I keep an eye on the darkened road and use one hand to speak in my phone. “Call Ian Wreath.”

I’m out of radio-range from Epsilon and Alpha while we drive away from Philly and NYC. And I haven’t kept track of the families in the team’s daily logs.

I prop my phone to my ear with my shoulder. Streets begin to narrow now that I’m off the highway.

We’re a little less than five minutes from the hotel to sleep overnight. Which is about a mile from where the convention is taking place. Maximoff didn’t book rooms in the same hotel as the Cleveland meet-and-greet. Because that’d be a security nightmare.

“Tom?” Maximoff lowers the phone, his gaze hardened. “He hung up on me.”

My line clicks. “Ian?” I press speakerphone so Maximoff can hear. “You out somewhere with Tom?” Drums bang loudly in the background.

“Why do you want to know?!” he yells over the cacophony.

I don’t like SFE, and SFE doesn’t like me. It’s been written in stone. “Man, I’m asking for my client. I wouldn’t call you for shits and giggles.”

“What does Maximoff want?!”

Maximoff instantly takes over. “Where’s Tom?”

Bass and guitar strums through the speaker. “We’re at his bandmate’s house!”

“Let me talk to him,” Maximoff says, not shitting around.

“TOM!” Ian shouts, and after muffled sounds, the bang of a drum, crash of an object, laughter and more chatter, Tom speaks.

“Moffy! What’s up, dude?”

Maximoff cups my cellphone. “Have you been texting me? Where’s your phone?”

I picture Tom patting his pockets, and his voice fades. “Which one of you douchebags took my phone?” More laughter.

I put two-and-two together: a kid stole Tom’s phone and texted Maximoff as a prank. I spit out my stale gum. I’m fucking irritated at Ian.

Maximoff keeps shaking his head, and he tries to stretch his flexed arm over his chest.

See, the mistake is on the bodyguard. Ian shouldn’t have let anyone steal his client’s phone. If Tom set it down, his bodyguard should’ve picked it up. Simple as that.

“Sorry, Moffy,” Tom says, voice louder. “My bandmate has a bad sense of humor. Phone’s back.”

“You staying there all night?” Maximoff asks.

I pull into the hotel parking lot, the clock blinking 4:32 a.m., and once I stop in bus parking, I switch off the ignition.

“Yeah, I’m crashing here,” Tom says. “Wait a sec.” I hear footsteps, as though he’s walking somewhere more private. Background noise deadens.

Maximoff unbuckles his seatbelt the same time as me. I zip up my leather jacket, and he reaches around the seat and finds his plain green sweatshirt.

Tom continues, “There’s this dude here named Freddie, my bandmate’s friend of a friend, and he keeps going on and on about how you and him hooked up one night.”

I go still, bus keys in my hand. If they did hook up in the past, the fuckwad is breaking his NDA by talking about it.

And since the @maximoffdeadhale user has become a real threat, everyone who personally knows Maximoff is on my radar. I’m beginning to realize that any of his one-night stands could be culpable.

I don’t know how many people that could be. I never asked for a number. I never sifted through his old NDAs. I didn’t need or want to, but if I need to now…

My nose flares, mixed emotions slamming at me.

Maximoff brick-walls his features. I can’t read him. He tells Tom, “I don’t remember a Freddie.”

“He said you were the best lay he’s ever had. I thought you should know in case he’s violating a privacy contract, but if he’s just lying—”

“Ignore him,” Maximoff says and grabs his dark Ray Bans. “Give the phone to your bodyguard.”

I re-lace one of my boots and tug on black gloves. Then I stand out of my seat and holster my Glock in my waistband. The most tedious prep for the tour was applying for each state’s gun permits.

“One more thing,” Tom says. “I’ve sobered up a lot, but I, uh, took Fireball shots, and during those minutes or hours, I said some things I shouldn’t have—but I think they think I’m full of shit. So we’re all good.”

Fucking hell.

I collect my radio, untwisting the wires to the earpiece, and I descend a few steps to the bus door.

