Farrow drives the graveyard shift. On route to Cleveland. I camp out in the passenger seat and keep him company.

I prefer Farrow driving over pretty much everyone else. I can fucking admit that I’ve been on edge. I’d do just about anything to sit behind the steering wheel, except break the law.

Which leaves me with a bucket load of nothing. Unfortunately.

Lights dimmed, the bus hums. Quiet. Bodyguards and my family sleep in their bunks. The privacy door is slid closed, so we’re shut out from the first lounge. And only one paparazzi van has been trailing us. With tinted windows, there’s not much cameramen can catch.

Farrow keeps one tattooed hand on the steering wheel, posture all cool confidence. His left foot is perched on the seat, arm relaxed on his bent knee. He constantly glances at me with an ever-growing know-it-all smile.

My blood simmers. I crack a knuckle or two and shift in my seat.

I never thought a lot about chemistry or how his unperturbed energy would be compatible with my strong-wired, but something about Farrow just drives me nuts. My pulse pounds harder than my broken nose throbs.

Every damn time I’m with him, it feels like the first time we’re together. He’s inched under my skin, into my blood stream, definitely my brain—I’ve been a fucking goner since I was sixteen. And I still haven’t fully accepted this fact.

That someone in my life is here for me. Because they love me. A romantic love. Not family, not solely friendship. It still seems unbelievable.

I don’t know why.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

I unconsciously glance at his zipper. Fuck my sexually frustrated brain.

He tilts his head, and then eyes the road with a satisfied smile. “You dreaming of fucking me?”

I give him a weird look while I prop my foot on the dashboard. Trying my hand at relaxing. It feels strange. “Why would I dream about it when I can just fuck you?”

“Because you’re not fucking me right here, wolf scout.”

He knows I usually get what I want as a celebrity. And him telling me no—it just sets my body on fire. I drop my foot, my muscles flexed and abs tight. “Hold on, let me wish upon a star,” I say, sarcasm thick.

He glances at me, the road, then the bulge in my jeans. It’s a normal bulge. Don’t get excited. “How pent-up are you?”

“Not enough to ram my dick in your ass and kill everyone in the back.”

He rolls his eyes and then smiles. “Always a precious smartass.” He unwraps a piece of gum and steers by propping his knee on the wheel.

“I’ve seen way too many movies where a couple dies because one is blowing the driver. Death by blowjob—not how I’m dying.”

“Okay, that’s not what I asked.” He crumples the foil and tosses it in the change tray. “Time hasn’t really been on our side lately, and if you need to jack off without me, I won’t be pissed.” He focuses on the road as the GPS directs him off the exit. “That’s not a hall pass, by the way.”

“Wait a minute.” I sit up straighter. “You’re telling me people stop masturbating when they get in a relationship?”

He checks his side mirror. “I never expect it, but I’ve been with someone who did.”

I grimace. “Fuck that guy.”

Farrow starts smiling. “And you do know what a hall pass is, right?”

I blink into a glare. “No.”

“Sarcasm?”

“Yes. Jesus Christ.” I growl out my irritation.

“Just checking. You seem a little—”

“Don’t say it.” I’d literally cover his mouth if he weren’t driving right now.

“Pure.”

I flip him off, and in the next brief glance, he studies the corners of my eyes, the skin beneath bleeding black-and-blue. I’ve checked in a mirror. I’ll need to conceal the bruises with makeup before the meet-and-greet.

I watch his palm and fingers rub his knee before he clutches the wheel again. Talking about sex just sends me down a rabbit hole. An abnormal, really strange abyss that no one would expect, but he can tell I’m drifting somewhere. Mentally.

“What are you really thinking about?” he asks.

I try to lean back. “My mom.”

Weight sinks in the air at those two words, but he waits for me to continue.

I inhale a strong breath. “I was just thinking about how difficult a trip like this would’ve been for her—if she were here at my age, still battling her sex addiction.” I lick my lips. “I don’t know. It’s the small stuff. Like, would she have wanted to stop the bus and screw my dad? Would she be fidgeting or upset? Or would they’ve just fucked on the couch? Then I start thinking about how fucking weird it is to be casually thinking about my parent’s sex life.”

