Thanks for not leaving me alone, I want to say.
Words are trapped, and instead, I focus on where he’s going. I follow his footsteps into the darkly lit living room (brown leather furniture galore), then over to the nearby tiny kitchen.
The microwave and oven light cast a soft glow over the counters. Banks opens several drawers. Quietly shutting them.
“What are you looking for?” I try to whisper.
“This.” He snatches a bottle of Tylenol, then tries to twist the childproof cap. “It’s just a small headache.”
Doesn’t seem that fucking small. His jaw muscle tics like he’s gritting his teeth. He grunts out a frustrated breath, struggling to open the bottle. His headache must be like a rock concert in his temple.
I come closer and take the Tylenol from his hand. He lets me, and I easily unscrew the cap. “How many?”
“Three.”
I dole three pills into his palm.
He tosses them back, and I hand him my water bottle.
Banks takes a swig with a short nod and thanks, then washes down the pain meds. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want something to eat?” He rests against the counter. “I was making rigott’ and toast earlier—before Akara asked me to get the door.”
I notice the bread bag near the toaster. “Rigott’?” I ask, picking up the canister of what looks like sour cream.
“Ricotta,” he enunciates.
“You’re eating ricotta cheese on toast?”
He tries his hardest to look at me, but his headache lowers his tightened gaze. “My brother is the good cook. This is the best I got.”
“Seems like a weird combo for breakfast.”
“Says the girl who eats jellybeans on waffles.”
“I’ve only done that twice.” I untwist the bread bag. “Jellybeans are better with chocolate syrup on a spoon.”
“Anyone ever tell you that’s fucking disgusting?” He tucks his hair beneath his left ear, then right.
I take out two slices. “All the fucking time. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“Same here,” he nods to the ricotta. “My grandma eats rigott’ and toast every morning.” He plucks the bread from my hands and pops the slices in the toaster.
“I can finish breakfast for you since you’re not feeling that great.”
“It’s just a headache, not a coma.” He rubs his eyes though, and the smile he tries to give me is brief and weak.
Still, I grab a knife for the ricotta. “I’ve never seen you complain when Thatcher does stuff for you.”
“He’s my twin. He’s duty-bound from birth to do shit for me.” He watches me pop the ricotta lid. “Look, I’m not that much of a gobbadost’—I just don’t want you to think I’m dying here.”
He’s said that Italian-American word before. Gobbadost’. For the life of me, I can’t remember what it means. So I guess, “You’re not that much of an idiot?”
Banks almost laughs. “Hardhead.”
“Fuck, I was not close.” The toast ejects. “And I don’t think you’re dying, so can I?” I reach for the warm bread.
He nods and lets me spread ricotta on the toast. “You gonna try it?”
“Just a bite.” I cringe as I keep spreading. “It looks gross, like cottage cheese.” Which has the consistency of curdled sour cream.
“Food doesn’t need to look pretty to be good.”
I drop the knife in the sink. “In my case, food that looks like a unicorn farted all over it is the best food.” I just stare at the bland finished product on the paper plate. Like maybe in a couple fucking seconds it’ll look more appetizing.
Banks picks up the toast. “Close your eyes.”
I zero in on his closeness. My breath shallows because his eyes flit around my features in a way that I almost believe he thinks I’m pretty to look at. While he towers above me, a feat in itself, I gently close my eyes. For a moment, I pretend he’s about to kiss me.
Not a gentle peck either. Like a grab your face, push you against the counter, leave you utterly fucking breathless kiss.
“Take a bite.”
Definitely not about to kiss. But I smile as the toast nudges against my shut lips. I take a tiny bite. Tasting mostly plainness. So I take a bigger one, and the ricotta is just…
My eyes open, face contorting. I chew slowly. Ugh.
Banks laughs, then uses his foot to pry open a sliding drawer to a trash bin. I spit out the half-mashed bite of toast.
“You sure that’s not in the cottage cheese family?” I sip from my water bottle.
