Nessa North, the purple-jacket skier, shared the news on her Twitter account. She currently hovers over Quinn with her friend. They followed us to the hospital and haven’t left his side.
Oscar keeps grinning every time they flirt like his little brother is about to ascend the Olympic podium for Hottest Person on Earth.
Quinn’s hotness is unquestionable at this point, but even if I’d prefer to kick the girls out, they’re the only thing slightly taking his mind off his injury and bleak future on SFO. I think that’s why Oscar is entertaining this whole sideshow.
“Does it hurt more?” Nessa asks for the umpteenth time.
“Not really,” Quinn says.
“You must have superhuman pain tolerance.”
Oscar pops a couple chips in his mouth, shaking a bag of Doritos. “Or he has super strong Vicodin running through his veins.”
Quinn shoots him a look to shut up.
I just need to rip off this Band-Aid. Let the gavel fall. “Nessa, do you think you and your friend could grab Quinn a sports drink from the vending machine?”
“We can definitely do that.” Nessa speeds out of the room in a hurry, her friend right behind.
Quinn watches Nessa longingly.
Crap, I hate being the bearer of shit news. But I clear my throat. “Quinn.”
“Sorry,” he says, sort of morosely. “She’s cute, right?”
Oscar laughs. “Super cute, little bro.”
I hear super cute and an image of Sulli flashes in my brain. My chest tightens, trying not to think about her.
Staying on track, I tell Quinn, “Nessa is also a fan.”
“A fan of me, not of the families,” Quinn says, like that makes a difference.
He shouldn’t be dating or screwing fans of SFO. It’s messy—so very messy—and a current rule that’s spelled out in the Kitsuwon Securities rulebook. That I’m positive Quinn has ignored. I know he’s fucked fans before. I live with him, and I let it slide.
My life is messier.
Yeah.
Obviously.
Oscar continues to munch on his Doritos.
I snap my fingers to my palm. “So you want the verdict?”
Quinn tries to sit up a little. “Yeah…let’s hear it…”
Oscar crumples the snack bag, seriousness sobering his features. “Are you letting him go?”
Here’s my dilemma:
Thatcher protects Jane.
Farrow protects Maximoff.
Banks protects Sulli.
Donnelly protects Xander.
Oscar protects Charlie.
Quinn protects Luna.
Gabe is the floater.
And no one protects Baby Ripley.
If Quinn is on crutches, he can’t be transferred to Ripley’s detail. My master plan for the baby to have a bodyguard has imploded.
Gone to smithereens.
I suddenly hate snowboarding.
And beyond that, he can’t protect Luna. He can’t protect anyone. So I tell him, “You can’t be a bodyguard with a broken leg.”
Oscar stiffens.
Quinn nods slowly. “So you’re firing me.”
“No, not exactly.” I massage my knuckles. “If I have to sit behind that desk at Studio 9 for one more day, I might honestly lose my mind.” I nod to him. “I need a manager for my gym. You want the job? It’s yours.”
Quinn mulls this over. “Will I be let back on the team?”
“When you pass physical exams, a spot will be waiting for you.”
His lips lift, ever so slightly. “And you’re giving me another job in the meantime?”
“It’s a pay cut.”
“I’ll take it,” he says instantly this time.
The Oliveira family saved Studio 9 from going under once. Maybe Quinn can help me save it again.
“You can still keep your room at the apartment,” I tell him. “I’m not kicking you out.” I feel responsible for his injury, and I can’t toss Quinn out with no place to go, except maybe back to live with his parents.
He can stay.
Oscar motions to me. “Gabe’s already complaining about his contract. This won’t win you any friends with new hires.”
Yeah, in the new Kitsuwon Securities contracts, I put in a one-year probationary period before housing is offered for new full-time bodyguards. Gabe signed anyway, but I see how this will ruffle a few feathers. Quinn won’t be on SFO anymore, so he really shouldn’t be getting a free room.
Still, he’s one of my men.
