After a quick shower in the suite, we hurry out. I throw a towel at him, both of us dripping water. Our phones started buzzing at the same time.

I check mine.

Turn on your radio – Akara

u need ur radio, boss is getting mad – Donnelly

Radio. – Thatcher

bro, get your radio. – Oscar

Everyone told me to text you to get your radio – Quinn

Could be serious or unimportant. I’m not panicked. I glance at Maximoff who reads his own texts before I leave for the living room. Finding my radio beneath a tufted chair. I crouch and grab the thing.

Maximoff appears, phone in hand. His shoulders are squared like he could join a rescue team. I almost smile. Because this is his posture when he’s just brushing his teeth.

“And?” I ask while I untangle the cord to my earpiece.

“The girls left the club.” He uses his arm to rub water off his temple. “They’re at a 24/7 diner and asked if we wanted any food to-go.”

“Shit,” I curse, flicking a switch to my radio. “It’s dead.” I stand quickly and collect my pants, digging in the pockets. No batteries on me.

See, if SFO changed locations and they believe Maximoff will eventually meet-up with their clients, then they’ll want to stay in touch with me via radio. Hence, the onslaught of text messages.

I step into a new pair of black boxer-briefs. “I have more batteries on the bus,” I say, grabbing my pants and belt. We parked the tour bus at the nightclub’s VIP parking. Only a ten-minute walk from this hotel.

I’m not going to be fined for pointless shit, and losing a grand for a dead radio is about as pointless as it gets.

Dressed fast, Maximoff and I breach the crisp night. He draws the hood of his Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt, and I zip up my leather jacket.

Dallas still alive as the New Year rolls in, drunken people cheer on the sidewalks. Gold top hats on heads and feather boas on necks. More fireworks crack, but less frequently.

I love high-strung cities that never sleep.

Maximoff drinks in the frenzied atmosphere. No paparazzi or screaming fans interrupt the moment yet.

We walk step-for-step in sync, edging close to each other. He almost catches a yawn, but it escapes with a soft, “Fuck.”

My mouth upturns. The suite was a secure room, so I say, “You could’ve slept back at the hotel. I’m capable of grabbing batteries alone.”

His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and he stuffs his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. “You’d probably get lost,” he says dryly. “Directional skills are the first thing to go after I make someone come.”

I laugh once. “That’s cute, but you don’t need an excuse to hang out with me.”

He growls into an aggravated groan, “Fuck off.” The corners of his lips start lifting.

My smile is fucking killing me. It takes all my energy not to grab his hand. Instead, as we face straight ahead, I lean closer, and our shoulders touch.

His carriage rises.

“Is that Maximoff Hale?” I hear the female voice, about twenty feet ahead of us. Clusters of women smoke outside an upscale bar. Mid-to-late-thirties, all in sequined cocktail dresses, they wobble in heels and zero in on Maximoff.

I lower my voice. “Ignore them. Don’t do anything.” His gut-reaction will be to acknowledge fans, but for the sake of his cousins and their anonymity, he can’t let this location leak.

Maximoff is more rigid. He shifts his head slightly. His hood partially conceals his features, but not that well. We have to walk towards the women and the bar, just to pass them.

A woman cups her hands to her mouth. “Maximoff Hale!”

“Can we get a picture?!” another woman shouts.

“I want more than a picture,” one says suggestively and too loudly.

I’m not “gawking” at Maximoff or the women. Bodyguard 101 for this situation: stare straight ahead.

Walk.

Don’t engage.

“Oh my God, he’s hotter in person.”

“Is that really him? Can he hear us?”

We step in direct line with the bar.

“Are you Maximoff Hale?” A blonde woman is about to cut us off, but I slyly move out of my path and step towards her. Causing her to stay put and blocking her from my client.

“He gets that a lot,” I tell the woman as I walk backwards, towards Maximoff who never stops sauntering ahead.

She checks me out. “Who are you?” she asks, but I’m already spinning around. Lengthening my stride, I’m beside Maximoff in a quick second.

