“What are the judging parameters?” Sulli mutters to herself and uncaps a pen with her teeth, blank paper on her lap.

I zip up the back of Jane’s reindeer onesie.

“Merci,” she smiles and drops on the floor in front of Beckett. She could sit on one of the two gray couches in the first lounge, but Beckett pops open a sewing kit. Planning to attach antlers to Jane’s hood.

He already sewed Sulli’s, who wears an identical onesie. Now she sits cross-legged on the opposite couch. In deep contemplation.

My lips start rising.

This is our first Christmas Eve away from our families. It’s weird, but not bad. Beckett and I sport ugly holiday sweatshirts, winter beanies, and camping socks. We decorated the bus with Christmas lights, candy canes, and plastic ornaments. Bought gingerbread cookies and made eggnog, Janie’s favorite, and now the air is light-hearted.

No tension.

Maybe because Charlie refused to participate tonight. He’s holed up in his bunk.

I was about to ask if he wanted to join, but Beckett stopped me. He said that Charlie wouldn’t see the invite as an olive branch. I just learned that in Charlie’s mind, me being nice is the equivalent of being pompous, overly heroic, goddamn flashy and ostentatious—like I’m fucking Gaston in Beauty and the Beast.

Beckett said, “Let him do his own thing.”

Fine with me.

I hand out mugs of eggnog to everyone, and I tap Sulli’s shoulder so she pries her face out of the paper.

“Oh, fuck.” She cups the mug. “Thanks.”

I sit beside her. “Vote for whoever looks the best.” Farrow, my mind blurts out in response. I swear my brain is one terrifying step from making shrines of the guy. Which is not cool.

Not cool.

And my mouth wants to upturn, but that I can control. I’m not smiling. I do steal a glance down the hall. The door to the second lounge is still closed.

The front of the bus is quiet without SFO. But Oscar is in earshot and in view from behind the wheel. Eating pizzelles that Thatcher’s brother sent.

“What is considered the best though?” Sulli bites the end of her pen.

Beckett threads a needle. “It’s called hot Santa.”

Jane nods. “The hottest Santa should win.”

“Alright.” Sulli jots a note in a margin, and she goes to sip her eggnog. Pausing, she looks to me. “Alcohol is in mine, right?”

“Yeah.” I can’t be a moral authority on whether she should be sober or not. She hated her first beer, but she wants to try spiked eggnog. So I made her a glass. Oscar’s and mine are the only non-alcoholic drinks.

“Are there categories?” Sulli asks after a tiny sip of eggnog. “Do we rate from one-to-ten? Are there deductions?”

“Valid questions,” Jane says. “Let’s make two categories: runway and how they respond to a short Q&A.”

Oscar cranes his neck to peek at us. “If I don’t win, there’s a conspiracy at play and you’ve all given preferential treatment to your bodyguards.”

“He’s right,” Jane says, “we should try to be unbiased.”

Everyone is looking at me. I make a face. “If I rate Farrow high, it has nothing to do with the fact that we’re together.”

Jane smiles into a sip of eggnog. “I suppose we’ll just have to take your word for it.”

Beckett finishes attaching her antlers and lifts her hood. She kisses his cheeks with a merci, and then she sits beside him, ankles crossed.

“We should tell them about the scoring,” Sulli says and then shouts, “Kits!”

The door down the hall cracks open. “Yeah?!” Akara calls, and she explains the scoring system.

Donnelly sticks his head out, a smirk cresting his mouth. “You should just rate us one-to-ten on who’s the most bangable.”

He’s yanked back into the second lounge. “Paul,” Thatcher chides.

“Damn,” Quinn says out of sight, “he got a Paul.”

The door shuts.

Jane gasps, and I focus on my best friend. She cups her phone in one hand. “Eliot sent me a video of all the cats.” She presses play and angles the screen for us to watch too.

Kittens and cats race around the townhouse. Darting beneath the Victorian loveseat and hopping on the rocking chair. The camera zooms in on a gray cat that prances around the fireplace.

Eliot’s voice booms through the speaker. “Licorice, now do the cat walk. Do the cat walk!” He layered on techno music.

We all laugh, and Jane wipes the corners of her eyes. We watch the camera flip and face Eliot.

Squared jaw, a pretty-boy haircut, and the second tallest Cobalt, he could play Superman in a summer blockbuster, but a devilish grin always inches up his lips. Mischief glimmering behind blue eyes.

