Page 3 of Wild Like Us
Akara smiles back at me. “Your boobs are more important, Sul.”
“Amen,” Banks chimes in.
I laugh, but the sound slowly fades. A part of me wishes they were actually flirting and not just cracking crude jokes with me.
They quiet down as the teens gain speed. Banks edges closer, his chest almost brushes up against my back. He maintains a sliver of space and seems aware not to touch me.
I can’t help but focus on him. On the closeness. On the not-yet-there touch. His body heat prickles my skin, and my pulse thumps.
Hot guys can become ugly the second they open their mouths and heinous shit comes out. So I don’t put a lot of stock in good looks, but Banks Moretti is a beefcake at first sight.
Scruffy jaw and a strong pairing of muscles with an imposing height.
After getting to know him, he’s a sweeter, beefier beefcake. He can make me double-over laughing, and he’s only ever been considerate and nice to me.
Banks’ and Akara’s vigilant eyes rest on the teenagers, then up ahead to our destination: a row of porta potties near a kiddy train-car ride. Akara speaks softly in his mic, and Banks adjusts his earpiece.
With our easy banter, I forget that they’re not just two buddies. Two of my friends.
They’re my bodyguards.
Akara Kitsuwon is the one who acts likeSullivan Meadows on the verge of pissing herselfis the funniest crap since last week where I ate asphalt doing a shitty trick on a skateboard. What’s funny is that Akara looks more like a twenty-seven-year-old pro-skateboarder. He’s even wearing a pair of scuffed Vans and a black tank that shows his lean-cut muscles. But he’s worse than even me at attempting an ollie.
His skills are in Muay Thai, snowboarding, rapid-fire texting, and being a badass boss.
To thinkhe’sthe leader of an entire team of men would shock a lot of people. Not just because he looks ready to hit a skate ramp. But because he’s younger than five of the six men he leads.
As far as how he fits in my life…I can barely remember a time where he wasn’t there. He’s been my permanent bodyguard since my ripe teenage years ofsixteen.Where I was determined to win gold.
Banks Moretti, on the other hand, I’ve gotten to know more personally in my ripe adulthoodof twenty.Where I’ve free-spirited my way into new experiences: my first international trip without my mom or dad, my first kiss, my first failed romance.
He’s the floater on Omega who always seems to float towards my detail, and he’s really good friends with Akara.
They’ve never said it explicitly to me, but I can tell in so many different ways.
Like how they speak through single glances. How they feed off each other’s jokes. How they know exactly what’ll push the other one’s buttons—and they seem to not only appreciate the raw honesty, but they rely on it.
Making friendships outside of my family are often anxiety-ridden and fucking hard. Seeing theirs in action sometimes causes real envy. Internally, I feel like I turn into a six-foot green goblin, but they help smother those feelings because they pull me in like I’m part of their clique.
Buddies.
Pals.
Friends.
It’s what I’ve always wanted. True and real, long-lasting friendships, but I think I’ve literally friend-zoned myself with two of the hottest guys on the planet.
I’m a fucking moron.
Be kind to yourself, I hear my mom’s sweet words in my head. She’s said them a lot to me, and I think the first time might’ve been when I was leaving for first grade.
“Do I have to go?” I pouted. “Can’t I stay with you?” Colorful finger-paints streaked our faces from a messy arts-and-crafts morning.
She wiped some paint off my cheek with a damp washcloth. “It’ll be fun, Sulli. Think of first grade as anawfullybig adventure.” Her smile was radiant, like I was about to embark on life’s greatest journey.
It sounded like a fucking hell-scape. “But I suckat school.”
My mom squeezed my hand. “My peanut butter cupcake, youdon’tsuck. You’re brave, amazing, smart, beautiful, and capable ofanything.You’re just a beginner. We all start somewhere.” She pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Remember—be kind to yourself.”
