Page 2 of Wild Like Us
I playfully slug his side. “Why are you laughing? I’d jump on you first.”
Akara bursts into laughter now.
Banks bites down on a toothpick, mouth curved up. “You wanna jump on me, just don’t miss. It’s a long way from my body to the ground, and I wouldn’t want you to break your ass.”
I laugh hard at that, and we’re all smiling on the trek and the urge to piss actually recedes for a second.
And then we pass a long, winding line for funnel cake. Teenagers—boys and girls around my sister’s age—eye me, and their heads shift in eerie unison. Like something bizarre fromBlack Mirror.
I wince at the thought. Only because that’s Beckett’s favorite TV show.
We’d binge-watch all the episodes together between his ballet schedule. Since we’re not really talking that much right now, I try to push my best friend (ex-best-friend?) out of my head.
“Is that Sullivan Meadows?” a girl yells loudly from the pack of teenagers.
I do the dumb fucking thing and look. As I makeslighteye-contact, they all start shouting my name.
“SULLIVAN!”
I can’t stop and chat.
“SULLIVAN!”
“CAN WE GET A SELFIE?”
I really will piss myself in that photo.
And I’m not Jane or Moffy—my older cousins are so willing to sacrifice their time and heart and energy to fans. To strangers. Who I know could turn on me in a second if I do anything they deem “unacceptable”—I’ve seen them turn on my mom and dad as easy as the flip of a pancake. And I’m not good at small talk with people I can’t trust. I’m constantly in my head wondering if I said the right or wrong thing. One wrong move, one slip of the tongue, and they could blast private info to the world.
And of course I want to do the right thing. I want to be as fuckinggoodas Moffy.
But my dad is good and so selfless, and the media still calls him “inappropriate” and a “disgrace” because he dated my mom when she was only eighteen.
Because some people still believe he had an affair with my Aunt Lily, and they believe that Moffy is actually his son.
It’s not true. He’d sooner die than cheat on my mom.
So Idon’tcareto try to prove anything to anyone but myself. Tabloids can call me standoffish and disrespectful when I decline photos and autographs. I just march on.
“SULLIVAN!” another teen screams, and they begin to detach from the funnel cake stand and follow my tracks.
Akara slips Banks a silent look, and then Banks falls back behind me.
I joke, “Boobs and ass coverage.”
Banks lets out a laugh. “Looks like you’re covering Akara’s ass, mermaid.”
Mermaid.
My lips rise, but from behind, he can’t see my smile. As Akara walks ahead of me, my eyes fall to his ass.
He has a nice ass.Round. Perky.
He has a nicea lotof things. A sharp, heart-shaped jawline, thick black hair that’s grown longer in the summer, an athletic build highlighting long hours spent at Studio 9, the MMA gym he owns, and also kissable lips (that I’ve obviously never kissed).
With mylimitedexperience in kissing, I just think his lips look like they’d do the job fucking well. The same way that Banks’ long tongue looks good for eating girls out.
Some lusty observations aside, I focus on Akara. “Kits,” I call out to him. “You should turn around and cover Banks’ ass. Spread the love.”