You know Eliot Alice Cobalt as the king of drama. Literally, he’s starred in local plays from William Shakespeare to Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams, and he’s already signed to a theatre company for the next two years. He often films himself and posts humorous soliloquies about a lamp or toothbrush, and he’s not afraid to be uninhabited and wild.

I know him as my passionate eighteen-year-old cousin who thrives in chaos. Who, 9 times out of 10, will light a napkin on fire if I’m at dinner with him. Who loves stories but struggles with reading. Can’t make sense of street signs or restaurant menus. Can barely pick apart a single sentence. Who used to ask Jane, his brothers, and me to read books out loud. Hardbacks pile high in his bedroom, and for fun, he writes plays using a voice-app. He’s dyslexic, and a fucking brilliant, soulful actor who can make an audience cry with a few words.

Fair Warning: even with all the mayhem he brings, I love this guy, and I’ll drive a sword straight in your gut if you fuck with him.

“By the time you receive this,” Eliot says in the video, “I’m at the lake house. It’s Christmas Eve, and you’ve all left me, which means I’m terrifyingly the oldest here. Moffy, if you’re watching, I don’t like this responsibility. Come back, save me,” he says dramatically. “I hate you all, but I love you all. Oh the tragedy.” He grins and lifts a calico kitten to the camera and waves the paw in goodbye. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” The video goes black.

Quiet lingers, all of us missing family. Sulli stares off, more downcast and homesick, and Jane and I exchange a damage control look.

Janie tucks her phone away and stands. “No more videos of home. Let’s enjoy tonight.”

I hug Sulli around her broad shoulders. “Remember, we’re on an adventure.”

Beckett raises his mug to his lips. “That includes half-naked bodyguards. What you’ve always wanted to see, Sulli.”

She chucks a pillow at him. “Very fucking funny.”

He laughs.

But she’s smiling. “I know I really fucking miss my parents and sister and everyone else, but I like that we’re all together with our bodyguards…this is cool.”

Jane unzips a baggie. “And there are chocolate cookies.” She passes out three cookies, and everyone accepts them but Beckett.

He picks a holiday playlist for the underwear contest. “Christmas” by Darlene Love booms.

Cocoa in the cookie is fucking overpowering. I cough in my fist and swig eggnog. Jesus.

“We’re ready!” Akara calls from the ajar door.

Jane pretends a candy cane is a microphone, angling towards Beckett’s phone as he films, the footage just for us. “I’m your host and one of four judges Jane Kitten.” She bats her lashes. “The Hot, Hot, Hot Santa Underwear Contest features the bodyguards of Security Force Omega. Who will win the ultimate prize this Christmas Eve? Let’s see. Starting in alphabetical order, we have…Akara Kitsuwon.”

Akara slips out of the second lounge. Shirtless, muscles cut, and fire-engine red boxer-briefs hug his thighs. He walks the length of the hall towards us, and Sulli whistles in a cat-call.

He mock beauty pageant waves.

I smile as Jane narrates a bio on the fly, “A Muay Thai pro, this strapping bodyguard just turned twenty-six this December and owns the extraordinary Studio 9 gym. He’s a bossy boss and a friendly friend.”

Akara puts a hand to his heart. He halts at the coffee pot counter, and Beckett tosses him a candy cane.

“Akara,” Jane says, “what do you want most this Christmas?”

Candy cane to his mouth, he says, “World peace.”

We applaud, and Sulli already marks 10 in the runway and question categories. And they said I’d be fucking biased. Akara takes over driving so Oscar can go change.

“Next up,” Jane narrates as Donnelly emerges, same red color underwear. Different style.

This time, he has on trunks, similar to boxer-briefs, but higher cut on the thigh. A tattoo I’ve never seen peeks out of the elastic band, a scorpion with fire out of its tail.

He blows kisses to us and the invisible audience.

“Donnelly, Paul Donnelly,” Jane says, “a twenty-six-year-old Leo and former tattooist. He hails from an Irish household and knows how to kick serious ass in mixed martial arts.”

Donnelly twirls at the end and then bows.

I’m subconsciously eating these shitty cookies. I finish my third one, and I’m surprised Sulli likes them enough to grab the bag for more.

Jane straightens. “Donnelly, what word best describes you?”

“Thirsty.”

Beckett cracks up laughing, and Donnelly blows a kiss to the camera. Then he plops down in the booth, waiting for the next bodyguard.

My bodyguard.

“Farrow Redford Keene,” Jane says his full name, and Farrow saunters out with casual confidence. Only wearing red briefs. The cut shows off his thigh muscles and sculpted waist—Christ, his package…the underwear barely holds him in.

