Akara and I share a soft look. Neither did we. Outside of this room, back in Philly, we’re gonna meet some type of hell.
We all know it.
“Sleep,” he urges.
She lightly strokes our legs with her ankles. “But I want to…stay awake…and hear you guys…talk…about me.” She yawns.
We laugh.
“FOMEFT hitting you?” I ask her.
“Hard.” She tries to open one eye. Maybe because the one thing we’re holding fiercer to right now is our bond together. The three of us.
“Then we won’t talk about you,” I tell her. “We’ll save that for when you’re awake.”
“Just this once,” Akara adds, giving me a look. Yeah, we’re not going to be able to keep that up for forever.
“Deal.” Even as she starts to drift off, even with this deal, she fights sleep. Like she’s immortalizing us, these feelings, so no one will rip away what we found. What I feel for Sulli is cemented so deep inside my unholy soul.
The world will have to bring me to my knees to take her away from me.
46
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
New Year’s Eve.
We’ve neither confirmed nor denied the leak, which has only fueled the speculation and attention that rages down on us. Fucking chaos. It reigns supreme outside the penthouse. Ever since we returned from the lake house yesterday, news vans and paparazzi have been camping outside the high-rise. With telephoto lenses, cameras upon cameras, and feverish eyes, like vultures waiting to dig into a carcass.
While I watch, I’m dreaming they’re not here for me. They’re staked outside to catch a glimpse of Moffy and Farrow and their squishy-cheeked, blue-eyed baby.
But I can only fool myself for so long.
All my roommates have already left for New York, where Aunt Rose and Uncle Connor are throwing a gala for friends & family. Akara enforced a “staggered” departure.
And I watch each of my cousins leave.
I watch the paparazzi stay put.
Waiting.
For us.
Scuffling back from the expansive window and Philly skyline views, I grab my footwear and go to the velvet couch. While I’m sitting, I stick my feet in sneakers, and I reach down. My hands tremble as I tie the laces. I swallow my anxiety, and I hike up my dress a little more.
The emerald-green razorback dress hugs my athletic frame, and I figure I need proper runaway shoes in case shit hits the fan. Shit meaning the hot steaming spotlight on me. I’d like to fucking bust the bulb to that thing.
But I don’t know how.
My fingers slip off the lace.
Banks squats down. “I’ve got you,” he says with deep confidence.
My heart soars out of my chest as he ties my sneaker. “I’m not used to being the one that needs all the strategies just to walk out the door.” Sure, we had to have plenty of strategical entrances and exits during the FanCon Tour. But that was different.
This is my normal life.
It’s supposed to be at least.
Akara touches the mic at his ear, and then his eyes dance over to me. “It should be better once we’re at the venue, Sul.”
“Why is that?”
“Because your parents, aunts, and uncles agreed to arrive at the same time as you. The media and fans should latch onto them and let up on you for a second.”
My parents, aunts, and uncles are way more fucking famous than me and my cousins. It’s just how it is and how it’s always been.
The fact that they’d create that diversion for me…
I breathe easier.
“They’re kind of fucking awesome,” I say out loud.
“Yeah, they are,” Banks nods with that shadow of a smile. He finishes knotting my other shoelace, and we stand up together.
Akara nods to us. “Our turn.”
On our way out, I grab my apple-red trench coat, and as I start to slip my arm in a sleeve, Akara catches my wrist. “You can’t wear that, Sulli.” He hardly blinks.
“I can’t wear a coat?” I frown, confused. “It’s cold out tonight, Kits. This is a sleeveless dre—”
“It’s red,” Akara cuts me off. For a second I expect him to make a Red Riding Hood reference, but he explains, “You’ll stand out in a crowd like a neon light, which is not how you slip past paparazzi.”
I never really considered that before.
I never really needed to. I haven’t been “of interest” enough to paparazzi to be a focal point that needs shading. Until now.
The trench coat is the nicest I own. “I think I might have a different jacket.” Minutes later, I return with an old parka, sportier and blue. “Is this okay, Kits?”
