January passes into February, and before I even think all is well, a figurative storm slams head-first at every damn one of us.

Evening sun shines through a tinted hotel window. It’s encroaching 24-hours since my cousins, my little sister, and SFO have been trapped in one double-bed room.

I stand rigid at the window. And I stare out at the Los Angeles street below. No one can see me through the opaque glass, but I see them.

I see you.

Hundreds upon hundreds of bodies pack the road. Not a single piece of pavement or sidewalk in sight. Paparazzi mix with the masses, cameras flashing and flashing. Extra security on the ground has been trying to clear the street for hours, but the swelling crowds look like fans preparing for a music festival headliner.

We’re not Red Hot Chili Peppers.

And this isn’t normal.

I accounted for more paparazzi at the L.A. FanCon because it’s L.A.—but this chaos isn’t because of the FanCon.

People cram at the hotel exits and entrances. Hoping to catch sight of us when we leave, but we can’t step foot into the hysteria. Fingers and cameras point up at this room, this fucking window.

I see the tweet.

@CherryCarrie: Tenth floor. Third window from the right. Just got confirmation from someone inside the hotel. #HotBodyguards #HMCBodyguards

I don’t move.

I haven’t slept in 24-hours. My phone rings nonstop, and I’ve tried to fix this. I can’t stop trying, but now there’s only one solution: stay put, do nothing, wait for the street to clear.

With a long glance behind me, I check on everyone.

Charlie slouches in the corner, forehead to his knees, hands on the back of his head, frustrated and irritated. I know my cousin.

He likes his space, and he already sacrificed that to join this tour. Now he’s stuck in a small room with eleven people.

Beckett is asleep on the edge of a bed. Next to him, Jane, Sulli, and Luna squeeze close and peer at the only laptop, perched on Jane’s thighs.

They’re okay.

But Omega isn’t.

I’ve never seen them this tense. Thatcher and Akara seclude themselves in the bathroom for privacy, speaking to the Alpha lead for over two hours.

Oscar has been hawk-eyeing the road near me. His gaze darkened, serious. On the second bed, Donnelly flips through news channels like an uneasy tic. Then there’s Quinn, pacing the length of the room.

“Stop,” Farrow tells him for the hundredth time. He’s the most at ease here. His shoulder is propped casually on the wall beside me. With a quick glimpse, he checks on me like I check on him, then he eyes the street.

Donnelly switches channels, television on mute. “It’s the Hale Curse.”

Farrow chews his gum slower and gives Donnelly an annoyed look. “Shut the fuck up with the Hale Curse.”

“I’m just sayin’ out of all places this has to go down, it’s in L.A. where hundreds of paparazzi live. That’s a curse.”

“The Hales didn’t do anything,” Farrow says. “It’s not a curse.”

It’s a perfect shit storm.

Being trapped in a hotel room isn’t why everyone’s on edge. It’s a billion times worse. In the masses, fans hoist posters that say Hot Bodyguards and I love SFO! and hire me!!!

Some even scrawled names: Future Wife of Quinn. Akara is my babe!

Everyone in Omega is on a goddamn cliff.

One push from being fired.

Including my boyfriend. Despite barely sleeping for the past fucking month, determined to find my stalker, I still want Farrow as my bodyguard.

Christ, I need him. Even selfishly.

Luna looks up from the laptop. “What’s a Hale Curse?”

“A made up thing,” I say and my phone vibrates in my clenched hand. I’ve spoken to lawyers, every uncle, every aunt, my parents, security, the board of H.M.C. Philanthropies, publicists, tabloids, journalists—exhaustion tries tooth-and-nail to tug at my limbs and sink me.

I barely blink.

I stare in a hard daze.

Thinking, thinking, and I feel three reactions rip at me in different directions.

One part of me says keep everyone safe, be resolute, resilient. I stand still.

One part pleads swim, run, go outside and taste the fucking air. I almost tilt my head back, shut my eyes and feel cold water with each forceful stroke, then tree branches slapping my arms and legs, running untiringly until my lungs fucking pop.

The last part of me screeches, drop to your knees and scream. Heavy pressure bears on my chest, but I’m not dropping.