“It’s…” He trails off as we hear footsteps towards the bedrooms.
The noise stops.
My eyes skim the width of their apartment. I’m not here a lot, if ever. Usually they’ll just come hang out at the penthouse. It’s clean for four guys crashing here, but this is about how clean security’s townhouse was too. No crushed, empty beers cans, no panties or bras lying around. It looks more like a professional sleep-space.
So maybe Akara is just taking a 4 a.m. business call?
A door creaks open. Just as I take a swig of water, a shirtless Akara Kitsuwon saunters towards the kitchen.
I choke again.
“You okay, Sul?” Akara asks with furrowed brows. He comes up to the bar counter that separates me and Banks from him.
His shoulder. His chest.
Wide-eyed, I wipe dribble off my lips and zero in on the fresh tattoo. Colorful ink covers his shoulder, upper bicep, and part of his upper-chest like a plate of armor. The design is mesmerizing: a snake winding around budding red roses and some type of yellow flower. Scales a rich green.
Beyond the new tattoo, sweat casts a glossy sheen over his bare chest and abs. His black hair—grown out enough to curl behind his ears—is a little damp.
My face begins to slowly fall.
It’s not wet like he took a shower. It’s damp from sweat.
Oh fuck me…
Five minutes.
Though, I ask hopefully, “Were you just getting tattooed?”
“What?” he frowns and glances at his fresh ink. “No, I got it a few days ago.” He’d been talking about getting a tattoo, so I shouldn’t be that fucking shocked. But I guess I always thought I’d be there. That he’d want me there. Before I ask if it’s Donnelly’s work, he explains, “I was around Old City and passed a tattoo shop. It was a spur of the moment thing.”
I just nod, not sure what to say.
Banks bites into the toast I nibbled.
“What’s up?” Akara asks me.
I texted him to talk. But I can’t shake how tense he looks.
He checks over his shoulder. “Can we go in the hall to chat?”
Someone’s in his room. He’s not sweating from weightlifting like I’d been doing.
Sex.
He was 100% having sex. The fact settles heavy in my stomach for some strange reason. Am I seeing mid-fuck Akara right now? Or is this his post-nut high?
My thoughts aren’t making this any better. A knot twists inside me.
“Um…” I stumble for a second before settling on a decision. “You know what, it can wait. You go back to Bone Town. Finish strong.”
I’ve actually said these words to him before—but today, after the funhouse, it feels a little different. I go fast for the door.
Nearly there, Akara reaches out and grabs my wrist. “Wait—” he starts.
“Akara?” a woman calls out.
Akara and I spring apart like an electric shock.
A blue-eyed, auburn-haired beauty has strolled out of his bedroom. She looks older than me. Probably closer to his age. Late-twenties. Freckles splatter her flushed cheeks, and a sheet is wrapped around her curvy, naked frame. Like she could be modeling for a half-nude oil portrait.
Suddenly, I’m highly attuned to my sweat-stained gray shirt, messy ponytail, and frumpy running shorts. My lack of shower this morning shouldn’t be that regretful, but the dark hair on my
legs is longer than the usual prickly layer.
My leg-hair is obvious in a way that sends alarm signals in my brain.
Sulli the Sasquatch.
Insecurities fucking suck ass.
So I think, W.W.F.M.J.
Luna and I coined the acronym last year. Wise Words from Maximoff & Jane. I go to them for advice all the time, and right now, Jane would tell me to try not to compare myself to anyone. I’m myself. She’s herself. And we both can be fucking awesome…in our own ways.
I’m just the hairy one.
Fuck. I want to bathe in a vat of confidence. I know it’s there. It’s within me. It’s just washed off for a second.
Akara lets go of my wrist, his eyes on her. “Give me a second, Jenny.”
Jenny.
Slowly, I back up towards the kitchen.
Is Jenny short for Jennifer?
Is he already on a nickname basis with this girl? If she’s more than a casual hookup, why don’t I know anything about her? He’d tell me if he was dating someone. Right? We’re supposed to be friends.
