Page 102 of Alphas Like Us

Inwardly, I’m kicking my ass into another galaxy for not being more careful. My muscle throbs like a dull hammer. Just so you understand, I’m not dropping myarm.

I plan to hold myboyfriend.

So I’m fucking holding his shoulders. Sex is already challenging with the sling. I don’t want to eliminate the forms of physical affection that I can finally,finallydo inpublic.

As we near the pizzeria, Farrow sweeps my build a couple times. Trying to study my state of being. He must’ve felt my body tighten. Flashes blink on my face like strobe lights in a horror film. So there’s no way he’s reading the pain that I barelyreveal.

“Why hasn’t Loren tweeted about your relationship likeLily?!”

My sore muscles bind at the mention of my parents. Farrow’s carefree stride never grows panicked orpissed.

He knows my dad isn’t enthusiastic aboutanycouple relationships online. Not even his own brother’s. He mockingly calls my uncle and auntraisins.

On the semi-flipside, my mom overcompensates and will tweet fifty times a day aboutus:

#Marrow forlife!

This is what love looks like #Marrow

Proud mom #Marrow

Fans created our couple ship name, and it really stuck after my mom usedit.

“Does Loren not approve of yourrelationship—”

I cut in, “He does approve.” My dad is just overprotective, and I think he feels like a better dad if he gives my significant other a hardtime.

“I love you!! I loveyou!!”

Farrow picks up his pace. Purposefully so that my arm will fall off his shoulder. When it does, he swiftly catches my hand, and I lengthen my stride. In line with himagain.

I replay his smooth as fuck movement over and over and over. My blood starts pooling south. I’m agitated and unbelievablyhot. Probably because I’m annoyed.Annoyance turns me on.Christ, that’s a weirdthought.

We ascend a couple cement steps to the pizzeria. A glass entrance in sight. Last-ditch questions erupt in the air. Most about my parents andFarrow.

But our heads swerve back at thisone:

“Did Farrow force you to quit theauction?!”

I glower. “Are you fucking kiddingme?”

All of them thirst after that topic. Too many voicesjumble.

“Slow down,” Farrow snaps at thepaparazzi.

They let the middle-aged photographer speak. “Celebrity Crushpublished an article tonight. Maximoff would never quit a charity event, and you’re the only thing that’s different in hislife.”

“Theonlything that’s different? I got into a fucking car accident!” I yell, my neck straining. “Becauseyourfriends sped after my little cousin’s car on a goddamnhighway!”

“They weren’t our friends!” They alldisassociate.

Farrow rolls hiseyes.

We’ve both seen these faces before. Paparazzi in Philly are a tight network of people who call each other when they spot someone in my family. Then they rush out and capture a money-shot.

I’ve always tried to empathize with them. And I getit.

This is theirjob.