I’m not screaming.

“Merde,” Jane says. All three girls look wide-eyed at the laptop.

I head to the bed. “What is it?”

Jane rotates the screen.

GBA News, a primetime station on par with ABC, picked up the story. The headline: Media and Fans Congest L.A. Streets to Spot Bodyguards of the Hale, Meadows, Cobalt Families.

I bend down and use the track-pad to read the article.

A “Hot Santa Underwear Contest” video featuring the famous families’ Security Force Omega has gone viral on Twitter and other social medias. The hashtag #HotBodyguards has been trending for over 24-hours, and Facebook shares are quickly growing over a million.

The overnight fervor and fame has had a serious impact on L.A. traffic. Multiple roads are currently shut down including…

I straighten. We were all hoping it’d be fleeting. Like fifteen minutes of fame. But if GBA publicized the story, it’ll air on the 7 o’clock news.

“Say something,” Jane says to me, a pink sleeping eye-mask on her head. But like me, she hasn’t slept. Guilt clouds her blue eyes.

“It’s not your fault, Janie.”

She narrated the Christmas Eve video. Beckett filmed it, but neither of them leaked it.

“But you talked to the security company,” she says like she’s filing all the details again and again. “It couldn’t have been a hack.”

I nod. “It wasn’t a hack, but Beckett texted the video to family and security. Which was fine. We’re all on a secure line, so it’s not his fault either.” He couldn’t have known someone would share the video and break the circle of trust.

We just don’t know who did.

Farrow pops his gum. “A famous one or security leaked it to the press, Cobalt.”

“Our families wouldn’t,” Jane says passionately.

“Epsilon,” Donnelly theorizes a culprit. “Someone narked.”

Oscar turns. “Doesn’t matter. The moment we leave this hotel, we’re all fired.” He gestures to the chaotic street. “Look at that. We can’t protect anyone if more security needs to flank us.”

Quinn paces again.

“Oh fuck, go back.” Sulli is motioning for Donnelly to change channels.

He returns to the last one, entertainment news, and increases the volume.

“…Christmas has extended its stay and is bearing more gifts for us,” the female reporter says on a sound stage. “Take a look at the viral video of the men who protect the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts. And be warned, you may need an ice cold shower after this one. So ho, ho, ho, watch these hotties, and let us know if you ship it.”

Strangely, her words lighten the tension. Donnelly and Farrow are smiling.

The video plays on the television. But this one is slightly different. The news station added bright text over each bodyguard as they saunter down the mock runway.

Akara is first with the words: The Boss.

“Truth,” Donnelly says.

Jane and I exchange a wary look. They’re labeling SFO from the bios Jane created on-the-fly, and it’s not an original concept or a coincidence.

It’s a homage. Our parents were once labeled just like this, and over twenty-two years later, media and fans still call Uncle Ryke “the jackass”.

“Please let them all be positive attributes,” Jane says in a soft breath.

On-screen, Donnelly appears in red trunks. The Ass-Kicker.

“Sweet.” Donnelly smirks.

Farrow is next: The Maverick.

I glance at him, and his lips almost rise. But he doesn’t really smile anymore. Come tomorrow, he may not be my bodyguard and some other guy probably will be.

But we did dodge one bullet. The video never showed us embracing, and the audio didn’t catch us flirting.

So the world thinks he’s just my bodyguard.

And I’m just his client.

Knowing we weren’t the ones who ruined Omega—that our relationship didn’t catapult their fame—it doesn’t really help. No matter the cause, their jobs are still on the chopping block.

Oscar pops on-screen, muscles oiled. The Pro.

In the hotel room, he hardly bats an eye. Not surprised.

The entertainment TV station presents the entire video package like a wet dream. Confident, unabashed men in red underwear, sculpted builds and six-pack abs—I’m shocked they didn’t go ahead and call them Sexy Fuckers Org.

Back on-screen, Quinn walks out in only a bow. The Young Stud.

Jane starts relaxing, the titles not as bad as she thought. Akara and Thatcher exit the bathroom the same way they entered. Stringent and grave. But their attention routes to the television. Watching with us.

A phone pings rapidly.