“Better.”
Banks has two fingers to his earpiece, listening to comms. Seeing them so vigilant and single-focused on security is ramping up my adrenaline but also reminding me that they’ll keep me safe. They’re keeping me safe.
Everything is fine.
Everything is okay.
I try to calm my fucking nerves as we ride the elevator down and then leave through the high-rise’s private parking deck. Secured.
Banks buckles into the driver’s seat of a black Range Rover. A security vehicle. I snap my seatbelt into the backseat, and Akara adjusts the passenger seat. He fits dark Clubmaster’s over his eyes and passes Banks a pair of darker Wayfarer’s.
It’s nighttime.
But I’ve seen bodyguards slip on sunglasses to block camera flashes at night before. Just…rarely, and not solely because of my fame.
“You okay?” Akara keeps asking me.
I nod, feeling alright. “Just a tad nervous.”
“This initial part might be intense,” Akara warns. “But it’ll be way better after, I promise.” His assured voice soothes me.
I try to nod back again, but my head feels heavy. I zip up my jacket. “Let’s go.”
Banks turns the ignition. Driving down to the ground level of the parking deck, anticipation surges in my body, and we wait for a second as the gate lifts. City lights and the night should be on the other side, but as the gate disappears, all I see are bright, piercing flashes.
I sink lower in my seat.
Cameras go off more as Banks tries to pull onto the Philly street.
“Speed up,” Akara says.
Banks jerks to a stop, gripping the steering wheel tight. “Can’t. There’s a shitbag standing in the middle of the street.” How can he even see that?
Akara begins to roll down the window.
“No, Kits!” I yell at him, crashing forward to grab his suit jacket, but the seatbelt locks and jerks me backwards. Fuck. I don’t want anyone to hurt him.
His deep brown eyes hit mine. “I’ll be fine, Sul.”
“SULLIVAN! LOOK HERE, SULLIVAN!”
My pulse hammers in my ears against the caustic screams and shouts of paparazzi. With the window an inch down, I hear them even clearer.
“SULLIVAN! IS IT TRUE?! SULLIVAN!”
“ARE YOUR BODYGUARDS YOUR BOYFRIENDS?!”
“LOOK HERE! LOOK HERE! LOOK HERE!”
“Sulli, Sulli,” Akara calls, his sunglasses off.
I’m panicked, staring at the flashes and screams, but I return to his reassuring eyes.
“I’m your friend. I’m your boyfriend. But before those two things came true, I’ve been your bodyguard, and I have to protect you.” He unsnaps his seatbelt. “They’re not going to hurt me.”
The SUV hasn’t budged, and I trust him. In all the fucking times he’s kept me safe. In all the ways that I know he will.
“Come back to me, Kits.”
He offers a classic Kits smile, sparkling his eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of anything else.” And then he exits.
“BACK UP! BACK THE FUCK UP!” Akara sneers. “We’re leaving, and you can’t stand in the way of the fucking car.”
“ARE YOU DATING SULLIVAN MEADOWS?!”
Please don’t hurt him.
Don’t hurt him.
“KITSULLI!” I hear with a shrill shriek.
“WHERE’S BANKS?!” someone else screams.
“NOW!” Akara shouts, then the door opens. With fucking haste, he slips back into the passenger seat and smashes the door shut, sunglasses back on. “Go with instinct.”
Banks slams on the horn.
People scatter, but the cameras flash feverishly, more incessantly. I shield my eyes with my hand. Spots dance in my vision. And then Banks floors it.
My stomach rolls when I feel a thud. “Oh fuck, did you run someone over?”
“That was a purse,” Banks says calmly, speeding beyond the madness.
Relief barely touches me. I don’t breathe again until Kits fully rolls up the window and clips in his seatbelt. They both remove their sunglasses.
“I fucking hated that,” I choke out.
He rotates in his seat to face me better, looking me over in a quick sweep. “You need a water?”
