You want to be cremated or buried, Redford? – Oscar

He thinks he’s being witty since I’m a good twenty minutes from a lunch “date” with my boyfriend’s dad and two uncles. And sure, Maximoff will be at the restaurant too. But wolf scout is not the one Oscar thinks will grill me and kill me.

I was going to ask you the same thing since I keep shocking you to “death.” I send the text. At Joana’s confirmation—which I attended with Maximoff, no obligations in my way—Oscar admitted that he didn’t believe I’d drop out of my residency a second time. And not a lot ever surprises Oliveira.

“We’re all glad you didn’t go after the board certification,” Oscar told me. “You went full Sheryl Crow ‘If It Makes You Happy’ on us.”

I rolled my eyes and ended up smiling. It was an old inside joke about when the shit you love makes you sad. “Oliveira, reaching into archaic history.”

Oscar grinned. “I’m serving up some teenage Redford realness.” Silence fell hard after that. Both of us looking at each other and feeling the void of Donnelly at the Catholic church. Whenever Oscar says “realness” to anything, Donnelly cuts in with, because you’re the realest motherfucker I’ve ever seen.

Especially during the times when it doesn’t make any sense. But it fit too perfectly there.

Because you’re the realest motherfucker I’ve ever seen.

It brings me back to the present. To the Philly townhouse where the pipes groan as Maximoff takes a shower. But I’m not upstairs with him.

Eighteen minutes until a lunch “date” with my boyfriend’s family, and I’m lying on the mint-green rug where the coffee table usually would be. Black pants ride low on my waist.

And Donnelly is tattooing me.

His needle pierces the right side of my lower back. Right, right above my ass.

A sparrow—the only bird inked without color and the largest one on my body—spans most of my back with its feathered torso in the center. The tip of each wing touches my deltoids and reaches my traps. Further down, towards my ass, its talons clutch a dagger.

The sparrow and blade leave room for more ink on the lower left and right side, above my waistband.

“Don’t call Papa Hale sir when you see him,” Donnelly says, tattoo machine in hand. “I did that after he found out I inked Luna’s hip, and I’m telling you, he grew a third horn. Looked like he could’ve impaled me in the throat and ripped out my asshole.”

I chew Doublemint slowly and glance back at Donnelly with a pointed look. “Don’t talk about ripping assholes while you’re so close to mine with a needle.”

He smirks, not meeting my gaze as he works carefully on the design. He wears thin-framed reading glasses. “All I’m saying is that Maximoff’s dad is no joke. I thought he was the funny one. Sarcastic and shit. But I almost pissed myself.”

I thought Loren Hale would do worse if he found out Donnelly tattooed his eighteen-year-old daughter. “You still have your job?” I ask.

“Barely.” He pauses as a calico cat jumps off the Victorian loveseat onto the rug.

I throw a toy mouse and Carpenter chases it under the iron café table.

I’m not scared of Lo. But I’m wondering what conversations he plans to start. Since the crash, we’ve stuck to one main topic: Maximoff rehabbing his collarbone. Easy shit.

Something tells me this lunch isn’t going to be easy.

Donnelly resumes tattooing, the needle pricking skin. Not painful. The ink on my ribs hurts like hell, but this isn’t bad. He tells me, “Cobalt parents never batted an eyelash when I inked Beckett.”

Mention of Beckett reminds me about him doing cocaine to help his ballet performance. I told Donnelly that I knew about it, but we didn’t talk long.

“If it’s hard being on Beckett’s detail,” I say now, “you should see if Akara will let you transfer.”

I never asked if Donnelly supplied the drugs. Some bodyguards will, but Donnelly would let another person chop off his hand before he touched cocaine.

I stay on my forearms. Not looking over my shoulder at him.

Donnelly inks me quietly. Tattoo machine buzzing, and then he says, “I can’t leave him, man.” He lowers his voice. “I know I can’t get him to stop. I mean, fuck me, his twin brother couldn’t even convince him.”

I pop a bubble in my mouth. “Because Beckett thinks drugs make him a better dancer,” I whisper, “and now he’s started thinking that he dances like shit without them.”

“I hate that,” he mutters and then speaks under his breath. He tells me how he can’t talk to Beckett about his teenage years. Because then Beckett would try to protect him and ask the Tri-Force to transfer Donnelly off his detail.