“What about Luna and Baby Ripley?” Quinn asks. “Is Gabe going on her detail and you’re protecting the baby?”
I’d make that transfer in a heartbeat if I thought Farrow would let me on Baby Ripley’s detail. But I don’t think he wants his boss hovering around him, which I get. And I don’t necessarily want to be around Farrow 24/7.
Oscar’s already shaking his head like he knows his brother is wrong.
“Gabe is staying as the floater. Ripley has no bodyguard yet.” I take a breath. “And I’ll be on Luna Hale’s detail. Permanently.”
Back to protecting a client.
This one just so happens to live with my exes.
50
BANKS MORETTI
Taking a weekend trip with Sulli to Atlantic City—I’ve been saving up my paychecks for this short getaway, and I thought of cancelling the date after the breakup. I didn’t imagine sweeping my girlfriend off her feet while a fuckin’ crater just slammed through us.
Hell, I didn’t see a fallout with Akara coming at all. I thought he’d be here with us.
But Sulli still wanted to go. “No time like the fucking present,” she said.
We agreed we’re not here to forget about him. That’s what Akara wants, and we’re not giving him everything he wants.
Mini-Akara is in Sulli’s macrame backpack. After printing out a picture of the Thai-American “boss” wearing a muscle shirt, a backwards baseball cap, and smartassy smile, we hot-glued the photo to a popsicle stick. Sulli had to eat a dreamsicle to get the fucking stick, so a lot went into this Kindergarten creation.
She sent him a photo of Mini-Akara.
No direct reply.
He’s really plunging that sword deeper and deeper into his body, and we’re not making this easier on him.
He’s also not making this easier on us.
While we ride a Ferris wheel on the pier, overlooking the murky ocean in January, Sulli and I share a bucket seat, my arm wrapped around her broad shoulders as she grips pink & blue cotton candy—and our phones go off.
“That’s the third text from Kits in ten minutes,” Sulli sighs out. It’s not the sort of texts we want to read from him. He’s still threatening to fire me if we don’t confirm our relationship to the world.
“He won’t do it,” I assure Sulli. “He needs me.” There’s no way in any hell he’d put a temp on Sulli’s 24/7 detail right now.
Paparazzi are gathered on the pier, flocking the base of the Ferris wheel, and I’ve had two other temp guards assist me since New Year’s Eve ten days ago. Every time our bucket rotates to the bottom, our extra security restrains cameramen from bum-rushing the ticket-taker and reaching us.
Sulli picks at the cotton candy and stares off into the bright sun and the rolling foam tips of ocean. Despite being cold winter, it’s a pretty day. She’s wearing her jean jacket and leans her weight into my side.
Her green, green eyes lift to mine. “But he could fire you. We don’t know what he’s thinking while he’s alone.”
“He’s probably thinking he misses us and he hates this and it’s what he has to do.”
“Like he might think he has to fire you—that we’ve given him no choice,” Sulli says with a haunted look. “I don’t want to take that fucking risk, Banks.” The Ferris wheel swings to a pause midway to the top. We rock back and forth. “I can’t lose you too.”
I hold her broken gaze. “You’re not gonna lose me. He wouldn’t do that to you.”
I picture being torn from her detail.
Abandoning Sulli.
Muscles flexed, I breathe through my nose, and I know that Akara is going to win this round. Gotta hand it to him, he came to play. Our Mini-Akara popsicle stick versus his job termination threat. Looks like we need to up our game.
“Okay,” I nod strongly to Sulli. “Let’s confirm us to the world.”
We’re doing this.
My pulse picks up vigor as Sulli digs for her phone. I take the cotton candy and hoist the big fluffy cloud of pink and blue to block sunlight from her eyes.
Under the sudden shade, Sulli smiles, but her lips falter fast. “So…should we just do an Instagram post like what Moffy did?”
“Probably.”
“Help me find a pic of us.” She scrolls through her camera roll, and I peer over her shoulder. Most pics are either selfies Sulli took or they’re photos Akara snapped.
