Page 99 of Headstrong Like Us

I crawl into the passenger seat, ire blistering my nerves.

Thatcher reverses the SUV out of the parking lot and growls in his mic, “You better fill us in. Every last detail. And get your asses through those crowds. Disperse them and find our clients.Now.”

He drives to the mall while George’s annoying drawl gives me a migraine. All the while, I hear how Maximoff and Jane asked their temps to keep their locations private. Even from us.

They’re probably shopping for us.

And I can’t even blame them because the irony is real today. We’re keeping our whereabouts just as much in the dark from them.

The difference—they were put in danger.

We weren’t.

I rip out my earpiece after George stops speaking. My body practically vibrates with anger. “Fuck, these temps are driving me up the wall.”

Thatcher shakes his head. “Training them takes time that none of us have right now. Akara’s pulling double shifts—”

“I’m not blaming anyone,” I clarify.

Akara, Thatcher, and Oscar have pulled the most weight training the temps, and I appreciate not having to deal with that headache. It’s just frustrating. This company is brand fucking new. A stark contrast from Price’s 20-plus-year well-oiled corporation.

Still, I wouldn’t ever jump back.

“In a year or so, it should all be smoothed out,” Thatcher says.

A year.

It seems long, but I know it’s really just a blip.

We reach the mall. Crowds congest the front double-doors. Even more overly excitable young girls and boys climb out of vehicles and race across the parking lot, trying to enter the building.

We’ll need to find another entrance.

I check the backseat where Ripley hugs his stuffed parrot. Thatcher follows my gaze. We’ve already radioed the team. No one else is close enough to make it here for another thirty-minutes.

Too long.

We don’t know where Maximoff and Jane are—and every second counts.

“Stay here with him,” Thatcher orders.

“Like hell,” I retort. “I’m not staying behind.” Maximoff is without a bodyguard in a crowded mall, and here’s the thing, I know that I’m not just decently good at what I do.

I’m better than most.

Greater than average.

And I can protect him and protect our baby. This isn’t manufactured confidence. It’s real and accurate, and I’m not fucking budging.

His nose flares. I think he’s going to argue with me, but he says, “Then I have to be your bodyguard.”

Brittle air goes down my lungs.Fuck no. The day I need a bodyguard is the day I can no longer do my job. That’s just not happening in my lifetime.

“No, you have to be my baby’s bodyguard. Cover him while I carry him.”

Thatcher nods once, not wanting to waste time. Neither do I.

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