“I could use a fucking hug. Unless you can’t…” I trail off. He’s already unbuckling again.
Akara crawls into the back and wraps his arms around me in a warm, safe embrace. I burrow against him, and he kisses my cheek. “We should be good until we get to the venue.” As he says those words, a couple paparazzi vans pull up to our left and snap photos while we’re driving.
He has to return to the passenger seat. Security comes first. I hug my legs to my chest. I’m cool. Totally fucking cool.
Banks checks on me through the rearview mirror, and I hold onto his strong gaze. Akara adjusts his mic and speaks to the team, and to Banks, he says, “Take the left up here.”
Nerves at an all-time fucking high, I watch them navigate the roads to New York. Time passes anxiously. It feels like forever until we reach the glittering high-rises of Manhattan.
More than anything, I despise all the paparazzi who think it’s cool to snap photos while we’re driving. It’s the perfect recipe for an accident.
Banks pulls up to the curb and slows down. A lighted awning leads into the theatre. Large crowds—of what appears to be a mixture of paparazzi and fans—already gather overzealously outside, pushing at the venue’s security.
Olympic buzz and craze was a different sports beast and not as in-your-face as this kind of celebrity paparazzi.
Right now, they’re being held back enough. And I spot a clear open pathway from the street to the door.
“The backdoor is just as crowded,” Akara tells me. I’m sure SFO and bodyguards on Triple Shield are giving updates through their mics. This must be the best path of entry.
Banks shuts off the car. “We’re just waiting for your parents now.”
I exhale. No one in the pushy, excitable masses has realized this car belongs to us yet. Thank fuck.
I try to let go of my legs and drop my feet off the seat. “I haven’t been this nervous since the FanCon,” I admit. Back then, the feverish attention was newer to me. I thought, afterwards, I’d grown more comfortable with the spotlight.
Maybe not to this extreme level.
Banks turns to me. “Just take a breath.”
I inhale deeply, exhale deeply. Feeling a bit better. “What if we make a run for it?” I ask, eyeing the door. “I think I could sprint that, no problem.”
“Too many people are near the door,” Akara says.
“And we wouldn’t be able to keep up with you,” Banks reminds me.
Akara tips his head to me. “No one would.”
“Right,” I nod. “Forgot how slow you two are.”
Banks smiles. “She makes jokes.”
Akara meets his eyes. “Not funny ones.”
“I think I’m fucking funny,” I say into a smile that vanishes quickly. Hordes of people start screaming like the most popular boy band of the century has arrived.
“Lily and Loren are here,” Akara says.
Banks nods. “Showtime.”
They both jump out of the car.
Wait for Banks to open the door. Akara’s instructions enter my head.
My side door opens abruptly—Banks barely gives me a glance before taking my hand swiftly. I’m pulled underneath his arm in a second flat with such haste and acceleration that my breath struggles to catch up to my feet.
But we’re walking. We’re moving.
Street pavement underneath my sneakers. I can do this.
“Curb,” Banks says, out in front of me.
I step over the curb.
Akara’s body pushes up behind me. Protected front and back. Ass and boob coverage. Though I can’t let the joke fly free now. They can’t joke either.
Their warmth.
Their warmth, I hang onto like water wings that I’ve never needed. Not in a pool or an ocean. I’m flung out to sea tonight, and I want to be Sulli the Sea Goddess.
Their warmth up against me. In the cold. Among the shrill screeching of paparazzi’s rapid-fire questions and fan’s intensity.
Their warmth. It keeps me upright. Keeps me moving.
They’re here.
I’m between them.
They’re here.
A couple feet away, I distinguish my mom and dad, their own bodyguards flocking closely around them. Fans push towards my parents and ask for selfies. Some hold out old Princesses of Philly posters for my mom to sign.
Paparazzi snap photos and yell questions over the screaming of fans. I can’t see Aunt Lily or Uncle Lo, and I figure the crowds must be too congested around them.