As the Ferris wheel moves again, we ascend to the very top. A drop of blue splats on Sulli’s cheek. Fuck.
“What was that?” She looks up.
“The cotton candy is melting. Here.” I brush my thumb over her cheek, her breath shortens—our eyes crashing together, and in a quiet moment, I show Sulli the melted blue sugar.
She takes my hand and tastes the blue sugar off my thumb. Her gaze still on mine, as though lassoing this sweet moment around us, knotting the thread, and I feel the emotion squeeze us together. I slide my hand beneath her unkempt hair, against the hardness of her jaw and softness of her cheek.
While I cup her face, she holds onto that hand, our eyes latching stronger. “Banks,” she rasps. “We can kiss in public…”
The new realization settles between us with anticipation and grief. Our greedy asses want more. She wants more. I want more. And we’re not ready to let go of Akara. I’m not picturing the life he’s ready for us to live. The one without him, but I feel that future rolling into us like the ocean in the horizon.
Our bucket sways to a pause at the top.
Paparazzi can catch us making out. We’re about to confirm we’re together. Technically speaking, the only thing stopping us is fear.
Fear that we’ll lose him forever if we go forward, but I can’t stay stationary. I can’t sink into quicksand and struggle to come out.
I clutch her cheek with a stronger hand. Her breastbone lifts with a bigger inhale, and I whisper huskily, “You want me to kiss you?”
Her eyes scream, fuck yes. Her lips say, “Every day…every fucking night.”
I move in fast, and we slam into each other with a string of desperation and affection and something else, something we’re hoping to heal and hang on to.
We kiss on a Ferris wheel. Sweet, sweet taste of cotton candy on our tongues, and we pull closer, kiss deeper, slower. My fingers lost in her hair, I feel her lips urge mine to keep going, don’t stop. Never stop. And so we keep going ‘round and ‘round.
Ignoring the camera flashes as we reach the bottom.
Ignoring the gasps and questions.
Ignoring comms in my ear.
It’s a perfect heart-aching moment, and after two full rotations, I press my forehead to hers, staring down into Sulli while she stares up into me. Guilt paddles inside our affection and love, and I hope that changes in time. And not because we left him behind.
“One pic just to solidify it?” Sulli asks.
“Yeah.”
We choose one that Akara took in her bedroom.
I’m carrying Sulli upside-down. Her hair cascades over her face and smile, and I’m caught mid-laugh. The caption we agree on: When the boyfriend carries you to bed.
We both sorta hate that line.
So we type it out.
If Akara thinks we’re taking this announcement with grace, he’s fucking wrong. We’re not happy-go-lucky, honeymooning over here. Hopefully he realizes he hasn’t left joy in his wake.
Eclipse Hotel & Casino in Atlantic City juts out in a row of casinos that glitter and glow. Been here once upon a time for a cousin’s bachelor party. Got shit-faced with Thatcher and we ended up passing out on the floor of the hotel room where eight other guys crashed.
Never thought I’d be back here with a girlfriend, but after the Ferris wheel, Sulli and I are on a new mission.
One that involves gambling my paycheck and a chunk of her monthly trust fund allowance. All in the name of my ex-metamour and her ex-boyfriend. For one, if we make some extra funds, we’re gonna slip the cash into Akara’s PO Box. Help out Studio 9.
For another, if we lose big, then we’ll be texting Akara about our misadventures in gambling—and maybe he’ll get his ass out to Atlantic City to stop us from making dumb choices.
He thinks I’m a cowboy. Well, giddyup, motherfucker. I bite down on a toothpick. “Three-hundred on red,” I tell Sulli as I shift my stack of chips.
People crowd around the roulette table to watch, our extra security shielding Sulli’s other side while my arm slips around her waist. I’m eyeing the hell out of anyone who edges near her.
“How much should I put on 4, 9, and 18?” Sulli asks, sifting through her chips.
“However much you feel.”