And his many tattoos are on full display. Blood-red swallows fly through the mast of two pirate ships, symmetrical near his collarbones. Between them, half of a skull is inked on his sternum. A candle burns at his wrist, smoke billowing up his forearm and bicep to swarm another skull and crossbones on his shoulder.

Plus more. All black and gray except for the colorful birds. All striking.

His body is an art piece, and he knows it.

Look up.

I need to look up, and the moment my eyes hit his eyes, he’s full-on smiling that know-it-all smile. His barbell lifts with his brows. He definitely caught me checking him out.

I scribble a giant zero on my piece of paper and flash it to him.

He rolls his eyes, his smile out of this fucking world.

Jane narrates, “At twenty-seven, he’s the second oldest bodyguard in Omega. A maverick and an Aries, Farrow can make a delicious egg and bacon sandwich.”

Beckett gives Jane a what-the-fuck face.

Jane shoos her brother. “He’s the most medically savvy and also professionally MMA-trained. Farrow,” she says as he stops and takes a candy cane from Donnelly, “who is your favorite celebrity?”

He speaks into the candy cane. “Everyone but Maximoff Hale.”

God, I’m smile-grimacing. There’s something seriously wrong with me.

“Boo,” Sulli says.

“That’s two zeroes,” I tell Farrow.

His lips quirk. “I think you mean two perfect tens.” He sits at the booth, and his tattooed fingers push his white hair out of his eyelashes, too sensually. Fuck me.

“No.” I lick my lips. “I meant zero plus zero. Which equals a load of nothing.”

“And look at that,” he smiles wide, “your honesty merit badge is gone.”

I’d react somewhat differently than cringing, but my head and stomach feel weird. Like dizzy? I don’t know yet. I tear my gaze off his, but I sense him studying my features.

“Oscar Oliveira,” Jane announces.

He emerges in red silk boxers, and he baby-oiled his golden-brown skin, his abs shiny and more defined.

“Cheater,” Donnelly boos.

Oscar struts down the hall. “You were never going to win, Donnelly.”

I sip my eggnog. I can’t tell if the taste is off or not. Did I give Sulli the right mug? I did…I’m not drinking alcohol. I’m not.

Right?

“…a thirty-year-old Taurus,” Jane narrates, “and Yale graduate, this former pro-boxer likes snack breaks and not very much surprises him. Nothing catches this man off-guard.”

Oscar halts and flexes a bicep.

“Oscar,” Jane says, “if you were a candy bar, what candy bar would you be?”

“Snickers. You’re not yourself without me.”

Laughter, and Donnelly drums the table. I stare at my mug, fixed on the creamy liquid. I drank alcohol blares in my head on high alert.

A lump lodges in my dry throat.

“Maximoff.”

“What?” My head swerves—Farrow is right next to me. On the couch. Jesus Christ. I didn’t even see him walk over here. It’s not like he had far to go but…I’m fixating on stupid things. Avoiding my reality. I drank alcohol.

I go rigid.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers.

“Quinn Oliveira,” Jane announces, drawing my attention for a second.

Holy shit. My eyes widen. Quinn is only wearing a red bow. The plastic kind used for gift-wrapping, but it’s large enough to cover his package. He holds the bow so it won’t fall.

He must’ve drawn the worst style.

Sulli’s jaw unhinges. “Fuuuck.”

Quinn laughs and walks more stiffly than the other guys. Farrow and I take our eyes off him at the same time. My head is spinning.

I hand Farrow my mug. “Sip this.”

“The youngest bodyguard is a lovely Gemini and vegetarian,” Jane narrates. “He’s Brazilian-American, a former pro-boxer and the little brother to Oscar. You’ll want to bring this stud home to your parents.”

Oscar and Donnelly clap, and Akara drums the steering wheel.

Farrow takes a large swig of eggnog. “It tastes fine.”

“What?” It can’t. I motion for him to sip again.

He frowns, confused. I’m fucking confused, and I need Farrow to solve this riddle, mystery, whatever-the-fuck I’m dealing with because I can’t see the answer.

“Quinn,” Jane says, “which bodyguard in Omega inspires you the most?”

He hoists the candy cane. “Akara Kitsuwon.”

Akara waves in thanks from the driver’s seat.

Oscar claps. “My little bro, a kiss ass.”

Quinn lets out an aggravated sigh, and he ends up sitting next to Jane.

Farrow swigs the eggnog and says, “He’s joking with you, Oliveira.”

“I’m over it,” Quinn mumbles.

Jane clears her throat. “And lastly, we have Thatcher Moretti.”