“That’s me.” Donnelly ditches the remote for his cell. “…fans found my Twitter. I just gained 10k followers…another thousand…holy shit. They keep askin’ if anyone on SFO is single.”

“Don’t respond,” Thatcher orders.

“It won’t matter,” Oscar chimes in. “GBA news already profiled our relationship statuses. Single as a Pringle. All of us.”

Multiple pairs of eyes dart from Farrow to me, but I bury a reaction. Inside, my brain blares on repeat, he’s taken, he’s fucking taken.

Our room quiets when the entertainment segment shows Thatcher. He towers on-screen in his underwear, leaving nothing to the imagination, and he spins around. His bare ass is in full view. To millions of viewers. Words flash across his back.

The Jockstrap.

Great. I almost cringe. Under any other circumstance, I could see Omega laughing—but the room tenses.

Thatcher’s strict features never change shape.

Jane looks horrified. Like she committed manslaughter against her bodyguard. “Thatcher, I’m terribly, terribly sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Thatcher lowers the volume using the TV button. “None of it bothers me.”

Jane is still pale.

I reach out and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

“Jane.” Thatcher catches her gaze, and very seriously, he says, “I’m relieved it wasn’t you on the television. That’s all.”

She death-grips my hand, almost cutting off the circulation. But I let her hold longer, and Akara snaps his fingers to his palm.

“So this is it,” he begins to deliver the news, good or bad—and my phone rings. Jane instantly releases her grip, and I check the Caller ID: Kinney Hale.

For FaceTime.

I can’t ignore my sister. Our mom and dad are in New York City tonight at a charity event for children. Sponsored by Halway Comics. Which means she’s home alone with Xander.

“Sorry,” I tell everyone. “You can talk without me…” I gesture amongst the group while I return to the window and grasp at the illusion of privacy. But I like that I’m closer to Farrow.

I answer the call.

She swings the camera. What the fuck is she doing?

Her features are blurred, brown hair whipping every damn way, black eye makeup streaming down her round cheeks. Gangly limbs shifting in and out of view.

“MoffyIcantIcant.” Her voice is a jumbled out-of-breath, tearful mess.

“It’s okay. Take a breath, Kinney. Tell me what’s wrong.” I block out the pit that wedges in my ribcage.

She cries and pounds her fists at wood.

“Kinney. Focus on me.”

Farrow ditches his spot and stands next to me, peering at the fuzzy FaceTime screen.

“I can’t…I can’t get a hold…” She rattles the knob. “OPEN THE DOOR!” she screams helplessly, and I make out an Elfish sign on the wood. Xander’s room. And I know.

My brother broke a rule and locked his door.

I go rigid and abandon my emotion. “Kinney, listen to me.” I glance over my shoulder to alert my cousins. So they can call family, so security can call bodyguards—but everyone already rises.

Beckett is awake. Charlie is on his feet. Phones are being drawn, numbers called.

“Eliot, are you down the street?” Charlie says.

“Mom?” Luna says.

“Dad, are you near the Hale’s?” Sulli asks.

“Tom?” Beckett calls.

Jane speaks in hurried French.

“Get Banks,” Akara says to Thatcher, then he lists off other names, and the rest of SFO starts dialing. Phones to their ears.

All but Farrow.

He puts a hand on my shoulder, zeroed in on Kinney with me, and I tune out the rest of the room.

“Kinney, Kinney,” I say in a calm but forceful voice. I watch my thirteen-year-old bony sister—barely ninety-pounds—run at the door. Arm slamming into the wood. Tugging at the knob. Pounding her fists. Trying to break it down.

I’m painfully aware that she’s going to fail.

“Slow down, look at me,” I tell her. “Look at me.”

Kinney breathes, steadies the camera; her smudged eyes look broken but murderous.

“Go wait at the front door,” I say.

“I’m not leaving him!” she screams at me like I’m not helping Xander. But right now, I can only help her.

And I’m not letting Kinney find our brother…

I go cold.

Farrow’s thumb strokes the back of my neck, and he tells Kinney, “You need to unlock the door for Banks.”

That works. Kinney runs downstairs, rubbing at her cheeks. “If he did something…I’ll never forgive that turd—” She cuts herself off in a sob. “I didn’t mean it. I don’t want him to.”

