Akara and Banks are jogging out of the funhouse.
I’m not ready to meet their condolences. Their, it’s okay, Sulli. We just don’t like you that way.
“We’re going,” Jane tells me. “Right now. Let’s go. Charlie?”
Oh fuck, what’s wrong with Charlie? Thatcher is keeping him upright. Charlie seems to be favoring his leg, the one he hurt in the car crash a while back.
“I’ll leave with Jack and Oscar,” Charlie says. “You go ahead.”
“Are you positive?”
“Yes.” He stands on his own.
Jane hugs her brother. “We’ll meet you at the hospital.”
The hospital?
My attention is pulled in seven-hundred different fucking ways. To Charlie and Jane. To Akara and Banks. To Jack and Oscar. The carnival attendees. The phones. The blinking lights.
Screams off of thrill rides.
Pinging of games.
Laughter that feels too close. Like I’m the butt of a joke.
I’m the joke.
My chest rises and falls heavily.
Run.
Run.
“Right in front of you, honey,” Thatcher says to Jane as he starts leading us to the parking lot. Everything is a fucking blur.
I end up at Jane’s baby blue Land Rover. I can’t speak. Seeing Jane with Thatcher—her bodyguard-turned-boyfriend who she’s now engaged to—is like another pie in my face.
Romance with a bodyguard—not for me.
Friendship with a bodyguard—did I just fuck that up?
Did I just ruin it all?
I made things weird.
Fuck.
Fuck.
And I run.
I hear my name from more than one person, but I don’t stop. Legs pumping beneath me, my feet and strength carry me through the graveled parking lot. Knots in my chest try to loosen. I pick up speed.
Bolting past the $5 for Parking sign, beyond the carnival entrance, I sprint onto a dark empty road out in Pennsylvania. My hair spills out of its bun. Flying messily, wildly around me as I push and push to go faster.
Farther.
Muscles searing.
Angry, frustrated tears slip out of my eyes and catch the wind. Angry with myself. Frustrated with myself.
And then, footsteps pound the concrete.
Someone is running towards me.
I don’t look back because they’re fast. Easily, they reach my side. I can feel them keeping exact pace, exact step in line with me.
And I turn my head to see my dad.
My dad is running beside me.
He never tells me to slow down. He never tells me to stop. He sprints on the deserted Pennsylvania road in the middle of the night. No words, no fucking questions asked.
We run together.
We push harder.
Air fills my lungs. With all my training, with every morning run with my dad, I don’t think about inhaling and exhaling. I just do.
I feel like I’m flying.
One hundred and fifty miles per hour.
The knots unwind. Bursting. Whatever rattled inside me is being set free. For a moment, anyway.
And when I finally skid to a slow jog, then to a walk, breath comes easy and my muscles ache from not stretching. I glance painfully at my dad.
His darkened, concerned expression says, are you fucking okay? He’s already bringing me into a hug. I hug tighter.
“I’m a fucking idiot,” I mutter.
“Hey,” he snaps, pulling me back to meet my eyes. “Don’t fucking talk about yourself like that. Your mom would say—”
“Be kind to yourself,” I nod. “I know. I fucking know.” I exhale, and I notice the bright beam of headlights. A car crawls towards us but maintains distance.
Bodyguards.
Maybe it’s just my dad’s bodyguard, but with how tonight is going, it’s probably Akara and Banks.
I focus back on my dad. “I made things so weird.”
His face hardens. “How?”
“I’m bad at friendships, Dad.” I outstretch my arms, then set my hands on my head. “I don’t know how to even maintain one with a bodyguard without screwing it up. And that’s like a built-in friend. I didn’t even really need to try.”
He gives me a hardass look. “You’re not giving yourself enough fucking credit, Sulli.” He messes my already messy hair.
It makes me smile.
“You ready to go back?”
I sigh. “Can’t I run forever?”
“Your feet will bleed.”
“I’ll bandage my toes.”
“You’ll fucking cramp.”
“I’ll limp.”
“You’ll be alone.”
My face sobers. “Won’t you be there?”
He shakes his head. “My knee is bad, Sulli. I can’t keep up with you forever.”
Then Moffy will, I want to say.
Moffy will be with me forever. I wipe my nose that drips snot, but my eyes are dry now. Growing up is fucking hard. Even if there were no cameras, no spotlight, no fame—I think I’d still struggle.
I’d still want to run forever.
When I change directions, we walk towards the bright headlights.
My dad tells me, “You’re going to have fights with your friends. It fucking happens. You know how many times me and your Uncle Connor wanted to rip each other’s fucking head off?”
But I doubt my dad asked Uncle Connor to take his virginity. The thought makes me snort, and my dad smiles like he made me feel better.
He did, just not exactly how he thinks.
Turns out, the car isn’t a security vehicle after all. The three SUVs behind it are, though.
We approach the green Subaru from the passenger side, and the window rolls down. Revealing my mom, a blonde bombshell. Her smile pulls a long, old scar that weaves across her cheek. “All aboard,” she calls and unlocks the car.
“Hey, sweetheart.” My dad kisses my mom through the window.