She places a sizable stack on each number. A middle-aged man clicks his camera phone in front of us, a flash going off in both our eyes as the dealer calls for final bets.
Sulli sinks back on her chair next to me, then scrolls through her phone.
I glance over her shoulder, seeing our Instagram post popped up. “You still checking it?”
“Yeah,” she winces. “The comments are fucking awful.”
I spot the first few comments.
I knew Banks was the one!
Kitsulli was never real. OMG.
Let’s go Sulletti. Sail that ship into the fucking horizon!!!!
My stomach churns.
This is what Thatcher and Akara wanted. For me to be loved and number one in the eyes of the public. I’m not happy about it.
I swipe a hand down my face as my eyes graze over the photo.
Sulli lets out a groan and pockets her phone. The dealer spins the white ball on the roulette wheel. I want to tell her it’ll work itself out, but it’s been ten days since Akara broke up with us. Each day has felt like another door closing in our faces, even when I keep trying to shove them back open.
“Sulletti wins!” someone yells across the room.
Casino’s security descends on them in a blink.
My muscles tightening, I keep Sulli pinned closer to me. “Red. Red. Red,” she chants under her breath. The ball spins and spins. “Four, nine, eighteen. Four, nine, eighteen. Come on.”
I make the sign of the cross. I have three-hundred bucks on the table. After my two months’ pay-cut from the Winter Festival fight, this is like tossing down gold for me. My fifteen-year-old self would be dragging me by the underwear out of this casino.
Dumb.
Stupid.
Foolish.
And I’m doing this dumb thing for Akara. He might not even care. I shake my head to myself and grind on the toothpick. He’ll care.
He just might not show us.
That hurts too. Knowing he’s probably somewhere alone, beating himself up. Christ.
“No whammies,” I mumble on my toothpick. Trying not to shit myself.
One thing’s for sure, I don’t have the stomach for gambling like my dad. How he could continuously blow his earnings at places like this—I’ll never understand.
As the ball slows down, I think about how I bailed on the Flyers game. I drove to the hockey arena, and I saw my dad outside with Thatcher, waiting for me.
Anger bubbled up. My whole body went taut. I could barely move. I sat there for what felt like eternity. I couldn’t get my ass out of
the car.
So I texted them I couldn’t make it. And I left.
Cowardly.
Or maybe I just didn’t want to make a scene in public. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
The white ball ping ping pings along the roulette wheel, and then comes to a dead stop.
“Black 13,” the dealer calls out and scoops up Sulli’s chips. My chips.
All gone.
I glare. “Fuck-a-duck.”
Sulli smiles at that phrase, then snaps a photo of our losses and texts Akara. “You think he’ll take pity on us?”
“I hope so.”
She angles the phone to me. “Make a sad fucking face like it hurts you’re down a grand.”
I immediately cringe in pain. A grand down the shitter—what I could’ve done with a grand…
“Oh hey, Banks.” Sulli hugs my side, seeing that I’m actually torn up at the losses. “We can stop here. Fuck, I can pay you back—”
“No—this was my bad idea.” I lift my arm to her shoulders, and the hand that hangs over her, she laces her fingers with mine. “The guy with the good ideas is supposed to come and rescue us.”
“Hey, he doesn’t always have good ideas,” Sulli nudges me. “Case in point.” The break-up.
“He thinks it’s a good one,” I tell Sulli. “At least I know they’re both bad ideas.”
“Which is why Kits needs you.” Sulli counts her chips. “I can do another five grand.”
“I can do a hundred.” I only have six-hundred left on me, and I’m saving the cash for dinner and any problems we might meet. And last thing I want is to beg Thatcher for cash to get me by on groceries next week. “Beg” in quotations because my brother would toss money at my face without a second thought. Though, he’d give me a hell of an earful.
As we stand up and shift our chips on the table, my phone buzzes. Akara finally responds to our group chat.
Stop burning cash. I’m not coming. – Akara
Expected that.
I dig for my cigarettes. “Tell him we’re not stopping.”
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