“It’s okay,” I say, a knot in my chest. “Don’t think about it. Just unlock the door. Stay downstairs.”

Flying through the foyer, she lands on the welcome mat and flicks the locks. Then she sprints to the kitchen.

“Kinney!” I yell.

She opens a drawer and grabs a carving knife.

“You can’t cut a door down—stop.” She’s going to hurt herself trying to unlock his room. Kinney races back upstairs.

Farrow looks at Akara. “She has a knife.”

“Kinney, look at me,” I growl. The camera is on the floor. She chips at the wood.

I hear footsteps and a faraway voice. “Kinney, I’m coming! Back away!” That’s Banks Moretti.

“Kinney,” I force.

She angles the phone to her face. “Moffy, I can’t just…” she cries, the knife still in hand.

“Please,” I say with everything in my fucking soul, “go to your room. Wait there.”

More footsteps.

Kinney sobs and drops to her knees in a heap.

I want to be in Philly. Where I can pick my sister up and carry her far, far away from this. “Shh, it’s okay,” I say, chained and shackled here. Watching her pain and heartbreak through a phone screen.

Goddammit.

My eyes burn.

I’m numb. Ignoring a weight that descends on my body.

Kinney flips the camera, not wanting me to see her cry. But now I see the hall, his bedroom door and flaked wood.

Heels clap, and Aunt Rose rounds the corner fast. Urgent.

Banks Moretti runs past, and behind Rose comes Uncle Ryke and Aunt Daisy, her blonde hair blowing as she runs towards my sister.

Rose notices Kinney too and squats. “Kinney, give me.” She tears the knife out of Kinney’s fingers, strokes her head, and stands at the ready.

Daisy does what my mom would want to do. She wraps her arms around Kinney and hugs her tight. Kinney bawls in our aunt’s shoulder.

“We’re here, we’re here,” Daisy whispers in the sweetest voice.

Banks and Ryke kick the door twice, and they disappear inside the room with Rose. Agonizing seconds pass. More security floods the hall, then about four of my younger cousins rush in behind. Bodyguards restrain them from reaching Xander’s room.

Kinney must drop her phone. Screen is black, and voices jumble, too hard to piece apart the chatter.

I turn my head to check Luna. Christ, she was supposed to be on a plane back to Philly today. But she missed her flight five hours ago. Thanks to the crowd outside.

Luna is on the hotel bed, burying her head beneath her Moody Blues shirt, but Jane holds my sister against her chest comfortingly.

I look at Farrow. Instinctive. His hand is off my shoulder while he clutches his phone.

His eyes bore into my eyes. I inhale, but my defenses shut down any emotion that fights to surface. Numb.

I’m numb, and he knows not to touch me or hug me. Because I’ll flinch. I don’t want to be cut open and bare. Not here, not with an audience.

He nods, and I don’t just see an I love you written in his softening gaze. I feel it growing like a light inside of me.

“What was that?” Akara is on the phone, the only line of communication now. “Okay…” He eyes all of us. “Xander’s okay.”

I’m caging breath. Air still strained.

“He…” Akara stares off as he listens to the other person. “He was in his bathtub with headphones on…okay, thanks. Hey, yeah, okay…” He lowers his cell and tells us, “He didn’t hurt himself. He’s on the phone with his mom and dad right now. Lo wants Alpha to remove the hinges on his door.”

Now everyone collectively breathes together.

He’s okay.

My brother is okay.

“Thank God,” Oscar mutters.

Donnelly plops on the bed. Quinn blows out the biggest breath and crouches in a squat.

Charlie returns to his spot on the floor.

My brother is okay.

I crack my stiff neck. My eyes are dry and sear like I took a branding iron to each one.

And as I look around the hotel room, I start thinking about Omega. How these six people just shared in a private, raw moment that the world won’t ever see. Or feel. Or know.

* * *

After an hour of family calls, phones are pocketed. Heavy silence descends. We’re all scattered around the hotel room. I cross my arms, standing rigid beside Farrow who leans his shoulder blades on the window. Relaxed, at ease. Cool.

