“Ask it, man. You’re my brother.” I would never get offended at anything he said or did.
“Are you both fucking her at the same time?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
His eyes grow dark. “You’re not exactly small.”
I nod. “I’m being careful. I would never hurt her.”
“I know you wouldn’t mean to, but accidents can happen.”
I roll my eyes. “Anything else?”
“I don’t understand why you’re putting yourself through this. There are other girls—”
That one is a knife into the gut. “No,” I cut him off. “There’s only her.” What I have with Sulli can’t be replicated or reproduced with just any living soul. If these feelings were that easy to come by, I would’ve felt them before now.
“Her family won’t approve,” he says. “It’s not going to be easy for you or Akara.”
He doesn’t mention our family. Maybe because he knows their opinions don’t matter much to me. I’m like the wind—I go where I want. They know that. I know that.
Her family won’t approve.
That’s an understatement.
I run my hand over the eight ball. “Yeah, I figured.” I toss the eight-ball in the palm of my hand. “Ryke already hit me when Sulli told him about us.”
Thatcher solidifies. “Say again?”
“Ryke punched me.” I mime a fist to my lip.
Thatcher takes a better look at the reddened skin. Fear for me flickers in his stern gaze, but before he interrogates further, I tell him, “I’m not getting into the details right now.” I look him over in a quick sweep. “Do you approve?”
“No,” he says, not even hesitating. Not for one second. “Your happiness is my happiness, Banks. And I don’t see how this can end happily.”
“I’m happy now,” I reply. “Doesn’t that count for something?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then opens it again. “Sometimes I think about him. Sometimes I wonder how unhappy he must have been to keep riding out to that quarry every night.”
Him.
Skylar.
Our brother.
Thatcher doesn’t break eye contact. “And then I think, all it takes is being unhappy enough. To get pushed down to a point where you can’t come back up. Your being happy now doesn’t change the fact that I believe you’ll be unhappy enough later.”
“Don’t do that,” I breathe. “Don’t throw down crash pads for me.”
He swallows hard. “I can’t help it. It’s what I do.”
I’m met with a brick wall. One that wants to protect me, but in doing so, is hurting me. How do I even deal with that? How can I hate him for it? It just causes a wave of pain that I don’t know where to pocket or shove down. All I want to do is retreat to what makes sense.
10
AKARA KITSUWON
Banks is gone. Sulli is gone. Normally, I’d feel comfortable with SFO, my men. But Farrow, Oscar, Donnelly, and Quinn have said nothing since the room partially vacated. Add in the fact that Jack is here, and I’m more on edge. Jack Highland-Oliveira is my friend, but my relationship being exposed to production (off-duty, sure) is not my ideal scenario.
As I shake the bag of Fritos to cut into the silence, I keep glancing at Jack with slight warning.
Jack is a big smiler, but the awkward tension in the air has slaughtered his California charm. He’s almost cringing. “I’m not recording, Akara. I promise.”
“Can we get that in writing?”
Oscar wraps an arm around Jack. “My husband has no camera here. I can vouch for that. Frisked him earlier.”
Jack laughs. His mega-watt smile is back. “That’s what you call frisking?”
Oscar turns Jack’s baseball hat backwards. “I’ll demonstrate again later, meu raio de sol.” He leans in and kisses his husband.
I crumple the Fritos. Glad there’s so many happy couples here. I really am…not. Yeah, I’m not. Right now, I just want to be with the two people who make me happiest.
I interrupt the lovey-dovey shit. “Guys, I don’t need anyone vouching for anyone. I just want to make sure you’re all good. My relationship shouldn’t affect your work. Tomorrow you’ll all go to your clients and be clear-headed, okay?”
Donnelly raises his hand.
I feel exhausted. “What?”
He drops his hand. “If you’re dead, then who pays our bills? Assuming Ryke Meadows is going to murder you.”
“No one is getting murdered.” I push my hair back. “If he wanted to kill me and Banks, we’d already be dead.”