Jenny plants her eyes on me. Luckily, she’s not cutting me with a death-glare for interrupting what I’d bet is an epic night of sex. Not that I know what getting fucked feels like. But I’m sure from Akara it’d be rated 5-stars. No deductions.
Bitterness rises to my mouth. Discomfort roasts me all over. So I open the freezer. Cool air blasting my hot skin, I grab a bag of frozen broccoli as something to do.
Jenny smiles a friendly smile. “You must be Sullivan. I’ve heard so much about you.”
What? I frown deeply at Akara.
He’s shaking his head. “Not from me, Sul.”
Jenny laughs softly. “Right, definitely not. He told me there’s a bodyguard-client confidentiality thing. I totally get it. But I know a lot from online. My little sis just started competitive swimming, so she looks up to you a lot.”
“Oh, fucking rad,” I say into a single nod. Jenny seems…nice. Like really nice. I don’t know why that aggravates me even more. It really shouldn’t especially since she has a little sister just like I do.
Weight sinks further in my gut.
Jenny returns her attention to Akara. “I’ll be waiting, Kits.” She winks flirtatiously before slinking back into his bedroom.
My stomach has tossed five times.
Kits?
Kits!
She called him KITS!
What. The. Fuck!
I’ve never heard a single person call him that but me. My mouth dries, and I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Breathe, mermaid,” Banks whispers beside my ear. He pries the frozen broccoli out of my iron-grip. My hand is pink and numb.
Akara runs his fingers through his black hair a thousand times before rooting his palm on his stiff shoulder. Like his muscles are too tight. His gaze is on me, at least. He’s not avoiding me. But then he drops his hand to say, “What do you need, Sul?”
Oh no.
“Oh no,” I actually say. “We’re not going to talk about her?” I realize how loud I’m speaking. “Sorry,” I whisper. My eyes ping down the hallway to the other bedrooms. “I didn’t mean to shout.” Disturbing a sleeping Donnelly and Quinn wasn’t on the agenda when I decided to come here at 4 a.m.
It wasn’t a well thought-out plan.
Fucking obviously.
Akara comes closer. “She’s a friend of a friend. It’s just casual.”
“But she called you Kits?” I frown deeply.
Banks places the frozen broccoli on a shelf behind me.
Akara cringes. “It happens. Some people have seen We Are Calloway—and there are times that you’ve used the nickname on air.”
Honestly, I haven’t really watched a lot of the aired segments since I joined the docuseries. Watching myself on TV is fucking weird.
I swallow a lump in my throat. “That makes sense.” But I’m burning alive, a heartbeat from stepping into the freezer and shutting the door.
Because the more territorial I seem over Akara, the worse I feel. He’s not mine.
We’re not dating. We’re barely even friends at this point. Whatever we were is dangling on a cliff by a cheap friendship-bracelet string. The kind that frays after one hot summer.
I tuck my water bottle under my arm. Step away from the freezer. And try to salvage what’s left here. So I nudge his arm. “I hope you gave her an orgasm. Rocked her world. Stroked her clit. All that good stuff.”
Banks hangs his head, eyes on the ground with a soft smile.
Akara is trying to read my features. Maybe to see if I’m sincere. His eyes are asking, you’re okay? We’re better?
Banks lifts his head. “Yeah, Akara.” Humor laces his voice. “You stroke that clit?”
Akara smiles, flips off Banks, then turns to me. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Rethinking. Before he says, “If you really want to know, I made her come four times. So you can stop worrying about that.”
I’m really not worried about it.
Just trying to re-knot the friendship bracelet of our friendship.
It feels like a little too late.
“Yeah, I won’t worry anymore,” I tell him.
He frowns. “We’re okay?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “You tell me, Kits.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “What can I do?”
“Nothing. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re allowed to have a girlfriend—”
“She’s not my girlfriend—”
“Friendly casual date, whatever.”