Uncle Connor and Aunt Rose walk slowly behind my parents, stopping to even sign things like phone cases and purses. Their interaction stirs more attention, and fans push towards them, wanting selfies that my aunts are agreeing to take.
I almost smile.
My family did that.
For me.
“SULLIVAN MEADOWS!” My name ricochets off Manhattan buildings like a gunshot in the air. Ear-splitting shrieks pierce the night, pierces right through me.
And the last thing I see is my mom.
My mom in her golden dress that reflects the golden honey of her hair. But her eyes are what grip me.
Her beautiful green eyes.
And the sheer terror in them.
Like a flip of a switch, all the crowds congregated around my parents and my aunts and uncles suddenly converge on me. Onto us.
It’s a slingshot.
A snap of time.
Banks grabs my hand, but he’s being physically pulled forwards.
Akara has my other hand. And he’s being ripped backwards.
I’m in between like the center of a wishbone.
“SULLI!” Banks screams.
“SUL!” Akara yells.
Pain surges in my limbs, but I want to hang on forever. I don’t want to let go. Camera flashes are blinding, and the light goes in and out on the two men I love.
One second I can see their lips moving, screaming my name. The next split-second, they’re gone into darkness. Then they’re lit up again with urgency and viciousness in their gazes. Fighting towards me as they’re being wrenched back.
Flashes, screams, hands. I can’t see.
I can’t see!
Other hands start to latch onto my body as Akara and Banks are forced further away. Fingers yank at my hair.
I’m not letting go.
Take my fucking hair. I’m not letting go of them!
I try and force them back towards me. Hands still in their hands, my muscles sear as I pull and pull and use all my strength to bring them back.
Please.
Fucking please.
“SULLI!” My dad’s voice breaks me. The fear and pain.
I won’t…let go.
Lights and flashes. Shrieking. Hands. Hands. Their hands are still in mine. “Sulli, look here!”
“Sulli, sign this!”
“Sulli, you’re dating both guys?!”
“Sulli, who do you love more?!”
“
Sulli, are you a virgin?”
“SULLI!” Akara slingshots back into me. My arm aches, and he pushes me ahead. Banks closes the distance. Somehow.
How?
I’m in a daze as they battle to get me through the door, and as soon as I step into the theatre, the venue’s security blocks the entrance. Paparazzi pile up and push against the glass doors to snap photos.
I can’t stop staring at the hysteria that builds.
“She’s in shock…” I hear someone say.
I blink. “What?”
“Sulli.” Banks has his hands cupped around my cheeks.
I blink harder. “How did we get in here?”
I don’t understand.
And then I look up and realize who’s standing around me. Farrow, Thatcher, Oscar, Quinn, Donnelly, Gabe. The six of them have made this little circle around Akara, Banks, and me. And we’re in the venue.
Akara explains, “They came outside to help.”
The magnitude of what we just went through is slowly catching up with me. “That should have worked, right?” I ask all of Omega. “The core six creating a diversion.” I use their fandom name because it reminds me how famous they are. Reinforces what I know to be fucking true. They’re more famous than me.
“It should have,” Farrow says into a nod.
Oscar and Donnelly share a wary look.
Thatcher’s concern drills into his brother. The sleeve on Banks’ suit is ripped at his shoulder. Akara’s tie is gone. No. My mind paints graphic details of what they just experienced, and sickness burns my throat. I know it’s their job to take that for me, but it doesn’t make it any less agonizing to see.
They keep sweeping my body, assessing for signs of hurt.
My dress is in one piece. Jacket is fine. Scalp kinda hurts.
And my arms are fucked.
I shake them out, muscles searing.
“You alright?” Banks asks, watching me.
“A little sore,” I say. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” Akara refutes.
I’m about to reply when I hear my mom’s voice. “Where is she?”
“I’m over here?!” I wave my hand. Quinn backs up a little, and my mom and dad push their own security into my cluster. They sprint to me.
Immediately, they pull me into a hug. “Sulli,” my mom says like she almost lost me.
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