“What’d you say?” Maximoff asks, lifting his hood over his head. He stands too and sheaths a hunting knife on his ankle. He also pockets a tactical switchblade.

He won’t need those, but I know he feels safer armed.

“I was trying to defend my sister,” Tom explains, referring to Jane, “and to stick up for her, I mentioned that you’re dating someone.”

Maximoff scowls.

I stay relatively at ease and hook my radio to my black belt. If Tom didn’t say my name, we’re fine.

Maximoff knows this, too, so he asks, “Did you say who?”

“I told them Zac Efron, hence why they think I’m full of shit. If this ends up in Celebrity Crush tomorrow, I also know they’re all assholes.”

Maximoff follows me down the steps. “Thanks for telling me. Go easy on the Fireball—”

“I will—here’s my bodyguard.” He must hand the phone to Ian.

I hang my earpiece on my shoulder and start unlocking the bus door. Maximoff is one step behind me. If he thinks he’s leaving the bus with me, he’s mistaken.

“Hey?” Ian says.

“He’s seventeen,” Maximoff growls. “He’s a fucking teenager who’s in a band, who’s not paying attention to everyone around him. That’s your job, and if you don’t fucking do it, I’ll let Thatcher, Akara, and Price know.”

“I understand,” Ian says quickly. “I apologize. It won’t happen again. You don’t need to tell the Tri-Force. Please.” He’s whining.

“Watch Tom.” Maximoff hangs up at that curt endnote.

My brows arch with my barbell. “You made Ian Wreath piss his pants.”

“Akara would’ve made him shit his pants.”

“He’s lucky you’re nice.” I unlatch the door. “You’re not coming with me, by the way.” I extend my arm in the stairway, blocking him.

Purplish bruises shadow his eyes. I scrutinize him a little longer, and a pit tries to wedge in my stomach. Shit, I don’t like seeing him hurt. In any capacity.

“Why not?” Maximoff combats.

Starting with my thumb, I count off the reasons. “You look like you were in a fistfight.” Pointer finger. “You’re a severely recognizable celebrity.” Middle finger. “Refer to reasons one and two.”

On any normal day, Maximoff wouldn’t care if people caught wind of his location or if fans bombarded the hotel. He’s used to that chaotic shit.

But we all agreed to keep locations as safe as possible for Beckett and Sullivan. Those two were never on the We Are Calloway docuseries, and so they were able to foster private lives much easier than Maximoff and Jane. They’re not that accustomed to quickly amassing crowds.

Akara wants to ease them in if we can.

As much as Maximoff loves his cousins, he’s always risked his personal safety to feel free. Posting his location, in real time, is his norm. Now he’s at the mercy of these confining restraints, and unfortunately for him, only I can unbuckle them.

“I’m hiding the bruises,” Maximoff says, about to slip on Ray Bans—I catch his wrist. Stopping him.

Our eyes never detach.

“That’ll hurt,” I warn. His sunglasses are going to sit near the fracture.

“I can handle it.” He tries to take a breath, but his chest collapses. “Farrow, I’m not staying behind on this bus. I need out. On the chance that someone recognizes me, it’s 4-something-a.m. and there can’t be that many employees awake.” He nods a couple times. “We can deal with one or two people noticing.”

My choice directly affects his life and the lives on that bus. I weigh the risks, grappling for a middle-ground where he feels safe and free.

When I release his hand, he gently puts on his Ray Bans. Concealing the black-and-blue marks.

I scan his sweatshirt, hood hiding his dark brown hair. “You’d do better wearing an actual costume.”

His shoulders bind. “Clark Kent only wears glasses and a fucking suit.”

My brows spike. “Did you just compare yourself to Superman?”

“Fuck off.” He almost starts smiling, but he sighs roughly instead. “Seriously, Farrow…”

I block out Thatcher, the rest of Omega, and anyone else who’d say or do differently—and I’m dying to give my client what he needs, and right now, he needs air.

Decision made.