He opens the cap to a Lightning Bolt! energy drink. “It’s your normal,” he tells me. “It doesn’t have to be everyone else’s.” He sips the drink, then offers me the slender can.

I take a swig and pass it back, remembering how non-judgmental and open-minded Farrow is—and yeah, I like it. I can’t have someone in my private life belittling me for not being perfect. I get that too much online.

Farrow merges onto another freeway. “What would you’ve done if you weren’t rich and famous?” he asks me. “For a career?”

That alternate universe. “You don’t know?”

“Why would I?”

“It’s public knowledge. Every time press interviews me, they ask that question.” It reminds me of something Beckett said in the bathroom. Something that I’ve tried not to let creep into my brain like a parasitic insecurity.

Beckett told me, “For every 200 facts Farrow knows about you, you only know 2 facts about him. So what do you really even know about Farrow? I’m not trying to be a dick. Just be careful. You’re not the kind of person who lets anyone in, and he’s slipped past all your guards, hasn’t he?”

He has, and maybe I haven’t grilled Farrow enough or fucking quizzed him as much as Beckett would. But I hate being indecisive or even doubtful about my own actions. I like to move and speak with assuredness, and even this morsel of uncertainty makes me cringe.

Farrow is quiet trying to find a memory. “Didn’t you joke around in those interviews?” He switches lanes. “Unless you were serious when you said you wanted to be an intergalactic bounty hunter.”

“I was serious, and I was four,” I say.

He pops his gum, about to laugh. “When I asked, I was asking the twenty-two-year-old in the passenger seat. Not the four-year-old.”

“Right.” I lick my lips, restraining a smile. “Truthfully, I try not to think about that alternate universe, but sometimes...I know where I’d be.”

Farrow holds my gaze for a longer moment, understanding in his brown eyes. “The military,” he says with a nod, beating me to the answer.

“Yeah, the military,” I say. He knows me. Really well. I rake a hand through my hair, my gray paracord bracelet still tied around my wrist. I don’t take it off that often. “So your past relationships…”

He checks the directions on his phone’s GPS. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

So he knew Beckett’s words would seep into my brain somehow. Some fucking way.

Farrow sets his phone down. “Whatever you want to know, I’ll answer.” He’s always said as much.

I instinctively shake my head. “It’s not that big of a deal. A huge, colossal part of me hasn’t wanted details about your exes, which is why I haven’t pried before.”

Picturing him with other guys when I have strong feelings for him—I start scowling, then wincing. Almost like I’ve sprayed Pam or Lysol in my eyes. No, actually, I’d rather spray my eyes with household products than hear in grave-fucking-detail how Farrow fell in love with another man.

My brows furrow with another thought. “I don’t know what people typically do in serious relationships.” My shoulders tighten. “I don’t know…should I ask you and pry? Is that the right thing?”

His smile breaks through. “Wolf scout, just do what you feel. There’s no right or wrong here. And there aren’t any ‘best boyfriend’ merit badges on the line or even ‘worst boyfriend’—I promise, you’re safe either way.”

My carriage rises in a deeper breath, confidence surging back. I rotate some, just to face him. “I don’t need to know any of your exes’ names or anything like that. But I’m just curious…did you break it off or did they?”

“One was a mutual break up.” He takes a larger gulp of energy drink. “The other three, I ended things first.” He glances at me, and I listen intently, interested in his past. “One had to move out of the country for work, and I didn’t want to do a long-distance relationship. The other two, I wasn’t feeling after a while.”

“You grew bored or something?” I ask.

Farrow tosses his head from side-to-side, considering this. “Or something.” He places his drink back down. “I never actively looked for a forever guy, but at some point, I’d wake up and I’d think, can I do this for another year, two years, three? And if the answer was constantly no, then I broke it off.”

Huh.

I stare faraway for a long beat. “Even if you loved the guy?” Our eyes catch.

