Page 34 of Tangled Like Us

“Buncha skeevy fucks,” Donnelly says, South Philly lilt thicker than mine.

Oscar sounds in. “At this rate of motherfucking deception, we’re gonna need eyes on Grandmother Calloway.”

“I’m sure she’d love your eyes on her, Oliveira,” Farrow says next, his voice naturally rough and amusement audible.

Oscar laughs. “Maybe we should send you, Redford. You’d probably kill her before she hits ninety.”

I grit my molars, forcing down the urge to tell them to shut up over comms.

Before joining Omega, I was always anEpsilonbodyguard. Since SFE works with minors, the differences between the two forces are night and day. SFE has more rules to protect the kids, and Omega has more freedoms working with adults.

But my biggest irritation is the radio. Omega uses comms like a gossip network or complaint hotline. It was fucking painful during the FanCon. Banks and I say that it’s 104.1 Call-In-Your-Bullshit channel.

And look, I’ve got complaints.

A list fucking ten feet high. I’m concerned, like Oscar is, that someone in the families was able to pull this stunt. It’s why we weren’t tipped about the adbeforeit went into print.

I’m concerned that these fuckbags aren’t going to ever get the message. Responding to that ad in the first place takes some guts, and it’s been unnerving Jane all week.

But I’m not airing this shit on comms, and right now—I can’t worry about any of that.

I sendsevenmore suitors packing, clearing out the small crowd. Except for paparazzi. Can’t do anything about that.

“Excuse me!” a suitor shouts, closer to where paparazzi are setting up tripods. He keeps his shined loafers off the curb, an inch from where I’d yell at him.

Only two strides later, I block him and scrutinize his features. Quick assessment: slicked-back dirt-brown hair, tailored suit, angular face, maybe early-thirties.

He looks like he made a wrong turn and ended up here instead of PHLX.

“You’re in the wrong area, sir,” I tell him. “Walnut Street is that way.” I point in the direction, further in Center City where the Philly Stock Exchange is located.

He opens his mouth, but then gets distracted. He takes out his phone, screen lit with an incoming call.

I keep an eye on him but also survey the area.

Where’s my guy?I quickly scan for the temp bodyguard. He’s one fucking block down. Chatting with a mom and a daughter, who are probably bartering, tempting, bribing him—doing something they shouldn’t—just to see the famous ones.

Come on.

He shouldn’t have left his sector.

I’ll deal with that later. Hand-holding temp bodyguards is routine, but this early and with Jane at the crux, I wish that the temp were Farrow right now.

“Actually”—the clean-cut guy pockets his phone—“I need to talk to Jane.” He says her name like he personally knows her.

He’s not the first guy to try to pull this. He won’t be the last.

Jane gave me an extensive list of her known acquaintances when I first joined her detail. I have pictures. Names. I’ve even combed through her yearbooks multiple times in the past ten months, just to refresh my memory.

This guy is no one.

I start, “You can’t see Jane—”

He steps forward to combat me.

I put out a warning hand, and he stops.

“My name is Gavin Reece.”