I try to read his expression. “What?”

He blows on his cold hands. “At first I felt bad about not stopping for them, then I saw you do that—”

“My job,” I define.

“—and now I want to fuck you,” he finishes strongly.

My blood heats. “Can’t get enough of your bodyguard,” I tease.

He raises a middle finger.

Okay, we need to reach this bus. Because all I want to do is wrap my arm around his shoulders. Warm his hands. Touch him.

Most of the trek, we stay quiet, and he people-watches more than people watch him. The sleek black bus sits in the back of the VIP parking.

I greet the nightclub employees with a head-nod and curt wave. And we reach the bus doors. I unlock them, and we both climb on.

We stop cold in the first lounge.

Hearing deep groans.

High-pitched moans. All originating from the back. Second lounge door is shut.

“What the fuck,” Maximoff mutters.

“It might be Jane,” I say, but she never said Nate would be joining us in Dallas.

“It can’t be. She’s with the girls.” Maximoff is already charging for the back. Shit.

I follow close and grab his shoulder, stopping him before he clasps the doorknob. “You don’t know who the fuck is behind that door,” I say lowly. It could be SFO, one of his cousins, or a stranger, his stalker, someone we haven’t vetted.

I pull him behind me.

Orgasmic wails pitch the air, loud as fuck. Most likely a girl. “Ahhhh!” she shrieks. Sounds like bad straight porn.

Not my thing.

“Exactly,” Maximoff whispers, anger lancing his edged voice, “we don’t know who it is. We need to—”

“I am. Back up.”

“Farrow—”

“What if it’s your sister?” I whisper. “You really want to walk in on Luna having sex? Let me save you from that.” I put a hand on his chest.

He complies this time. Stepping back, arms crossed. There we go.

I bang on the door. Laughter and curses respond.

“Who is that?” a girl giggles. She’s not one of ours. I instinctively reach for my radio mic, but it’s dead. Maximoff actually starts searching my bunk for batteries.

I bang again. An indistinguishable voice says hold on and the door swings open.

Completely naked, Beckett Cobalt slips out, loosely cradling a decorative pillow near his crotch. He shuts the door behind him.

My brows spike.

Surprise = mid-tier

Threat = low

Me = bowing out

I let Maximoff take over, and I rest my shoulder on a nearby bunk. He hands me the batteries and approaches his cousin.

“Hey.” Beckett nods to him.

“Who’s back there?” Maximoff asks.

“Two girls from the club. A Kylie and a Laura.” Beckett briefly glances my way. Hi there. I pop the new batteries in my radio, and he sizes me up for the eighty-fourth time.

“It’s not a good idea to bring strangers on the bus to have sex,” Maximoff says, drawing Beckett’s attention. “It’s fucking dangerous. They could steal everyone’s stuff, take pictures, and they haven’t been vetted.”

“Donnelly vetted them.” Beckett talks smoothly, quickly, calmly. “I’m not going to go through ten other people—half that I’m related to—in order to fuck someone. I haven’t let the girls out of my sight, except for right now. And I’ll clean the room when I’m done.”

Maximoff rubs his jaw, not happy about this. “Please be fucking careful. Trash any used condoms.” He rattles off a few more general rules to keep his cousin safe.

I couldn’t care less, and Beckett notices.

He gives me a look.

Not the iconic you’re full of bullshit face, but a brand new one that he reserves for me. I’d think I was special, but it’s a you-aren’t-good-enough-for-my-cousin face.

I consider myself extremely patient, but I’m nearing a line where I’d like to just snap go fuck yourself.

“You don’t agree with Moffy?” Beckett asks.

“Right.” I hook my radio on my belt. “I don’t care what you do with your condoms.” He’s not my client, and those girls aren’t a threat to anyone.

His brows knit together in that bullshit face. “He’s your boyfriend.”