I climb into the backseat. A young Golden Retriever lets out a happy whine from the trunk. My mom’s service dog for PTSD goes almost everywhere she goes, and I give Goldilocks a scratch behind her ears.
Winona spins around from behind the wheel to get a good look at me. With flyaway dirty-blonde hair, friendship bracelets, and a utility vest and cargo shorts, my fifteen-year-old sister looks like an ad for Patagonia or Wolf Scouts. She’s the whole outdoor package. “What’d Akara do this time?” Her eyes flame.
I can count the number of fights Akara and I have had on one hand. Not fucking many, but they’ve all been recent enough that Winona has grown more protective.
I should be the protective one. I’m older by six years, but she’s so much cooler. Even driving on a learner’s permit, she somehow seems like she can do anything. Scale any mountain, swim any ocean.
I can do those things, but I don’t exude the same effortless coolness.
“He was quiet,” I say in a wince.
“What?”
“It was dumb.” I can’t even rehash the event without feeling second-hand embarrassment from my own embarrassment.
Her eyes soften.
My dad has swapped seats with my mom. She scoots in beside me, and when I lean into her, she lovingly cups the side of my head.
“It’ll be okay,” she whispers.
I breathe in.
Yeah.
It’ll be totally okay.
How am I going to face them tomorrow? They’re my bodyguards. Inescapable.
As though reading my anguished face, my mom asks, “You want us to drop you off at the penthouse or would you rather stay with us?”
“Spend the night with us,” Winona says fast. “I whale-y miss you, sis.”
I sit up more. “I whale-y miss you too, Nona.” And I’ll gladly take a night with my family. Avoidance can’t be that fucking bad for the soul. Not when I’m with my sister and my mom and my dad. “Let’s go home.”
“Groovy,” Winona s
miles, stepping on the gas.
Windows down, wind whips through the car, and I wonder if it’s strange that I call my childhood house home. I haven’t lived there for a couple years, and still, it feels like home.
Where I’m safest. But if I want to experience more out of life, how much higher do I really need to fly from the nest?
Pulling out my phone, I type out a text.
I’m spending the night at the cottage with my fam
I add a thumbs-up emoji and send it to Akara.
My phone buzzes in a second flat.
K. Call me if you need anything or if you leave. – Kits
It’s so formal.
No emojis. No gifs.
I can’t tell what’s happening to my friendships, except that they’re changing. I wanted them to in a way, but not like this. And I don’t have many left to destroy, but they’re all imploding around me.
3
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
TEN DAYS LATER
I wake up before the crack of fucking dawn.
Sleep and I are mortal enemies. If I’m being particularly honest here, Sleep can go fuck itself. There’s so much I can do in those hours of slumber. So much I can accomplish. But my time is thieved away, and I hate that sleep is a requirement to function at full capacity.
It’s what I think every time I wake up in the early morning. Today—it’s 3 a.m. My retro alarm clock glows a pale blue light as I roll out of bed.
A small smile inches up my lips.
Sometimes it feels like I’m giving Sleep the middle finger every time I wake before sunrise. Fuck Sleep. Fuck it good in the ass. I let out a soft, quiet laugh.
In middle school, I was sent to the principal’s office more than once for my crude humor and…flowery language. Most of the time the other kids ratted me out. “Sullivan just called the class fish pussy lips!” was probably the loudest and most blatant act of throwing me under the bus. I still have those tire marks on my back.
In my fucking defense, that goldfish totally had big ole pussy lips and if the teacher had a funny bone attached to her body, she would’ve let out a fraction of a giggle.
My mom at least laughed when she picked me up from the office.
I guess I was just raised to not give a shit. To say fuck it all. Cursing. Crass humor. All the profane things were never profane to me. They still really aren’t.
My feet fall to the ground, careful not to make too much noise. Habit, really. From the time that I roomed with Luna in the small townhouse.
Now in a monster-sized Philly penthouse with a monster-sized bedroom all to myself, I have less reason to be quiet. But I still tiptoe to my dresser and wrestle through the neatly folded shorts and tops.
Normally, I’d wake Akara up at 3 a.m. He’s used to my odd-hour wakeup calls to go for a run. But I have major news to unleash, and I’d rather deliver it at an appropriate hour.
4 a.m. seems more doable.
I try not to think about the other reason I’m biding time to interact with my bodyguard.
The funhouse.
My stomach twists. I haven’t spoken to Akara or Banks about that night. Really, we haven’t had any serious conversations since the Carnival Fundraiser.
They’ve just done their bodyguard thing, and I’ve been happy to pretend that night never existed.
Fuck, that’s a lie.
Did I mention I’m a shit liar? Can’t even formulate one in my own head.
To be fucking crystal clear, I totally, sincerely wish that I could just look them both square in the face and ask, “Are you fucking attracted to me?” Sometimes…most of the time…it feels like no one ever is.
I’m every guy’s friend.
Best buddy.
The girl pal.