Then he focuses on the road again, but his body is still completely relaxed. “I don’t think I loved them as much as I could’ve or else I’d still be with them and not talking in the past tense.”

I ease back. I don’t need extra reassurance or for him to promise that I’ll be the forever guy. Because this is fucking brand new for me, and I can’t foresee the future either. But right now, he’s mine.

I’m his, and there’s no better feeling than that.

“Is that it?” he asks, sounding surprised.

“You usually go for jocks or am I an outlier?”

His smile stretches wider and wider. Fuck me. I want his mouth wrapped around my cock like yesterday.

“Are you an outlier?” he repeats my words with a husky voice, and his gum chewing habit somehow bolsters his casual confidence to the umpteenth degree. In a boiling glance, his gaze just scorches down my body. “I’ve gone for jocks before, but not a lot look like you.” He motions to my face. “Supermodel.” Then points to my abs. “Athlete.”

“So you’re saying I’m hotter than you.”

His smile reaches cheek-to-cheek. “I’m absolutely still hotter than you, wolf scout.”

I believe it, but I also want to contest it. Just to prolong this damn moment. “Says who?”

“Your cock.”

My muscles contract. We both stare at each other’s mouths. I want to kiss the fuck out of him. Until his body welds against my body and separating would take a century.

I grab his hand that rests on his knee, and he must sense my next action because he takes control and places his palm on my thigh, jean fabric between his skin and my skin.

He slides his hand towards the inside, closer to my pulsing cock—he’s teasing but not able to do anything real while behind the wheel.

We’re both used to no touching while driving in Philly, but on this tinted bus, it’s safer. So Farrow touching me—in any capacity—I’ll hungrily take.

He gives me another long once-over before watching the highway. “What kind of guys do you usually go for?” he asks.

“I was only looking for sex, a one-night stand,” I remind him. “But I gravitated towards men the same size as me or bigger. Pretty much any guy who looked like they’d want to manhandle me.”

Farrow chews his gum slowly in thought. “But you wouldn’t let them take control in bed.” He knows how aggressive I am.

“Right.”

He sucks in a breath. “Damn.”

I hear something more in his voice. “What?”

“That’s a fine line, especially since you’re famous.” His eyes flit to me. “They could’ve easily hurt you.”

“They didn’t,” I assure him.

He nods, and his hand slides towards my knee. He rubs my leg, almost comfortingly. In a way that relaxes me against my seat. He cares about me.

I could get way too used to this.

We start talking about nineties bands when he raises the stereo volume. Not loud enough to wake everyone else. Halfway through, he off-handily mentions Thatcher being a stick-in-the-mud asshole.

“What’s your deal with Thatcher anyway?” I ask and swig from a bottle of Ziff.

“The fucker tased me.”

I choke on my sports drink. “What?” I wipe my mouth with the back of my arm. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” he says. “We worked an event together a couple years ago in New York—”

“What event?” It had to be related to my family.

“You weren’t there,” he prefaces. “It was a cover photo-shoot for Forbes magazine, and paparazzi leaked our location.”

I remember my parents, Aunt Rose and Uncle Connor, and Aunt Daisy and Uncle Ryke were all on that cover together. “Why was Thatcher there if he was assigned to Xander?”

“We took extra security that day.” Farrow looks to me, then the road. “Once we exited the building, all hell broke loose. Paparazzi stormed Lily’s car before I led her to the door. Hecklers appeared, and one tried to grab your Aunt Rose’s purse.” He shakes his head. “By that time, I’d already safely locked Lily in her car without me. I could see this dickhole behind me, messing with Rose. I turned, cold-cocked him, and as soon as I put a hand on Rose’s back—I was tased.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Thatcher said he ‘mistook’ me for the shithead I punched. But it just so happens that the only mistake he’s ever made sent electric volts through my body. Sure.” He rolls his eyes. “We’re not supposed to take out our weapons in crowded areas. It causes fear, panic—and we’re hired to deescalate these situations. Thatcher knew that. Yet, the rule-abider did it.”

My mouth parts in shock. “Fuck…I can’t believe he tased you.”

