Page 90 of Tangled Like Us

Jane Cobalt Has Found Her Prince Charming After All

Akara leans on the counter, keeping his voice hushed so our clients don’t hear. “You can clearly see Thatcher’s hand in the photos, Price. It’s not halfway up her skirt.”

“Regardless, his handsaren’twhere they should be,” Price retorts.

My nose flares, and I cross my arms over my chest.

I understand why they’re up my ass, and if I were a lead, I might be doing the same thing. Karma—it’s rolling in like a fucking tank, for all those times at the FanCon that I used to yell at Farrow. Telling him toseparatefrom Maximoff.

I deserve the third-degree more than Akara. But that’s not how security hierarchy works. And at the end of the day, the kiss was a success.

That’s what matters.

“It’s good that the photos show them clearly together,” Akara reminds the Alpha lead. “We didn’t need articles wondering if they even kissed.” He lifts the speaker closer to his mouth. “You two don’t need to be concerned about Thatcher. He’s my guy. I’m keeping an eye on him.”

I stand more on guard, and I nod to him in appreciation.

He nods back.

Akara is covering my ass. It feels fucking strange putting him in this position. Not long ago, we were two leads covering our men and helping each other.

“You do that,” Jon Sinclair pipes up, the new Epsilon lead and current bodyguard to Audrey Cobalt. “And tell Thatcher to put his dick back in his pants and start using the right goddamn head.”

Akara quickly decreases the volume on his phone.

Banks tries not to laugh—until Sinclair carries on, and then my brother glares at the phone.

“He’s not a lead anymore. He needs to show respect to the men that’ve been here before him.”

I rake a hand across my jaw.

That comment fucking bugs me. Because I feel like I have been respecting the leads.

I understand hierarchy. The Tri-Force is at the top of it in security, and each lead represents a different part of the team.

The Alpha lead, Price Kepler, represents the old guard. The first wave of guys that showed up when Jane and Maximoff were just babies. There’s not many of the old guard left.

The Epsilon lead, Jon Sinclair, represents the military hires. The second wave of guys that all served in the Navy.

The Omega lead, Akara Kitsuwon, represents the mixed martial arts hires. The third wave. These are the ones who were mostly referred out of the gym.

Even though I came in with the third wave and most of the men thought my background was just boxing, I’m technically a military hire. I was referred by a Navy vet—not anyone at the gym. How I react. How I train. How I operate on a day-to-day basis lines up more with the guys like Sinclair.

He’s Navy through and fucking through. Mid-forties and Korean-American, he’s been in security for around a decade, spending most of his career protecting the Cobalts. He’s crude in private, like right now, but he’ll snap to a respectful disposition in an instant. He reminds me a lot of my dad—which is partly why nothing he says to me usually cuts deep.

We’ve gotten along fine until recently. Banks thinks he’s going on a power trip. Akara thinks it just has to do with Sinclair disliking SFO.

When you’ve been a bodyguard this long, there’s history, bad and good. He’s had an axe to grind with Oscar Oliveira for years, and he’s hated how Omega gained some fame through the Hot Santa Video.

Now he’s in charge.

“Thatcher isn’t stepping on your feet,” Akara retorts, his tone more authoritative. “He’s doing his job.”

“Good,” Sinclair says. “That’s what I want to hear.” Yeah, he sounds like my dad. Sternness wrapped in this quiet paternal concern.

Price chimes in, “This honeymoon phase will be over down the line, and when this all ends, we’ll be going back to a more appropriate routine. Remind him of that. His face isn’t going to be up against his client’s face forever.”

My muscles flex.