His demeanor is like a fucking drug. Almost entering my bloodstream and helping me breathe.

Akara faces everyone again. Tension builds towards the conversation that my phone abruptly spliced. I’ve been thinking about Omega’s fate.

Imagine replacing them with six other guys—it seems inconceivable, wrong. Like shuttling a family to the moon without a spacesuit.

The next bodyguards in line for hire may not care as much. May not love our families as much. May not want to be here for reasons greater than money and fame. And I don’t just feel lucky that these six guys exist in our lives. Here today.

I feel like they’re necessary. Integral pieces of our world that not many others can really fill.

So I break the quiet. “We’re not firing any of you,” I tell them. “If you want to fucking quit, you’ll have to quit voluntarily.”

Quinn raises a hand. “I’m not quitting.”

“It’s not up to you, little bro.” Oscar nods to Akara and then Thatcher. “The Tri-Force makes the call.”

Dear World, want to gift me that mind-reading superpower? Stat. Sincerely, a tense human.

I rotate my tight shoulder.

Akara fits his baseball hat on backwards. “We’ve decided that there has to be some changes. It’s inevitable, guys. If we act like nothing’s different, we’re jeopardizing the safety of our clients, of all of you…” He looks at my family. “None of us want that.”

Thatcher scans the bodyguards. “We’ve discussed ways to minimize the impact of our popularity, and to remain a part of Omega, with the same client, there are new nonnegotiable rules.” His warning glare lands on Farrow.

I quickly process the news.

Oscar beats me to the question. “We’re not being fired?”

Akara begins to smile. “Everyone’s staying.”

Shoulders start loosening. We all start really breathing for the first time in 24-hours. Oscar takes a seat, collapsing on the bed next to Donnelly.

I rub my mouth, something powerful surging through me. I’m about to look at Farrow, but Thatcher speaks.

“Think of it as a test-run,” he says.

Farrow pops his gum, and I can almost feel his eye-roll at Thatcher.

But Akara nods in agreement. “We’ll finish out the tour and prove that we can still do this job. If there aren’t any major security mistakes, we’ll stay bodyguards, guys. If we fuck up, there’ll be six termination papers. Easy as that. But like I said, there are changes.”

The nonnegotiable rules.

Thatcher crosses his arms. “First, delete all personal social media accounts. No Instagram, no Facebook, no SnapChat, no Twitter, no anything that fans can find you on and follow you.”

Oscar ties a bandana around his forehead. “Goodbye to Donnelly’s drunken SnapChat dick pics.”

Donnelly leans against the headboard. “Those were sober, man.”

Farrow chews his gum into a smile.

Beckett laughs.

Thatcher shakes his head, but he stopped saying things like your client is in the room and that’s inappropriate the third week on tour. The fact that they’re even having a security meeting in front of me and my cousins and not privately in a bathroom—that means something.

“You’re not here to promote yourself,” Akara reminds them, “or Donnelly’s dick.”

Donnelly nods heartily. “What about Twitter? I need to keep up with fandoms.”

“Need or want?” Thatcher asks.

“Both.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “I need it and I want it.”

“You need to delete it,” Thatcher says. “You’re here to protect your client. If you need Twitter for security reasons, we’ll have anonymous security accounts made. But if we see you searching for television shows or porn, you’ll lose password access.”

Beckett tosses Donnelly a lighter. “You can use my Twitter.”

“Thanks, man.” Donnelly puts the cigarette between his lips.

“Second,” Thatcher says, “don’t reach out to tabloids. Don’t accept any interviews, not even to defend yourself.”

That’ll be easy for Farrow. I can’t see him volunteering for a Q&A with Celebrity Crush.

“And lastly,” Akara tells SFO, “don’t sleep with fans. Let’s maintain a level of professionalism. While we’re under this spotlight, we’re representing the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts. Do them proud.”

To me, they already have.

The official meeting ends, and bodies move around. Trying to stretch, go to the bathroom. We’re not just lacking sleep. We have no extra clothes, no luggage or toiletries. Things that’d make my cousins and little sister feel better and more comfortable after 24-hours holed up here.

I could be completely fine with little to nothing for a lot longer. But I’m aware not everyone is me.