Donnelly doesn’t explain his past to me. I already know it. When he was fourteen, his parents gave him meth for the first time, and as an adult, he prefers not to be around hard drugs. Not out of temptation. Mainly, they bring back bad memories.

“Hidey ho.” Luna hops off the last stair into the living room. “Uh, I mean hi.” She raises a hand in a hesitant wave.

Luna.

“You covered your ink?” Donnelly mimes to his forearm where lyrics to “Dreams” by The Cranberries should be. The black ink is concealed with flesh-toned makeup. Hiding her tattoos is new. The plain dress, pin-straight ponytail, and simple makeup has been happening for weeks now.

“Yeah, yeah.” She comes over and sits on the loveseat.

I raise my brows at her. “Why do you keep looking less like yourself and more like everyone else?”

She shrugs. Glances at Donnelly, then back to me, and tells us, “Andrew says it’s easier.”

Easier for him.

“Luna, fuck this fucker,” I say, grinding my gum beneath my molars. Maximoff has been afraid that her new boyfriend is the cause of Luna changing, and in four words, his fear has been confirmed.

“This guy wants a basic bitch. Go let him date a basic bitch,” Donnelly says while he finishes my ink. “Don’t turn into one.”

Luna watches the tattoo machine, lost in thought. “He’s not all bad. He gives okay head.”

I pop another bubble. “Okay head sounds like bad head.”

Donnelly wipes my skin clean. “If you’re just lookin’ to be eaten out, I’ll eat you out—”

“Hey,” Maximoff cuts in on the bottom stair, eyes narrowed. His dark hair is wet from a shower, but he’s already dressed: jeans and a green crew-neck. “What the fuck, Donnelly?”

He shuts off his machine. “I like eating pussy.”

Maximoff looks at him like he lost his mind. “That’s my sister.”

Luna falls supine on the loveseat in a groan.

Donnelly packs his ink. “I think you’ve embarrassed your sister, man.”

Maximoff looks whiplashed, and I can’t stop smiling. I stand up, pants unzipped and unbuttoned. My tattoo just needs bandaged.

The second he sees the new ink on my lower back, he zeroes in. Fixated. Completely forgetting about Donnelly and his sister. Now I know how to capture 100% of his attention. He even draws near me, dazed.

My smile stretches. “You’re drooling.”

“I’m glaring.”

He’s a human heart-eye emoji.

Donnelly tattooed a wolf with a pirate eye-patch, and two letters are inked on the patch.

WS.

Maximoff reaches me, and I rotate to face him so his gaze lifts to mine. And he tells me, “You broke one of your only rules.”

My rule: never get ink that relates to a boyfriend.

My only exception stands in front of me. Either he hasn’t figured that out yet or he’s still coming mentally to the fact. “Take it easy, wolf scout,” I say. “It’s not like I tattooed your name on my ass.”

He makes a face. “You sure you haven’t?”

I chew my gum even slower. “Damn, he wants to see my ass.”

He groans, annoyed that I fucked with his humor.

I laugh hard, and his hand instinctively finds my hand. He doesn’t realize he’s given in that easily, and he almost pulls back. I hold tighter.

And I’m here for this. I’m not stuck in a hospital. I’m not meeting up with him later just to meet-up with his dad. Fuck, I treasure these moments so completely, but the unknown definitely lies ahead of us. I’d rather not crash and burn, but recently, crashing seems to be the name of some game I’m playing.

* * *

“Where do you see yourself in twenty years?” That’s the first thing his overprotective dad says to me at this casual burger joint—and we haven’t ordered food yet. I’m actually in the process of taking a seat next to Maximoff, scraping the chair back.

“We just got here,” Maximoff cuts in with a glare.

“Huh, I had no idea.” Lo drills his sharp-edged eyes onto me. “Where do you see yourself in twenty years?”

Maximoff shoots me an apologetic look.

To be honest, I’m slightly intimidated. Mostly because I’d love to leave good impressions on them—better than I have in the past—but I can’t be anyone other than me.

Connor Cobalt, Ryke Meadows, and Loren Hale have already claimed the other side of the wooden table. Three larger-than-life men. Each one had a profound impact on Maximoff, and it’s always clear to me when I speak to them just how great their influence was and still is to this day.

Hell, I see them as different sides of my boyfriend:

Connor is mental. He taught Maximoff intelligence, emotional restraint and confidence.

Lo is emotional, the sarcastic, loving and empathetic pieces of him.

