“Get the fuck outta Philly!”

That heckle originates from the south end of the smoky billiards and darts bar, too packed to distinguish faces. But from the gawking and middle fingers slung in our direction, I see clearly who’s being heckled.

And it’s not Maximoff or Jane or any of the famous ones.

Oscar racks up the pool balls and surveys the crowded bar and pissed off faces. “Donnelly is going to flip when he gets here.”

He’s definitely not the type who’d appreciate someone demanding that he vacate his own city. We all call Philly home, and the jeers began the moment Oscar and I stepped into The Independent. Our go-to spot whenever we’re off-duty and not at the Studio 9 gym.

Becoming “somewhat” famous doesn’t mean everyone loves you. I’ve spent plenty of hours with Lily Calloway and Maximoff, and I’ve seen how unwarranted hate festers out of notoriety.

I grab a cue stick and catch eyes with a bearded, tattooed dipshit. He flips me off with two hands and careens forward on his stool. His attempt to rope me into a confrontation.

I almost laugh and spin the cue stick. I’m not that easily snared. Sidling up to the pool table, I tell Oscar with the tilt of my head, “It’s like they don’t realize we’re all trained fighters.”

Oscar grins. “Idiots.” He tries to align the pool balls perfectly, and his curly hair falls over a rolled bandana that’s tied across his forehead.

My phone buzzes in my pant’s pocket. I pull it out with a piece of gum. New text.

“When my little bro gets here, Redford, tell him you’ve only played pool once or twice.” Oscar grabs a stick off the wall.

I chew my gum, not looking up from my phone. “You want me to hustle your brother,” I say, partially interested. I read a recent message and lean some of my weight on my cue stick. My boot rests on the rung of a short stool.

I’d say this is heaven but it’s missing someone… – Maximoff

He included a selfie that could be part of a Calvin Klein campaign. Fucking gorgeous. Halfway submerged in his family’s pool, his wet hair is slicked back, and beads of water roll down his temples.

My mouth rises.

Luna photo-bombed him, her tongue touching her nose.

Our clients are spending the night at the gated neighborhood, visiting parents and siblings. Maximoff invited me to join him, but since the tour officially ended early yesterday, Omega wanted to go out.

And I need to be with security.

I start texting him back: I’d say you’re missing a comma. Before I hit send, Akara plucks my phone right out of my hand. He wafts smoke out of his face, the bar clouding.

“When’d you get here?” I ask, noticing a beer bottle in his grip. I’m not sure how he managed to push through the hecklers at the bar without causing a fistfight.

Donnelly saunters towards Oscar, beer also in hand. Through the cigarette smoke, I make out his septum piercing, a new thing, and he cut holes in his Studio 9 shirt.

“Five minutes ago,” Akara answers me, his sweaty muscle shirt suctioned to his chest.

I pop my gum. “You smell like a five hour workout.”

Akara rubs my phone on his sweat stains, making a point. “We all agreed not to stalk the stalker tonight. You know Maximoff is safe with his family.”

“I realize that.” I don’t need the reassurance. I’m confident whoever the fuck is behind the sick photos won’t reach Maximoff at his parent’s house. It’s decked out in security alarms and cams.

I extend my hand for the phone.

Akara rubs it on his chest again. “You really want this thing back?”

“Man sweat really doesn’t bother me.” I motion to him. “Give me.”

He slips my cell into his back pocket.

I roll my eyes. “Akara—”

“You can get it back later tonight.” He squeezes my shoulder. “No client, no boyfriend. Just relax.”

I chew my gum slowly. “I’m the definition of relaxed.”

Akara swigs his beer. “You’ve been the definition of hyper-vigilant. I’ll let you know when you’re back to Farrow ‘chilling in hurricanes’ Keene.”

I’m not dwelling on that. Mostly because a brawny fucker yells, “Go eat shit, posers!!”

Donnelly leans on the pool table. “Haters gonna hate.”

“Get outta Philly!” a collective jeer comes at us.