“He knows?” Oscar almost chokes on a shovel of popcorn.
I nod, and since they might hear the fallout through the rumor mill, I rehash the event in a few sentences and finish with, “That’s all I’m talking about Ryke. You want to gossip; do it on your own time.”
I hear Donnelly whisper to Farrow, “When did Akara become a crabby patty?” Patty sounds like paddy with his South Philly accent.
Farrow rolls his eyes, then pops bubblegum he’s chewing. “Most likely while listening to you fuckers.”
Donnelly blows him a middle-finger kiss.
Farrow smiles, but his lips falter as he catches me staring at his son who’s on his lap. Ripley Hale is babbling to his stuffed animal, hugging the parrot against his soft cheek.
Baby needs a bodyguard.
I lift my gaze to Farrow, and he shakes his head, “No. You don’t want to talk about Ryke, and see, I don’t want to talk about the extremely unnecessary security detail you want on my son. He already has me.”
“And if something happens to Ripley—”
“You can say, I told you so, Farrow. And it’ll be on me as his father.” Farrow chews his gum slower. “Finished?”
No. I haven’t been ready to shut this door closed. Maximoff and Farrow are way too obstinate together, and they’re not budging—but I need to kick inside. Because if Ripley is ever in peril, it’ll be on me and my conscience. And I don’t want to see a baby caught in the crossfire of hecklers or paparazzi any more than Farrow does.
But Ripley is the son of two unthinkably famous men. Who were trending a couple days ago just for walking out of a Cinnabon.
Let’s make a deal.
“Here’s the thing, we can talk about what happened with Ryke more, if you’ll just consider putting someone from SFO on Ripley’s detail.” I already figure he won’t trust anyone else but SFO to protect his son.
Farrow lets out a laugh into a smile, “Man, your relationship and what happened with Ryke is none of my business. I don’t need to know.”
“Redford,” Oscar groans, throwing popcorn at him. “I need to know.”
“Stamp,” Donnelly says in agreement.
Farrow tilts his head back and forth, then says, “Not happening.”
I toss the Fritos bag, more frustrated than I like letting them see. But I was just grasping for a silver lining, a win, something good while I’m in a mess.
Farrow looks me over. “I’m not trying to make your job harder, Akara.”
“But you kind of are, Farrow.”
“Fair enough,” he says easily.
He’s always been hard to work with, but he’s the best on SFO.
I’ve known him for years. Like early high school days. But Farrow doesn’t remember me from high school like I remember him. To Farrow, I was just a guy on the drumline.
But everyone knew Farrow Redford Keene. The inked, pierced teenager who changed his hair color with the months, who walked the halls like he had no care in the world. Yet, he was the top of his class.
Yet, he hailed from an incredible pedigree of doctors.
Yet, the more everyone tried to get to know him, the more you never could. He was popular but didn’t want to be popular.
I never sought him out. Farrow was older and never struck me as someone who wanted more friends.
And then Farrow was one of the first to walk into the gym I opened. I was eighteen, and I
was enamored with the guy.
Farrow Keene wants to join my MMA gym?
He said he liked how quiet it was. No one to bug him. And yet, he told other people about Studio 9. Like a family of boxers who knew more boxers and MMA fighters.
The Oliveira family.
They single-handedly saved Studio 9 from going under. Oscar and Farrow didn’t know how in the red the gym was at the time. I never told them.
Maybe Farrow could tell.
Or maybe he just wanted to spend time with his friend at the gym.
He was a pivotal piece in changing my life, and then I changed his by telling him he should join security work. And so like all circular paths, we’re here.
Staring at each other and I’m wondering how we’re going to affect one another again.
“I only want to be a supportive source in your life, like you’ve been in mine,” I tell Farrow. “Check your ankle.”
I was with him during that ankle tattoo. He was back in town at twenty-one. Spent the day at the gym, and we went to the tattoo shop together.
He got the words inked, live by your actions.