Farrow lets out a short laugh. “My first day on the job, he made me do a 19K in the Poconos Mountains. Alone. In the dark. The first day for Donnelly, a pancake breakfast. I can’t fabricate this shit.” He flips on his blinker and switches lanes. Letting a speeding car pass.

Since Thatcher is a lead, he has power over Farrow. Just picturing him using his position against my boyfriend—my jaw sharpens. “And now, I want to go kick his ass.”

His lips quirk. “That’s sweet that you think I need protecting.”

“Maybe you do.”

Farrow changes radio stations, his smile extraordinarily large.

Before he says, you’re the famous one or you can’t be the knight in every situation, I ask him, “Why did Thatcher single you out?”

“Before I was hired to your mom’s detail, Thatcher’s twin brother was supposed to fill the position. But Lily found out that I finished security training, and she requested me.”

Realization washes over me.

Farrow Keene used to just be the son of our concierge doctor, and my parents had always really liked him. So I could definitely see my mom requesting Farrow as her 24/7 bodyguard.

Farrow watches my reaction for a second, his tattooed hand back on my thigh.

I place my palm on top of his hand and twist one of his silver rings. “I didn’t know any of that.”

“You wouldn’t. That kind of information stays in security.” He pauses. “Do me a favor? Grab the USB from the—”

I already lean forward and open the glove box. In a quick second, I connect his phone to the stereo and put on his nineties playlist.

He nods a couple times, a smile in his eyes. And I wonder if he’s thinking, Maximoff knows me. Really well.

I lick my lips. “So you took Bank’s job and that put you on Thatcher’s shit list?”

“Partly.” He uses his left hand to drive. “I wasn’t just the guy that took his brother’s job. I was the son of the family’s doctor, a guy who had little security experience, who hated rules, and who was now the bodyguard to Lily Calloway. In Thatcher’s eyes, I was given the position without earning it.” Farrow chews his gum with a smile. “Little did he know, I’m the best at everything I do.”

My brows scrunch. “It’s like one minute you make sense and the next, it’s Klingon.”

Farrow stares at me for as long as he can, then fixes on the road. “Not ashamed to say that I don’t know what the fuck that means.”

“Let this go on every record that ever exists: I know something that you don’t.”

Farrow glances back. “Enjoy this while it lasts because it won’t last long.”

“I always last longer than you,” I retort.

Farrow whistles. “The last time I made you come must’ve really fucked with your memory.”

“Did you make me come?” I feign confusion and shift in my seat. “I’m not sure you did.”

He smiles out at the road. “Don’t worry, I’ll remind you what it felt like.”

Fucking Christ. My brain, my body—all the Team Farrow pieces of me crave and beg to cash in on that right now.

Then my phone buzzes in my back pocket. It’s late for most of my family to be texting. As I unpocket my phone, I think about how Farrow has already proven himself to the security team by keeping my mom safe.

Alpha may complain about him, but I’ve seen the Tri-Force radio Farrow in high-stress situations. Like during the Hallow Friends Eve incident, Akara turned to him first. When push-comes-to-shove, the entire security team trusts and relies on Farrow. Knowing he’ll be there and he’ll be ready.

If this weren’t true, he would’ve been fired a while ago. And Thatcher would’ve never voted to keep him around.

I ask Farrow, “Thatcher knows you’re good at what you do, so why does he still hate you?”

“Because I haven’t proven myself to his standards.” Farrow rotates the wheel, taking a sharp exit onto a ramp.

Maybe it has to do with Thatcher’s upbringing. “His dad was a Navy SEAL, right?”

Farrow frowns. “How do you know that?”

“Xander mentioned it once.” I click into my recent texts.

I AM SUCH A LOSER!!! – Tom

I straighten up because that doesn’t sound like Tom Cobalt. Before I even reply, another text pops up.

I’m gonna go die now – Tom

Farrow eagle-eyes me while I ditch texting and just call my seventeen-year-old cousin. I put my cell to my ear and unplug Farrow’s phone from the USB. “Call Tom’s bodyguard. Something’s not right.”