“And I don’t always have to agree with my boyfriend.” I’m giving Beckett a pass because he’s never been in a relationship, but he’s trying to measure how much I value Maximoff off the wrong shit.

“If you two don’t agree, then maybe you’re not compatible,” Beckett says like he’s charting a pros and cons list for his cousin. With no pros and all cons.

I fit my earpiece in, done with this guy. I can take blunt honesty to my face—and Maximoff likes it, but I’m reaching a limit with his cousin.

Maximoff sends Beckett a warning glare. “Stay out of it.”

“I’m just looking out for you,” Beckett says calmly, kindly, even sincerely, and he switches his hands on his pillow.

I raise the volume on my radio. “Where’s Donnelly?”

Beckett points to a bunk about chest-high. He’s in a bunk? That doesn’t make sense. Donnelly would’ve heard me and Maximoff walk in.

Something’s not right.

I drift further into the narrowed hall, and I hear Maximoff ask Beckett if he needs anything. If he’s okay. What he always asks family.

“Beckett!” the girls call. “Come back!”

Beckett smiles warmly. “With that. As my little brother would say, ‘I bid you farewell’.” He waves in salute with his unoccupied hand, and then turns around, his bare ass in view. He disappears into the second lounge.

Maximoff almost smiles, shoulders loosening, and he passes me, texting the girls back. “Food?”

“Omelet.” I sling the bunk curtain.

Donnelly lies down with headphones on, just staring upward in a daze. He doesn’t turn, but he can see me in his peripheral.

I frown and shake his arm. “Donnelly.”

He pulls one pad off his ear and mumbles something, his South Philly lilt too thick. He only gets quiet like this when he hears from his family.

“Is it your mom?” I ask.

Donnelly tugs at his chestnut hair with a hot breath, then nods. He sits up but slumps. “She got caught with 8 grams. Been out of prison for one week.”

My frown darkens. “Man, I’m sorry.” I don’t ask what drug. I know it’s meth.

“I thought it’d be different this time.” Donnelly scrolls through his music. “Fuck me, right.” He hands me his cell. “Pick out somethin’.” He lies back down and puts a T-shirt over his face, headphones on.

I shuffle through some artists and then play “Do You Realize?” by The Flaming Lips. I tuck the phone under his pillow, and close the curtain.

I rejoin Maximoff in the first lounge. He’s about to pocket his cell. “Is Donnelly okay?”

“Not really.” I catch his wrist. “Text Jane to order him a waffle.”

He types out a message. “If he needs to go home, I’ll pay for the flight—”

“He won’t want to.” I keep a hand on Maximoff’s waist. “Whenever this shit happens, he stays away from home. It’s played out before.” I pause. “Mom problems.”

Maximoff nods. He’s aware of Donnelly’s family.

“Not that I really know what those are,” I add since I’m the only one on the bus without a mom.

Maximoff fits his cell in his back pocket. “You never had problems with your stepmom?”

“No. She’s nice, but we’re not close.”

He knows the timeline. He attended the wedding. I was a senior in high school when my father dated Rachel, then a freshman in college when they married.

Maximoff holds the back of my neck, and we draw together, legs knocking—“Ahhhh!” a girl moans again.

I roll my eyes, and then a five-note jingle bell chime plays in my pocket.

“That’s fucking creepy,” Maximoff says, referring to the noise, not what’s attached to the jingle bell notification. Because he couldn’t be less afraid of the stalker if he tried.

I dig for my phone. “Don’t worry,” I say casually. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Maximoff glares. “I feel zero worry. Nothing.” He cringes at the app. “Jesus, don’t look at it. Forget it tonight. It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“It’s New Year’s Day,” I correct, opening the @maximoffdeadhale account, “and this is my job.” My voice sinks with my stomach.

What the…fuck.

The stalker posted a close-up of the tour bus. This exact bus, and beneath the windows, the words DIE MOFFY DIE drip in blood-red paint

It looks real.

My gut says someone just painted this bus. Outside. Right now.

Fucking hell.