Janie searches her sequined purse where she had a sleep mask.

“De quoi as-tu besoin?” I ask. What do you need?

“I wish I wore pajamas.” She unbuttons her pastel pants and sighs in relief. “Tellement mieux.” Much better.

Oscar stacks mini-bottles of liquor on the desk, and Thatcher talks to Akara about being in contact with ground security.

I turn to Farrow. “Four hours longer here?”

“Looks like six more.” He chews his gum and observes the street with me. It’s more congested than five minutes ago.

Security wanted us all in one room together just in case a doomsday happened and paparazzi or fans found their way inside the hotel.

I crack my knuckles. “There has to be vending down the hall. I can get some drinks…” I trail off at a loud knock.

We all quiet.

Thatcher is closest. He peers in the peephole, then unlocks and opens the door to a dazzling smile, jock-build, a duffel strapped across a broad chest, and a pastry box in hand.

“Beautiful people,” Jack Highland greets as he enters. “Twenty-minute shopping spree and a five-mile walk later, I’ve made it.”

Finally.

I near and clasp his hand. We draw in and pat each other’s shoulders. “Thanks for coming.”

Jack smiles brighter. “Looking forward to it.”

He means the FanCon. I invited him on tour with us. The last Q&A derailed after a fight between Charlie and me. We needed a better moderator. Someone we could trust.

Jack was the only name on the list.

Throughout years of time—while he’s been an exec producer on We Are Calloway—I’ve talked about painful memories, spilled secrets to him, and at last minute, I told Jack, don’t air it.

None have ever leaked.

Since he plans to sleep on the tour bus, I decided to share the secret about me and Farrow. The first thing he said after I told him I’m in a real relationship was you deserve it. I don’t know. It fucking got to me.

Jack slings the duffel on a bed. “I thought you’d need some toothbrushes, deodorant, some extra clothes, and food.”

Oscar stands up. “You’re now my favorite person, Highland.” He unzips the duffel and finds a bag of Doritos. Janie helps unearth the clothes and toiletries for everyone.

Jack swerves, searching. “Where’s Sulli?”

“Here.” Sulli is doing push-ups between the two beds. She rises to her feet and twists her dark hair in a high bun. “What’s up?”

His smile radiates. “Come here for a sec.”

Akara casts a narrowed look at Jack. The you hurt her, you’re dead threat unmistakable.

Sulli approaches Jack, our attention super-glued to them, and he lowers the pastry box.

She smiles. “God, if you bought donuts, I could seriously fucking kiss you.”

Akara makes a face at Sulli. “Your first kiss for donuts?”

“Uh, yeah,” she says like he’s being weird. “Not for payment, but donuts are happiness. Now dry cereal on a donut, that’s heaven.”

Jack grins. “It’s better than donuts.”

Sulli snorts. “No fucking way.” She pauses. “Is it a waffle? Because that’s a close second, then pancakes.”

“You’re off,” Akara says.

Sulli swings her head to her bodyguard. “You know what it is?”

He shrugs.

She breaks into a smile. “Okay, now I have to see.” She flips open the pastry box, her eyes lit. When she tilts the box a bit more, I catch sight of two-dozen turquoise cupcakes, iced together to form a wave.

“Happy 20^th Birthday,” Jack tells her.

It’s February 4^th. Our indoor waterpark plan to celebrate Sulli’s birthday pretty much died hours ago. To salvage the day, Jane has been trying to get a cake delivered.

But Jack Highland beat us to it.

Sulli is lost for words, but then she starts with, “You didn’t have to—”

“I didn’t,” Jack says and then nods to Akara. “When he found out I was coming by, he told me to pick up the order.”

Correction, Akara Kitsuwon beat us to it.

Sulli looks overwhelmed. “Thanks, Kits.”

He shrugs again, his lips inching up. Then he glances at Jack. “Her mom has a theory that cake fixes everything.”

Sulli lingers on Akara for a long moment, then plucks a cupcake out of the box. “Right on fucking time.”

Jane has already unloaded all the supplies, but I don’t see any drinks. Charlie has walked the hall a few times, so it shouldn’t be a problem for me. As long as I’m fast.