Akara sighs, hating this place we’re at, but of the few times we’ve fought or entered awkward territory, he’s always tried his hardest to repair the damage. It means a lot to me. Because at the very least, I know he doesn’t want to lose me completely.
Maybe that’s why his silence after the funhouse felt so fucking different. I’m usually the one who avoids and he’s the one who insists on working through the mess.
“Can we just start over?” I ask him.
He massages his hands, but his eyes never leave me. “How far back? Do I need to reintroduce myself to you?” An attractive smile inches up his face. “Hi, I’m Akara.” He extends his hand. “Born and bred in Northwest Philly, fourth-generation Thai, son of a broker and of a former-pro Muay Thai fighter. I hate people who walk too slowly on sidewalks, and I’ve had the honor of protecting a competitive string bean.”
It makes me smile.
And I shake his hand with a firm grip. “Sulli.”
“Just Sulli?”
“You can look me up on the internet.”
“Ouch.” He touches his heart.
I pat his sweaty shoulder. “I do have to tell you something that can’t be found online.” I look around for Banks. He’s tossing his paper plate in the trash, about to leave. “Wait, Banks,” I say fast. “You should probably hear this too.”
He leans a hip on the stove.
Akara grows more serious. “This is why you texted me?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “I want to leave for the mountains today. The earlier, the better. And you can’t tell my parents.”
It’s going to be a covert road trip out west. With Akara.
And most likely Banks.
There’s no running away from this one.
4
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
My dad has been on the cover of National Geographic more times than I can count. He’ll be the first to say it’s a stupid fucking accomplishment—that the personal goals are the ones to strive for.
Personally, I thought he wouldn’t have taken it so hard when I told him my new goal. That I wanted to free-solo climb his old routes.
He taught me how to climb before I even learned how to read. Plastic anchors and footholds spindled up my childhood bedroom wall like I lived and breathed inside a jungle gym. I loved the difficulty, the challenge, and the euphoric feeling when I reached the top.
My dad would swoop me up in his arms, and we’d cheer together.
&nb
sp; As soon as I was old enough, I gripped real rock and ascended. While I trained for swimming in my teens, I climbed as a way to condition on dry land.
Rock climbing has always, always been a part of my fucking life. Swimming is my first love, but climbing is something else. If families gather around the TV every night to watch Survivor or The Amazing Race, my family gathered around cliff faces. It brought us closer. Bound us together.
For me and Winona, climbing became a part of our DNA.
Our dad taught us how to sport climb, using preplaced bolts.
He taught us how to trad climb, placing our own safety gear as we ascended.
He taught us how to free-solo when we craved to learn. No rope, no harness. No safety equipment. Just your body, the rock, and a sack of chalk.
My dad—Ryke Meadows—is considered the greatest free-solo climber in the world. He’ll be the first to say, it’s not true. That others are better out there. He’s just the most recognizable. The one who’s shown his face to the media.
But at the thought of his daughters learning to free-solo from someone else, he caved under our wishes and longing. He taught us the safest way. To never put ourselves in a situation where we couldn’t accomplish the task.
Because if you fail at free-soloing, you’re either gravely injured…or you’re dead.
Due to the high-risks, I’ve only attempted to free-solo smaller faces. Mostly, I’ve spent a good portion of the past few months speed-climbing. Breaking new personal records. Clocking in faster and faster times. Until the allure slowly fizzled out, the challenge completed, and I needed to set another goal.
So a couple days after the carnival—on my dad’s fiftieth birthday—I told him, “I want to free-solo climb all of your old routes.”
After the words left my mouth, he just stared at me for a long moment and then said, “Fuck no.”
Despite my dad’s public reputation as a foul-mouthed, aggressive dude, he’s actually a soft teddy bear at heart. I can count on my hand the number of times he’s actually told me no.
My throat closed that day. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead fucking serious. You’re not climbing all my routes.”
“I’ll put in the time and work up to the more advanced ones—”
Wild Like Us Page 4
