Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Jane frowns. “Next time, we should pick him up first.”
I nod in agreement.
7
FARROW KEENE
“Alpha to Farrow.” A strict male voice blares in my eardrum. I scrape late-night scrambled eggs out of my pan and into a ceramic bowl. In the kitchen of my townhouse, I toss the frying pan into the sink, lagging on replying to Price. The forty-something stern Alpha lead keeps acting like I’m still a part of SFA.
I’m on SFO.
And I don’t take orders from anyone. What I will do: listen to Akara’s orders and decide whether I want to follow them or not.
“Alpha to Farrow,” Price snaps.
I lean on the counter and eat my eggs at a leisurely but naturally quick speed. The oven clock blinks 11:23 p.m.—I’ve been home for less than twenty minutes. Enough time to piss, shower, and crack a few eggs. Three weeks into my new role and I’m already used to Maximoff’s fast-paced lifestyle.
He jam-packs his days, and his plans constantly change depending on paparazzi, family in need, and the hundred employees he manages at H.M.C. Philanthropies. Most security on his detail would be whiplashed, but his high-stress, hectic schedule reminds me of doing rounds at the ER.
I eat and breathe every second like it’s candy.
What surprises me the most: he hasn’t gone to a single nightclub or bar yet. He was the one who said it’d be happening “soon” but he’s been stalling. I don’t ask why because I’d rather not pressure him to fuck someone. When he’s ready, he’ll be ready—and I’ll have to keep him safe.
It’s what I focus on.
“Alpha to Farrow, Alpha to Farrow,” Price repeats harshly a few more times.
I should only be hearing Omega to Farrow. I touch my mic. “Farrow.” Let’s hear what he has to say. I eat a scoop of eggs, alone in the kitchen since my only roommate is sleeping. Jane’s bodyguard, Quinn, hasn’t grown accustomed to the strange hours yet. As soon as Jane headed in for the night, he practically passed out upstairs—despite my best effort to suggest grabbing a quick meal first.
Bodyguard 101: eat when you have a free second ‘cause you never know when you’ll find another chance.
Through my earpiece, Price says, “You need to ask Moffy about the annual Charity Camp-Away. We’ve heard rumors that he plans to open the event to the public this year, and the security team needs confirmation. Don’t take long.” The radio quiets.
Opening a controlled, private event to the public creates major security risks. Ones that I’d never ignore. But Maximoff has the power to do whatever he wants with the Charity Camp-Away. Not only as the CEO, but he built the highly praised and promoted December event years ago.
Wealthy donors will buy expensive tickets to the three-day camp retreat with him and several family members. They basically pay to huddle around a campfire with celebrities. And only extremely affable people can afford the tickets.
I’ve overheard many of his phone calls in the car, and he’s never mentioned a change in the Camp-Away’s format.
I click my mic. “Farrow to Alpha, where’d you hear these rumors?” Carrying my bowl, I pass through the archway into my living room. The wooden door beside the brick fireplace connects my townhouse to Maximoff’s.
“SFA traced the word public from his assistant’s email,” Price tells me. “We need more intel from Moffy. Respond with an affirmative.” When security hacks emails, it’s in favor of the families. Yet, I see the irony. We protect them, but in doing so, we strip away their privacy.
I can’t change that fact.
Alpha, Omega, and Epsilon have a motto: stay ahead of the media. It’s impossible to stop tabloids, but we have to be aware of everything that could potentially hit the press and cause harm.
Before I grab the doorknob, I click my mic again. “I’ll get back to you.” The second I open the door to Maximoff’s living room, a calico kitten darts past my ankles.
I swiftly turn and catch Jane’s pet. Walrus claws the hardwood, but I lift the little thing and raise the kitten’s face to my face. “Naughty, naughty.”
The kitten paws my nose. I smile and tell the cat, “You’re not allowed to escape, you little bastard.”
Walrus meows.
Jane stressed, “Do not let the little kittens in security’s townhouse. It’s not kitten-proof. They’ll wedge themselves in nooks and crannies.” I’m not about to lose a kitten.
Once I enter the adjoining living room, I release Walrus and he darts beneath the rocking chair. No one’s on the first floor. I kick the door shut, and voices echo down the narrow staircase.
I lean on the brick wall, eat my eggs, and scan the cramped area. The decorated version of my bare place: a pale pink Victorian loveseat, frilled pillows, a rocking chair, pastel blankets, glass teacart, two-person café table by the kitchen archway, and at least twenty family photos on the mantel.