Farrow takes a third sip. “It’s not spiked.”

I lean back. Trying to relax at that news, but I still feel weird. I take off my beanie and pull my sweatshirt off, boiling hot.

Oscar whistles.

I turn my head. Thatcher walks like a six-foot-seven brick wall in a red jockstrap. The fabric cups his dick. Nothing left to the imagination.

“Um,” Jane loses thought, “Thatcher…Moretti is a twenty-seven-year-old…and he’s quite tall.”

“The end,” Farrow says.

“No,” Jane rebuts, but Thatcher has already stopped at the counter. “Merde,” she mutters. “Thatcher, if you were stranded on an island, what would you bring?”

“A knife.”

Farrow rolls his eyes.

“Spin around, Moretti,” Oscar says.

Thatcher hesitates, but then he spins, elastic bands framing his bare ass. Sulli and Jane cheer, and the guys golf-clap. Except for Farrow, who couldn’t care less.

My cousins start marking their scores, and Thatcher takes the driver’s seat, letting Akara return to the lounge.

I rest my elbows on my knees, hunched.

“What are you feeling?” Farrow asks me.

“Lightly spinning,” I tell Farrow. “It’s not that bad right now…” I lose track of my thought as Charlie appears. He drops down from his bunk and determinedly beelines for the driver.

I can overhear him through the music and chatter. “Stop the bus at the next exit,” he tells Thatcher. “You need to park at the Dairy Queen.”

What? I call out to Charlie, “It’s Christmas Eve. Dairy Queen isn’t open.”

Charlie ignores me.

I bottle whatever weird feeling sits in my stomach and head. My shoulders more squared. Alert.

Thatcher turns the wheel, the bus coasting along the exit ramp. “Is there a reason?” he asks Charlie.

“You’ll see in a second,” Charlie says, more concerned than usual. His arms crossed over his chest. He even stays at the front of the bus.

Beckett shuts off the music and stops video-recording. Everyone is quiet.

Oscar pushes to the front and speaks hushed to Charlie, who barely responds. Chatter escalates again, and I give Janie a look. “I wish he’d share something with us.”

“We don’t know what it is yet,” she whispers.

Farrow wraps an arm around my waist. I want to lean my weight into him, but my joints feel unoiled and immovable.

I’m on guard.

Maybe Charlie can feel my glare drilling into him. Because he swings his head over his shoulder and says, “Patience isn’t a strong suit of yours.”

“Then tell me why we’re going to Dairy Queen,” I retort.

Charlie messes his already messy hair. “You always have to be in everyone’s business. Just relax. Take a back seat for once in your life.” Spite drips off those words.

“I don’t want to drive your fucking car, Charlie. I just want to know where the destination is.”

“I thought we were going to Dairy Queen,” Donnelly says to break the tension.

It doesn’t work.

Nothing ever works when it comes to Charlie and me. The bus rolls to a stop, and an unlit Dairy Queen appears outside the window. Parking lot empty except for a green beat-up Jetta that I don’t recognize.

As soon as the bus idles, a knock pounds the door.

I stiffen.

Who the hell did Charlie invite on the bus?

Thatcher unbuckles, and he’s the first to head down the stairs and unlock the door. I hear him apologize about his underwear, and he warns the person about the contest.

It’s a girl.

I just know it’s a girl.

I stand. Farrow stands.

My pulse thumps a mile-a-minute. Footsteps sound on the steps, and then…my little sister pops into view. Light brown hair tied in a loose top bun.

Luna hooks her fingers in the straps of a neon green backpack. Looking between all of us, cheeks rosy from the cold, she says, “Hey. Hi. Heidi. Ho. Howdy.” And waves like this is nothing.

Dear World, how did she get here? Why is she here? How did Charlie know? Did she call him? Why didn’t she call me? Do our parents have any idea where she is? Sincerely, a concerned brother.

Farrow beats everyone. “Where the fuck is J.P.?” Her 24/7 bodyguard.

Akara already has a phone to his ear.

I kneel on the couch and careen my head to try and peer out the window. No one else is in the parking lot.

“Oh…” Luna glances at Charlie. “You didn’t tell them yet?”

“I thought you should,” he says, hands in his black slacks.

“What the hell is going on?” I almost growl.

“So yeah.” Luna rocks on the balls of her feet, but keeps eye contact with me. “I kind of ditched J.P.”

I see red. Tunnel-vision on Charlie. The one person who fucking knew. I storm ahead and grab Charlie by the sleeve of his sweater. “Outside. Now.”