Donnelly suddenly straightens up and outstretches his arms. “I’m from Philly! You get outta here, man!”

Oscar pulls Donnelly back by the shirt before he storms the bar, and then he steals Donnelly’s beer.

“Hey,” Akara says, “let it go. We don’t need to make another headline. Security Force Omega Gets in a Bar Fight reflects badly on our employers.”

Donnelly glowers at the bearded, tattooed guy who’s been staring me down. “What about Security Force Omega Wins a Bar Fight, boss?”

“No,” Akara says.

The hecklers shout some more bullshit, and we do a good job of ignoring. But a female bartender leaves the counter and nears us.

She ties her hair into a bun. “Hi, guys. Look, I can take your drink orders and serve you, but you shouldn’t approach the bar. It’s not safe, and the manager thinks this is a better deal for everyone, yeah?”

The bearded dipshit looks too pleased with himself. He thinks we’re about to be kicked out, not given special treatment.

Amusement pulls my lips upward. I’m enjoying this.

“Sounds good,” Akara says. “You guys want anything?”

“I’m buyin’ a round of whiskey shots for everyone,” Donnelly says, gesturing to all of us.

“Got it,” the bartender says and departs.

I chalk my cue stick. “Who’d you tattoo?” I ask him since that’s how he earns extra cash, and it’s the only time he buys everyone drinks.

“Luna.” Donnelly picks a cigarette out of a pack. “Thought about consulting with her dad first since he went ape-shit on me about the others, but then I thought, nah. He won’t ever see this one.”

My brows spike. “Man, if you tattooed her ass and her dad finds out, he’ll—”

“Don’t freak. It was a shooting star below her hipbone.” He cups his hand over a flame and lights his cigarette. “And she’s eighteen. If it’s not me inking her, then another tattooist will, you know?”

I know.

But that’s still Loren Hale’s daughter and Maximoff’s little sister. That’s still the Hale family, and fuck, I’m not typically incessant on inserting myself in other people’s shit, but I understand that family better than him. And I care about Luna.

Akara motions his beer bottle at Donnelly. “If she asked you to push her off a cliff, what would you do?”

“I’d say let’s grab some parachutes first, babe.” He smirks. “Then I’d clasp her hand and we’d go down…” He jumps forward and then slings an arm around Oscar.

“You playing?” Oscar asks him about pool.

“Later.”

Akara shakes his head, his lips lifting. He does friendly disapproval well.

My smile widens at Donnelly. “Look who’s never being put on Luna Hale’s detail.”

He blows cigarette rings at me.

“Hey, guys.” Quinn approaches, his plain shirt torn at the hem, nail scratches on his neck.

Most everyone stiffens, but I’m still leaning on the cue stick.

“What the fuck happened?” Oscar instantly nears.

Quinn pushes his brother away. “You know how the crowds are.” The ones in the street, outside The Independent.

“Nah, they aren’t that bad,” Donnelly says.

Akara frowns and assesses Quinn from afar, who tries to convince everyone with I’m fine, I’m fine, but it’s clear that the fame has been harder on him than us.

“I just need a drink,” Quinn mutters.

The bartender returns with a tray of whiskey shots, and the bar boos at her, more than at us.

“Sorry,” I apologize to her, and she shrugs sheepishly.

Donnelly puts a wad of cash on her tray for a tip.

“Thanks. I’ll leave this here.” She sets the tray on a pub table and then tucks the cash in her back pocket.

I grab a drink. “Take a shot, Oliveira.” I hand Quinn the glass.

He downs the whiskey shot, and then Thatcher, the last of Omega and my new roommate, joins us. I can’t say we’ve been friendly. We’ve spoken one time since the tour ended. He asked if I saw Ophelia, Jane’s white cat, who went missing for an hour in our townhouse.

I said no.

He said nothing in reply.

And that was the end of that shit.

“Who’s playing?” Thatcher asks, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled to his elbows.

Oscar points his stick at me. “Redford is supposed to break.”