And then Ryke is physical, all determination and stubbornness and unshakeable strength.

I lower down in my seat. “Honestly, I’m not much of a planner.”

Maximoff almost smiles. He likes that answer. And he extends his arm over my shoulders.

“No life plans?” Connor arches a brow.

The heat of their gazes is hotter than any camera. I tilt my head. “If by life plans, you mean goals, then sure. You can’t be a doctor without setting some,” I say casually.

“Are you always this vague?” Connor asks me.

“Good question, love,” Lo says and motions for me to answer.

Maximoff mouths something to Ryke, and that prompts Ryke to throw a wadded napkin at Connor, who easily leans back and dodges the affront.

“Excuse the Rottweiler,” Connor tells me. “Continue.”

Ryke rolls his eyes and buries his attention in a menu. He mouths, sorry, Mof. I’m a little bit surprised that Ryke Meadows isn’t going hard on me like the other two.

Then again, I helped his daughter in the car crash. And I’m not a bodyguard anymore, and that was his biggest qualm with me dating Maximoff.

“Am I always this vague?” I repeat their question, one that I’ve never met this directly. “With anyone who isn’t in my bed, yeah. I tend to be less forthcoming.”

Ryke looks up from a plastic menu. “Who else is in your fucking bed?”

“Just your nephew.”

Maximoff is currently pinching his eyes like he’s wishing this were one of his little alternate universes.

Lo leans forward and asks, “What is it about my son that made you want to spend time with him?”

“Dad,” Maximoff growls, his neck flushing.

My smile is killing me.

“Let Farrow answer the question, bud,” Lo says while he eagle-eyes me to death.

Just like that, my smile fades, and my eyes flit briefly to Jack Highland who films our table with another producer of We Are Calloway. We’re in a private section of the burger joint. Photos of old rock bands hang on the green-leafed wallpaper, but I can feel the presence of a camera.

“Any portion of this can be edited out,” Connor tells me, perceptive of my body language, “and none has to be aired.”

I agreed to be a part of the docuseries. Anything that brings me closer to Maximoff and his family, I want to do, and plus, since my life is very fucking public, there’s more to gain and less to lose with We Are Calloway. It’s a highbrow award-winning docuseries, aired on a premium cable channel.

“Noted,” I nod, and Jack flashes a charming “you’re doing great” smile behind the camera. I shake my head, and I ball up the paper to a straw.

“Remember my question?” Lo asks me.

“Farrow remembers everything,” Maximoff interjects and then groans at himself. He swings his head to me and rakes a hand through his brown hair. “I didn’t mean it in a good way.”

“I think you did,” I tease.

He plasters on a decent scowl, and that’s when a twenty-something waitress brings out a tray of ice waters. I lean back in my chair and wave her to come here.

“Can you get us a baggie of ice?” I ask since my boyfriend put more stress on his muscle earlier when he wrenched the car door open. I’ve noticed how he’s shut his eyes in longer beats. Wincing.

“Of course,” she says. “Anything else?”

“A coffin,” Maximoff interjects. “For my immediate death.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s not dying, but he is dramatic.”

The waitress chuckles before leaving the table, and I turn to Maximoff. He’s looking really deeply into me.

My chest falls in a heavier breath, and fuck it…I kiss him. Our mouths meet, softly and tenderly, and I feel his lips rise beneath mine.

He likes that. And so do I.

When we ease back, I drop my arm to his chair. Maximoff still holds my shoulders in an assured embrace.

And Lo is waiting for me to answer.

“Dad, don’t make him answer that question,” Maximoff cuts in.

Lo doesn’t flinch. “Are you willing to watch out for my son’s well-being tonight?”

Maximoff covers his face with his hand, a second away from groaning.

“All nights,” I answer, trying not to laugh at my boyfriend’s distress more than anything. He’s making this easier on me.

“What are you two doing tonight?” Lo asks.

“Staying in,” I say easily and look to Maximoff.

He nods. “Maybe watch a movie. Farrow has never seen Batman Returns.”

“No DC at the table,” Lo snaps. “I swear to all living Marvel things, I grabbed the wrong child in the Home Goods store.” His eyes almost soften when tells me, “I lost him in the toilet section carrying around a plunger in aisle four.”

“I was three,” Maximoff explains to me. “I thought it was a sword.”