Farrow nods a few hearty times while touching his earring. “I’ll talk to Maximoff about an SFO guard on Ripley.”
Oscar and Donnelly do a doubletake.
Shock actually hits me. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Farrow runs his tongue over his lip piercing. “I respect you, and I need to show that more. So, I’ll talk to my husband. I can’t promise it’ll go anywhere.”
I ease a little. “I appreciate it.”
Progress.
That’s something.
Farrow nods back, then says, “And don’t let these two fuckers pressure you to talk about Ryke if you don’t want to.”
“Hey,” Oscar boos.
“Ryke who?” Donnelly plays dumb.
Oscar says, “Donnelly only knows the word Cobalt.”
Donnelly smirks. “My babies.”
I almost smile like Jack and Quinn, but after a beat, Oscar grows more serious, then lifts a finger. “I have one concern, Kitsuwon.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Triple Shield. What happens if Price’s men start complaining about our boss dating a Meadows girl? Most are going to be pissed.”
I clasp my knees. “That’s for me to deal with, guys. If they give you shit, tell me or Thatcher and I’ll talk to Price, but so far, we don’t know if Ryke has even told anyone, let alone the other security team.” Pressure weighs again, and I want to assuage their worries more. “Kitsuwon Securities isn’t in any jeopardy.” My voice holds as much conviction as I can muster. “It’s here for the long haul.”
They all nod, their belief in me apparent.
Failure can’t be an option. If my security firm flops into a death sentence, they’re all out of a job or they’ll have to go crawling back to Triple Shield.
As long as I can keep the current full-time client roster—Maximoff, Jane, Charlie, Sullivan, Luna, and Xander—I’m in no danger of bleeding money. There’s even a pathway for me to lose Sulli’s money and still stay afloat.
I can sell one of our security vehicles. Maybe even reduce my salary again.
Everything will be okay.
“We’re here for the long haul too, boss,” Donnelly says. None of us are here for the money. Security work isn’t a cash cow, but for them to stay afloat, I need the company to make money.
Costs are everywhere. And talk about someone who needs cash, Donnelly has been tattooing on the side to earn more. Even though I’m clueless as to where he’s spending it all, I know Donnelly can’t afford a pay cut.
My insides twist considerably because I don’t want to let SFO down. I never have before. Their faith in me is the ground beneath my feet.
11
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
Beer bottles line my dresser. Bottle caps scatter the ground.
After the announcement and the raw conversations we went through, I retreat to my bedroom and soak in a bath first. Akara and Banks shower in their apartment, and while I climb out, dry off, squeeze my hair—a bolt of panic courses through me. What if they never come back?
Staying in their apartment, away from me, would be easier. Just forgetting Yellowstone. Forgetting us. All the confidence I’d built in us seems to wash away with the water in the drain.
By the time I pull on a sea-foam green tank top and step into matching boxer-shorts, my door opens with a soft knock.
Banks and Akara are back with damp hair and a twelve-pack of beer.
Seeing them breathes oxygen into my lungs, and a smile grips hold of me. Once upon a fucking time, my mom told me, “Swimming isn’t everything, Sulli.”
I was crying after I added four-seconds to my 200m freestyle. I won the heat, but I swam my slowest.
“It’s everything to me,” I blubbered.
I was seven.
Mom seemed worried. She hugged me close, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “I love that you love the water, but that’s not all there is to life. I know it seems like that now, but I promise, there’s more to look forward to, more adventures with me and your dad and your baby sister. And when you grow older, you’ll find that can’t-eat-can’t-sleep, reach-for-the-stars, over-the-fence, World Series kind of stuff.”
I sniffled, “What kind of stuff is that?”
She brushed my nose with hers. “When you’re sad one day, you’ll discover that stuff coming around that makes you feel less lonely, and you’ll share the quiet and the restless and the loud with them, and life will feel so much bigger.”
I finally understand what she meant.
Life feels bigger with them here.