I pop my gum. “No, I’m out.” I pass my cue stick to Thatcher. “You go ahead.” I’m not handing him an olive branch. This is me just not wanting to play pool.

Thatcher senses this, and he doesn’t say thanks.

I down a shot, whiskey burning the back of my throat. And I sidle next to Oscar. About to place a bet on the pool game.

But the bearded dipshit with leathery skin and an eagle bicep tattoo stands off his stool. He must be in his early thirties, not much older than us, and four more men flank him. All look about three-hundred pounds.

Donnelly often says he’s “a buck seventy-five” and the rest of us are lean and muscular like UFC fighters and boxers. Not heavyweight entertainment wrestlers. Shit, the only one who comes close is Thatcher. But even entering a fight underweight, we could easily knock all of them out.

We’re not intimidated. To be honest, their bravado actually has the opposite effect.

“Go back to L.A., you dumbfucks, and get outta our city!” That though—that’s getting annoying.

The six of us face them, and the “get outta our city” holler grates on more than just Donnelly. I’d like to punch one out. Collectively, we’ve spent more time in Philly than most people at that fucking bar.

For us, it’s home.

For Donnelly and Thatcher and Quinn, it’s all they’ve ever known. There was no college. No other place.

It’s been Philly.

Always Philly.

Some people connect to a specific town like it’s a person, a tangible part of them that they can’t remove, and I’ve seen that in Donnelly’s eyes.

“Say I’m from L.A. one more time!” Donnelly threatens. Since our fame originated in L.A., that’s what some uninformed dipshits believe.

Thatcher starts yelling at the heavyset fucker on the end. He’s that irritated, and being off-duty is making him chuck the rulebook out the window.

Oscar whispers to me, “South Philly guys are going to get us kicked out.”

“No shit,” I whisper. “You better add your little brother in that.”

Quinn curses loudly, edging into an asshole’s face, but Akara fists his shirt and draws him backwards.

We’re all trained to deescalate situations, but it’s easier doing our jobs when the insults aren’t directed at us.

Oscar shakes his head and hunches over the table with his stick, lining up while this conflict is brewing. “SFO haters know the bare minimum. We’re famous bodyguards. We’re hot. That’s about it. Everything else they invent to fuel their hate.”

“True.” I lean on the pool table, half-sitting.

He breaks and the balls scatter the green felt. Suddenly, he straightens up, more alert as the most vocal, bearded fucker approaches me.

I don’t shift.

This guy nods to me, about my height. “You think you’re hot shit?”

I chew my gum. “I know I’m hot shit.” I can feel Oscar’s harsh glare drilling into this guy from behind me, the rest of Omega minutes away from a real fight, too.

The bearded dipshit takes one step towards me.

My jaw hardens. “Don’t get in my face,” I warn.

“Farrow, Oscar!” Akara calls out. He’s wrangled our two South Philly guys, plus Quinn, into a booth and the other hecklers loiter back at the bar. Impressive. And one reason why I’m not the Omega lead.

Before the dipshit can hook me into a fight, I back up and take the long route to the booth with Oscar. We slip in the cracked leather seat, and Akara stays standing at the end.

“I’m not gonna miss that about the tour,” Donnelly says to Quinn. I catch them mid-conversation, and he picks through a bowl of half-eaten nuts.

“What?” I ask for the topic.

He pushes the bowl aside. “Laundry.”

I chew my gum into a smile. “You can’t miss something you never did.”

Donnelly laughs.

“That was the worst,” Oscar tells me. “If I never have to see another laundromat or hotel laundry bill again, I’ll die a happy man.”

The bartender squeezes through and leaves us six bottles of beer. “On the house for not starting anything with those guys over there,” she says. “Manager thanks you.”

As she leaves, I pick up a bottle, and in my peripheral, I notice the bearded guy trying to capture my gaze at the pool table. The more beer he chugs, the less likely he’ll let this shit go.

“Okay, listen up.” Akara steals everyone’s attention, still standing. “I have three announcements to make.”