I smile picturing that, and this is one of those moments where I can feel Lo’s love for his son. I didn’t have that. It’s just a fact. But when I have kids, I want to give them that kind of unconditional, overwhelming attention and care.

Our waitress returns to take our orders, and after she leaves, Connor tells the table, “In other news, I was offered a condom sponsorship this morning.”

Ryke almost spits out his water. “You have seven fucking kids.”

“Royal sperm,” Lo quips.

“Don’t fucking encourage that,” Ryke says and points at Connor’s billion-dollar grin with a butter knife.

With more seriousness, Ryke asks Connor, “When’s the last fucking time you even used a condom?”

I don’t really want this information. At all. Listening to “uncles” and “dads” talk about sex is not my forte. I’m just not used to this shit.

Sex was never a topic of discussion unless it was an academic lecture about reproduction or ejaculation.

I learned about fucking from the internet or friends growing up. I didn’t have advice on lube from my uncles like Maximoff. I didn’t have “the talk” from my dad. No safe sex lecture. Because the old man assumed I was smart enough to know about STDs from the medical journals that I skimmed.

I glance at Maximoff who looks absolutely unfazed. I’ve always loved how close he is to his family, and I only want our relationship to bring him closer to them.

“Decades,” Connor answers the last time he’s used a condom.

“Are you taking the sponsorship offer?” Maximoff asks while an appetizer of string fries comes out on our table.

“I wouldn’t.” Connor swishes his wine. “It’d have a negative impact on the children if I advertised my face or name on a condom line.”

I’ve noticed that whenever they’re just with Maximoff or Jane, they always exclude those two from “the children” category.

I unscrew the mustard bottle.

Lo focuses on me. “Are you willing to show my son the same respect that I’ve raised him to show you?”

Maximoff makes a face. “Where the fuck are these questions coming from?”

I watch as Lo digs into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. “Questions for the Overly Tattooed Boyfriend of My Perfect Son Dot Com.” He gives me an iconic dry smile. “I hate tattoos.”

“I know,” I say with a nod. “Good thing your son loves them.”

Connor and Ryke turn to Lo. Gauging his reaction. And Lo is narrowing his sharp-edged eyes at me, and very dryly, he says, “Does he?”

Maximoff pipes in, “I really fucking do.”

An amused smile breaks across my face. Fuck, I can’t believe he admitted that in front of me.

And Lo laughs, a real laugh, all before passing the questionnaire to his brother. Ryke reads the paper in silence.

“These are fucking terrible,” Ryke says, his gaze veering as our food parades over, and while we all dig into burgers and fries, we talk about the latest Fourth Degree movie, the Philadelphia Eagles, and how in July all three families have planned a trip to Greece.

But instead of Greece, we keep saying Tahiti in case anyone overhears. It’s the code name. That trip is approaching fast, and it spans over Maximoff’s birthday. It’s a vacation that I wasn’t supposed to be attending. Because I should’ve still been in a residency program.

Now that I’m out, I can go.

I notice Jack Highland setting his camera down towards the end. He speaks in Tagalog on his phone to someone. I hear the name Jesse. His little brother.

As we’re winding down eating, Connor asks me what’s one thing that surprised me the most about losing my privacy. The three of them reminded me that they were in their early twenties when they became famous after a scandal, and they knew what privacy felt like.

They weren’t born into fame like Maximoff.

I toss my napkin on my plate and lean back on my chair, considering his question for a half second before the answer reaches me.

I look between the three men across from me. “I consider my sexuality the fifth or sixth most interesting thing about me. Being gay isn’t all of who I am, but it’s definitely a big part.” I take a beat. “And I’d have to come out all the time. Whenever a girl hit on me, whenever I introduced a boyfriend, I’d have to say I’m gay over and over again.”

It wasn’t uncommon for most people to assume I was straight.

That’s changed.

“Being in a public relationship with Maximoff, broadcasted to the entire world, means that I don’t need to come out nearly as much anymore.” I start to smile with a laugh. “And that still surprises me.” It still kicks me in the chest.

Maximoff shares my smile for a second, and he nods to me like it’s a good feeling, huh? I prefer to live my truest self.

As terrifying as that can sound, there’s no freer feeling than being able to be me.

* * *

“Motherfuckers,” I swear behind the wheel of the Audi.

Paparazzi bang on the car windows so we’ll roll them down. The rapping fists on glass need to stop. We haven’t left the restaurant’s graveled parking lot yet. Maximoff’s dad and uncles inch ahead of us in a Land Cruiser, and security is behind us in another SUV.