Someone to shoot the shit with but not someone to bang. It didn’t ever used to bother me this much. Because I’m raised by a mom that taught me not to put my worth in the hands of what men think about me. But it’s hard to be the daughter of a former high fashion model, the daughter of a sex symbol, and not feel like maybe I didn’t inherit one tiny piece of her beauty. Her charm.
I’m charmless.
I’m just crude.
I blow hot breath out of my nose.
Too bad I’m also stubborn as hell, and like fuck will I be less crude for anyone. I take another check of the clock. With an hour to kill, I quickly change into a sports bra, gray muscle shirt and some turquoise nylon shorts. A weight bench is pushed up against the far side of my room, and I start slipping on the plates to each end.
I can get a solid workout in before I confront Akara.
Confront.
Wrong choice of word. I sit on the bench.
Talk.
Better.
I grab the bar over my head, and as soon as my fingers curl over the metal, I let all the thoughts drift out of my head. After years of training for the Olympics, I’ve learned how to focus. To empty the invasive thoughts to make way for the here and now.
I count in my head with each rep.
The ache in my muscles goads me to keep going and sweat builds up along my skin. Halfway through, my breathing heavies and it takes more energy to do the same movements.
When my arms start quaking like jelly, I set the bar back in its rack. I may love pushing my limits, but I don’t have a spotter. And an injury is a worse outcome.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my arm, and my eyes flit to the clock.
3:45 a.m.
Close enough. The longer I prolong talking to Akara—the more I’m going to be chicken-shit scared and back out. I can’t back out.
I made up my mind last night. And that’s that.
Grabbing my water bottle from the nightstand, I make a quick exit from my room. I wind through the hallway and leave through the front door, entering a foyer with an elevator.
Akara lives three floors below the penthouse in a two-bedroom apartment with some of the other Security Force Omega bodyguards.
His roommates: Banks Moretti, Paul Donnelly, and Quinn Oliveira.
As the elevator drops me off, and I walk down the hallway of the 30th floor, I type out a quick text to Akara. At your door. Can we talk?
I don’t overthink it before I hit send, and then I slide my cell into my shorts pocket.
Waiting for a reply, I pop the lid to my water bottle. At this early hour, it’s no surprise that the hallway is empty and dead quiet. Water rushes down the back of my throat.
The door suddenly opens—
A very shirtless Banks Moretti exits the apartment.
I inhale quickly and choke in surprise.
“You alright?” Banks whispers in concern and softly shuts the apartment door behind him. That’s strange. But it’s hard to focus on his actions when I’m coughing into my elbow.
I nod vigorously. “It just”—I motion to my throat—“went down the wrong way.” Because I was expecting someone else. Not you.
And not a half-naked you.
Gray drawstring pants hang low like he threw them on quickly to meet me in the hall. Dog tags lie against his unshaven chest. More hair leads down his sculpted body, a trail right to his package.
Oh, fuck, I’m looking at his crotch.
I raise my gaze and catch his shadowy smile. He leans against the wall next to the shut door, muscular arms threading loosely. “You used to swallowing water?”
Pool water, yeah. My natural makeup is probably half-chlorine by now. But that response flits away as I take a sip from my water bottle, then I reply, “Probably not as much as you’re used to making girls choke.” I let out a weak laugh because I can’t tell if we’re buddy-buddy still. Maybe we never really were…
I’m so fucking confused.
Banks shuts one eye. “You’d be surprised.” His other eye tightens like fluorescents suddenly beam at him. But the hallway lighting is dim at best.
I’d be surprised? “It was a blow job joke,” I say, thinking he didn’t get it.
“I know.” He
rubs his temple. “Don’t love blow jobs as much as other things.” His nose flares while he takes a long blink.
“Hey, are you alright?” I step forward.
“Yeah.” He expels a heavy breath. “No…actually I’ve gotta grab something.” He stands off the wall, but hesitates to go back inside the apartment.
And that’s when I realize, “Akara sent you?”
Banks bounces his head. “He just needs five minutes, then he can talk.”
Five minutes?
Doing what?
“Is he taking a shit or something?” I ask.
Banks almost laughs. The sound catches in his chest. “Or something.” He shuts another eye again. Is he in pain?
I frown, my concern building like a snow-packed avalanche. “Don’t let me hold you up. Go do your thing.”
Banks glances down either side of the hall. I’m famous. It’s easy to forget when it’s almost 4 a.m. and I’m standing in a ghost town of a hallway.
Totally safe.
But I can understand how he’d feel responsible if someone snuck up on me while he’s gone.
“Come with me?” Banks asks. “I don’t wanna leave you out here alone.”
I nod. “Scared a big bad wolf will devour me?”
He turns the doorknob and shakes his head. “You were raised by wolves. If anything, you’re going to devour some poor bastard one day.”
I can’t take my eyes off him. What I’d give to know how Banks actually sees me. The saddest thought: I’ll probably never fucking find out.
Opening the door, he tells me, “I just know you hate being alone. I don’t like the idea of you standing out here waiting for him by yourself.”
That literally causes words to evaporate in my head. Leaving pure emotion. Something swells inside my throat, my chest, and I walk dazedly behind Banks while my heartbeat sputters.
Wild Like Us Page 3