I bet I know one of the three.

“First,” he says, “if you haven’t heard already, Luna is moving into Maximoff and Jane’s townhouse. Which means Quinn is now back at security’s place with you two.” He gestures to Thatcher and me.

Knew that.

I raise my beer to Quinn. “Welcome back.”

He clinks my bottle, plus the other guys who start to cheers. We all swig.

Akara sets his bottle down. “We decided that since Luna is staying with her brother, it makes more sense to have her bodyguard remain on Omega.”

I figured that Quinn wouldn’t be shifted to Epsilon. They’re not equipped to train him, and Akara had been trying to keep Quinn in SFO even when Luna left the tour.

“Second…” Akara rotates towards Thatcher, who’s been quiet at the booth, sipping his beer. “Thatcher signed a permanent contract to be Jane Cobalt’s bodyguard this morning.”

Shit.

We all thought he’d eventually return to Epsilon and Xander Hale’s security detail. It’s why he remained a lead and part of the Tri-Force during the tour.

“Because of that,” Akara says, “he can’t be a lead anymore. The lead has to come from Epsilon, and Banks is taking his spot.” Thatcher’s brother is now the third voice of the Tri-Force.

Thatcher gave up his power and his higher pay to stay in Omega and on Jane’s detail.

But that fact isn’t what makes me smile into my swig of beer. We now earn the same amount of money, on the same level in the bodyguard hierarchy. We’re now equals.

Fuck, that feels good.

Thatcher lets out a heavy breath at me. He hates that I love it.

“Third and last thing,” Akara starts.

“Hey, pretty boy!” a drunk heckler yells at Donnelly. “Why don’t you take that thing out of your nose and shove it up your ass?!”

That insult doesn’t incite any of us.

Akara grabs his beer. “Tri-Force agreed that we can all keep our jobs and be famous, but it’s coming with a cost.”

“What?” almost all of us say.

Akara sighs. “We can’t handle major security events. Sometimes even minor ones. Not without Alpha and Epsilon or temp bodyguards. They have to join us at concerts, galas, and any charity functions. Maybe even smaller locations. We need the extra bodies, guys. We can’t do that stuff alone anymore. It’s just the way it is.”

We quiet.

I grit down and rub my jaw. I don’t want to call in reinforcements for a job we’re hired to do, but I’m not about to put my pride above Maximoff’s safety.

After a minute, we all nod. Agreeing.

We’re in the same restless ocean, a boat of six, and luckily, we’re equipped to handle the roughest weather.

Even the bearded dipshit that comes at me with a cue stick. Right now. “If you’re not gonna leave our bar, we’re gonna make you.”

Akara glares. “Really, man?”

He barrels forward in a drunken rage. There’s no reasoning with that.

I stand, Omega stands, and we step out of the booth about the same time his friends swarm us.

“Get outta—”

Thatcher sucker-punches a hefty guy, and the bar erupts into a brawl. Fists fly, chairs clatter. Quinn jabs his knuckles at a guy’s nose, and Donnelly left-hooks a three-hundred pound man who breaks a bottle.

The bearded dipshit swings the stick at my head—I duck. Then I slam my boot on his kneecap, a direct hit. He curses in pain and staggers, falling.

Next to me, Akara kicks another brawny heckler in the chest. He crashes into a pub table.

Oscar is chatting with the blonde bartender.

“Out!” the manager yells at us. “OUT!” Six or seven employees crawl out of the woodwork and start ushering us through the rear exit.

Quinn raises his hand. “I’m cool, bro.”

“We’re going, we’re going,” Akara tells them, and down a flight of stairs, we reach the road together.

Leaving the hecklers behind, we joke and meander down the Philly street like nothing is out of the ordinary. Laughing about the free beer.

But our short-lived time at The Independent isn’t a regular night. That abrupt ending is usually meant for the people we protect.

Not for us.

Slowly, we each grow quiet, hands in pockets and trekking along. Our fame collectively sinks in, adjusting like we’ve been given a new uniform to wear.