his brown eyes.

“They’re pissing you off?” I ask, both of our shoulders propped against the headboard.

“Yeah.” His brows lift at me. “You just had surgery. You don’t need this shit right now.”

“Neither do you,” I say strongly.

Farrow sweeps the length of my build, combing back his messy hair for the second time. He opens his mouth and—

“LICK HIS HOLE!!”

Farrow rolls his eyes.

My scowl darkens.

And Oscar is on his feet, staring hard at the curtained window.

Jane and Luna wake beneath it, and when Akara starts texting, I realize all of the room is now alert and agitated.

They look to me, to Farrow, back to me, and I tell them, “Welcome to my attic.”

“MAXIMOFFFFFF!” a drunk guy slurs. “SUCK MY COCK AFTER YOU SUCK FARROW KEENE’S!!”

No.

Beckett is giving the window a bigger what the fuck face.

Sulli cringes. “This is fucked up.”

Donnelly stands and shuffles between the air mattresses. Trying to reach the door.

“No.” Akara points at him, still texting. “No one do anything yet. Don’t turn on a lamp. They’ll be able to see the room light up from the street.”

Donnelly listens and stays put, and Thatcher towers at a stance, guarding the exit.

Oscar studies the window again. “We can tell these drunk fucks that this isn’t Maximoff’s room. Get Jane to call out to them—”

“No,” Thatcher interjects. “Then they’ll start harassing her.”

“I can do it,” Luna offers. “This can be my room.” My sister starts peeking beneath the curtain—

“Luna, don’t!” I yell, and before I try to slide off the bed, Janie is already pulling my sister away from the windowpanes.

Paparazzi wait on the street nightly. Camera lenses are constantly pointed at my window. And there is a 100% chance of hecklers with a shower of ridicule tonight.

I don’t want that for any of my family or SFO.

Quinn adjusts the curtains, the room fully obscured from the street.

Farrow eyes me and twists his silver rings.

“FARROW! MAXIMOFF!! WHO’S THE BOTTOM?!”

I glower. Blood boiling.

Oscar quickly heads over to Jack and Akara, speaking hushed to both of them.

I’m putting Farrow in this fucked-up situation. If he weren’t in a public relationship with me, no one would shout that on a goddamn city street.

“WHO TAKES IT IN THE ASS?!”

Are you fucking kidding me?

I’m about to stand, but Farrow draws me back on the bed.

Swiftly, he turns sideways and tents his legs over mine. Caging me. “Don’t let that shit bother you,” he says easily, and in his peripheral, he’s watching SFO figure out a plan. “Because my natural instinct is to defend you, wolf scout, and I know yours is to defend me, but we’re a target together and we have to take some of these hits.” He stares deeper into me.

Some of these hits.

Not all of them.

We both have our limits. But these hecklers shouldn’t be a breaking point. This is easy in comparison to what else could be thrown at Farrow.

My chest rises.

People have always tried to hurt who I love. My parents, my sisters, my brother, all of my fucking family. Attacks from online, from on the street.

And now the world knows that I love Farrow.

You know that I’m in love.

For real.

All I want is to protect him, and all he wants is to protect me. It’s been our motto since the damn start. But Farrow is used to people mocking me, hating me, shitting on me. I’m not used to seeing him beneath a burning spotlight that leaves scars.

“This isn’t easy,” I admit.

“I know,” he says like he’s met this irritation, this frustration and anger time and time again while we’ve been together in private. When he’s not allowed to bear his fists to protect me.

Just take the hit.

I tilt my head back, my sore muscles begging me to relax.

“RIDE HIS DICK!!”

Farrow raises and lowers his brows in a teasing wave.

I lick my lips, heating up in a better way. “Never happening.”

He cocks his head and whispers, “It’s definitely already happened.”

“Has it?” I feign confusion.

He rolls his eyes into a short laugh—and then he notices the same thing as me. “Cobalt, what the hell are you doing?”

My best friend straps a sequined purse across her grannie jammies. She has a switchblade and pepper spray in there, and we watch her quickly fit on fuzzy cat slippers.

“Janie,” I call out, already figuring out why she’s angry. “We can post an Instagram video. You don’t need to confront them on the fucking street.”

Jane ties her hair in a low pony. “There is a bold line, Moffy, and these fools have crossed it.”

“They’re drunk fools,” I remind Jane. “They’re here to incite one of us. This is what they fucking want.” I’ve said all of this a million times to myself. Right before I land a fist into a heckler’s jaw. Sometimes these facts feel meaningless, but we have to repeat them for each other. For ourselves.

Or else we’ll all go out of our goddamn minds.

Charlie and Beckett watch their sister carefully, but they don’t stand up and join Jane.

She unzips her purse and procures her pepper spray canister while marching to the door, guarded by Thatcher.

Jane reaches him and lifts her chin since he’s a whole foot taller. “Excuse me, Thatcher, but there are people I need to have words with on my best friend’s behalf. Move aside.”

Yeah, alright, I’m smiling.

Thatcher never budges. “I can’t, Jane.”

“PUT YOUR DICK IN HIM!!”

Farrow suddenly reaches for the bedside drawer.

For a condom?

No.

There’s absolutely no way he’s grabbing a condom.

Jane clears her throat. “Mr. Moretti,” she tries again, “I need to go break a few dicks. Can you please step aside?” Her angry face crinkles her nose.

“No—”

“MAXIMOFF HALE IS GONNA FUCK A PORN STAR!!”

The attic goes silent. No one is speaking.

Farrow’s jaw tics. That one got to him.

I go rigid.

The auction news has probably made headlines, and I just haven’t checked the internet yet. I’ve been unaware of how the whole world perceives my relationship with Farrow. Purposefully.

But now I think about the porn star.

I think about what people must be saying online, whether they’re calling my relationship with Farrow a fucking sham or not monogamous or maybe they just think I’m cheating.

I don’t know.

And now I need to know. So I can defend my boyfriend with a tweet, an Instagram video, and an airplane banner over the Pacific Ocean.

While Jack, Oscar, and Akara near the window—most likely with a plan that doesn’t involve the last resort: call the cops for noise disturbance—I search for my phone under the covers.

“What are you doing?” Farrow asks.

I find my phone tangled in the sheets. “Looking at the internet—”

Farrow seizes my phone. “We’ll look together. Downstairs.” He climbs off the bed, standing. And as he combs his hair back for a third time, I realize he has something serious to tell me.

In private.

I stand, the pain in my collarbone thumping more consistently than a half hour ago. Farrow rounds the bed, careful of the air mattresses, and Oscar wrenches the window open.

Jack sticks his head out with Akara.

“Maximoff isn’t here!” Jack shouts. “Production is setting up for the show! You all need to leave!”

“Or we’ll be calling the police for noise disturbance!” Akara threatens.

“AKARA KITSUWON!” a drunk girl shouts. “PROTECT MEEE!!”

Akara yells one more threat and then leaves the window. Annoyance lines his forehead. I can’t imagine how frustrating the lack of anonymity must be for SFO.

As Jack closes the curtains, they all discuss waiting to see if the heckling worsens or dies down.

I cut in front of Farrow before he reaches the door. Just so I can tell Thatcher, “We’re just going to the kitchen. I need more ice.”

Thatcher nods, no argument, and let’s us pass.