Resting on my velvet, turquoise quilt, we’re already halfway through the twelve-pack. The guys tossed most of my sea-creature-shaped pillows on the ground but kept a decent amount of the donut and cupcake ones. They use them for comfort against the hard iron rungs of my headboard.
It feels safe in my bedroom with Banks and Akara.
Away from common areas of the penthouse.
Free from accidentally running into my cousins or SFO and turning up a notch on the awkward meter.
But that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about all the whispering and fucking gossip happening outside my door.
Well, not right outside it. I doubt any of my roommates would be that fucking rude to put their ear against the door, but they are probably huddled in the dining room or kitchen discussing my love life.
Fuck, I hate that sort of attention that looms and shadows. Moffy was right about that, but I need to get used to these cons because the pros of being with them mean too much to me.
“Luna felt the most supportive, I think,” I tell them, sitting cross-legged. “I just wish they’d give us a chance before they think it’ll all fucking fail.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Banks lifts his beer.
We swig at the same time. Alcohol tastes bitter on my lips, and a warm, fuzziness washes over me from the beer. I’m not really drunk at all. Tonight’s events have the best sobering effect, and replaying my talk with Moffy and Jane just about obliterates my buzz.
“Hey, whatever happens out there,” Akara says to us, holding his beer on his knee while he leans against the headboard—right next to Banks, “that’s not as important as what happens here.” He motions with his beer between the three of us.
“Fuck ‘em,” Banks says, “including my brother. But with love.”
I smile more, feeding off their confidence. “Yeah, fuck them.” I sip beer. “They put us on an island alone together, and they should know what happens next. It’s not a break-up like they all fear. It’s literally Blue Lagoon.”
Akara smiles, twinkling his brown eyes. “You Meadows and Blue Lagoon.”
“It’s a classic.”
Banks wears one of those shadows of a smile. “What, are we all gonna turn into mermaids?”
Akara laughs with the shake of his head, “No, zero mermaids are to be found in this
movie. Two kids are stranded, then they grow up on the island together, presumably alone and fall in love and fuck.”
“It’s a porno?” Banks asks.
“No,” I cut in. “Ugh, Kits. You’re ruining one of the best, most pure movies of all time.”
His smile only grows. “They have sex, Sul. I’ve seen the movie about ten times with you.”
I talk to Banks as I say, “Okay, yes, they fuck—but it’s more like making love. Because when they’re on this island together, they’re discovering things on their own without anyone’s advice or guidebook. No one even taught her what a period was. No one told them about sex, but they listened to what they felt while they were out there.”
Banks slowly nods, then tips his beer in my direction. “So we’re Blue Lagoon, stranded on an island together and listening to what we feel?”
“Exactly.” Butterflies swarm my stomach, feeling how much Banks just understood me.
Banks swings his head to Akara. “You really did ass-fuck that movie synopsis.”
“Hey, it’s not a complicated movie.” He counts on his fingers. “Stranded. Love. Sex. Babies—”
“Babies?” Banks makes a point of eyeballing me. “She never said anything about babies.”
Akara smiles at me, swallowing more beer. “No, she didn’t.”
Their teasing is setting me on fire. “Where were they going to buy condoms on the island? The fucking Walgreens next to palm tree 1 and 2?”
They laugh, and Banks says, “There’s a fucking Walgreens on our island. Unless our asses literally get stranded.”
“We’d survive,” Akara says with certainty, and I think he’s right. The hardest thing for us is going to be integrating with people. Our families and the world.
Here on our island, hiding out in my bedroom, hiding out in Yellowstone—it’s easy. It’s freeing. But like Blue Lagoon, sooner or later someone will come find us.
As Akara stretches down for the beer box on the floor, bands of muscle in his traps and bicep stretch, his core contracts. Only wearing red drawstring pants, I can count his abs and the yellow flowers inked around the snake on his upper-chest and shoulder. Black hair touches his eyelashes as his fingers curve around the beer bottle.
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