Add on these other facts: lunch ran late, the sun has fallen, and each camera flash sears like a strobe light.

“MAXIMOFF!! FARROW!!!”

I slam on the horn. “MOVE!” I shout without rolling down the window.

Maximoff yells at paparazzi, “You’re going to get run over!!” He gestures them to get the fuck out, but they just crowd closer. Standing in front of the hood with hefty cameras.

It all goes to hell when the Land Cruiser finds an exit and veers onto the street. All the paparazzi that’d been crowding their vehicle suddenly rush ours.

“One of us should get out,” Maximoff says.

I assess him in a quick sweep. He’s been death-gripping his leg, and I know he wants to be in control in this situation. But he has no license. “Hold on. I’ll be able to reach the street.”

It takes a long second, but the tires meet the curb before I’m blocked in again. Hoards of cameramen put their own safety at risk. They are standing on the road.

Fuck.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Maximoff growls, squinting at the harsh glare. He yells at them through the windshield. “You’re going to kill yourself!!”

Flashes burst directly through my passenger window, and my aviators aren’t shielding the light. “I’m rolling down my window,” I warn Maximoff.

As the window rolls, the noise level amplifies, and I scream, “Move! Get the fuck out! You’re not allowed to do this!”

“FARROW!! MAXIMOFF!! Look here!!”

A cameraman puts the lens to the windshield and Maximoff almost loses it. He unsnaps his seatbelt.

“Stop.” I extend my arm over his chest. “You’re not fighting these bastards—”

Maximoff suddenly reaches across my body and shoves the fuck out of a camera that inched into the car. A camera that almost hit me in the face.

I roll up the window, my pulse thrashing because Maximoff is in serious pain. He stretched his right arm. Used strength on his right arm. Right shoulder. “Maximoff,” I say tensely, lifting my aviators to my head.

“I’m alright.” He shuts his eyes, breathing through his nose and leaning back against his seat. “I’m going to puke.”

I reach back and find a workout towel on the floor. I toss it to him, and he throws up between his legs. Into the cloth.

The cameras go wild. Banging the glass. I keep a hand on Maximoff’s back, and I check through the rear windshield. I can barely spot security’s SUV through the masses.

Instinct tugs at my body to jump out of the car. Create a path. But also keep him safe.

Keep Maximoff safe. I need security’s help. I’ve been in that SUV before, and sometimes paparazzi will purposefully cage bodyguards and try to jam doors. Just so they can’t reach their clients.

Bruno should be widening a path for us to drive. If I could crack a guess, I’d say he’s being trapped in the SUV.

I put a hand on the wheel. I’m about to drive more aggressively and whoever I lightly hit, I hit. Before I press the gas, water drips on the windshield. I hear ping.

Ping, ping.

I smell rain on metal, and I feel gravel…

Shit.

This is a steering wheel. A leather steering wheel. I grip harder. Fucking pissed. Out of all times this could be happening, a storm has to rip through the sky now.

“Farrow,” Maximoff calls out, breathing hard through physical pain. He sees the rain cascade onto the windshield.

“Wolf scout…” I hear the crush of metal. My pulse spikes into a cutting breath. Slowly, I reach out for my boyfriend, and his hand is in mine. I bring his large palm to my face. He clutches tighter.

I breathe, trying to reorient my senses. My hand encases his jaw, smooth from a close shave. And I blink and only see his tough forest-greens.

He’s searching for the intense focus in my eyes. I’m sure it’s flickering in and out.

Camera flashes still shade us. A sinking realization: I can’t drive Maximoff to safety.

All I want to do is drive us somewhere else, someplace else, and I’m certain Maximoff wishes he could do the same.

With another breath, I take what limitations I’m given, and I’m going to work with them. My heartbeat rides a rocky rollercoaster, rising and falling in rapid succession. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” I whisper to Maximoff. “I’m going to climb in the backseat—”

“I’m coming with you.”

I almost smile. “That is the plan.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “You’ll need to call security. Tell Bruno he has to drive.”

“I will.”

Before I go anywhere, I hone in on his pain. I pull at the collar of his crew-neck to check his traps. The muscle is inflamed and swollen. He needs ice.

Maximoff’s hand descends to my neck, and while he dials security, he continues to search my eyes.