Wild Like Us

by Ritchie, Krista

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 an awfully big 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 suck at school.”

  My mom squeezed my hand. “My peanut butter cupcake, you don’t suck. You’re brave, amazing, smart, beautiful, and capable of anything. You’re just a beginner. We all start somewhere.” She pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Remember—be kind to yourself.”

  I always try to remember.

  When we finally roll up to a long row of blue porta potties, my bursting bladder catapults me into this rancid sucker.

  I shut the blue door without glancing back at Akara or Banks.

  Oh…fuck. Someone pissed all over the black toilet seat, and moths fly aimlessly above my head, trapped inside this literal shithole with me.

  I plug my nose with two fingers and use my other hand to unzip my pants. A girl’s gotta go when she’s gotta go, but porta potties are an invention made from Hades’ ass-crack. I’d rather pop a squat in the woods than be in this hot, stinky, cramped contraption. At least in the woods, you’re not five centimeters from some stranger’s excrements.

  Don’t think about it.

  I squat and pee.

  And I stare at the locked porta potty door and picture Akara and Banks right outside, guarding the facility I’m using.

  There is nothing about this situation that screams, romance me.

  My thighs burn as I hold a squat position, but I don’t dare touch the seat. After what feels like an eternity, I finally empty my bladder, wipe with a tiny piece of toilet paper, pull up my panties and jeans, and I kick the door open while I zip up.

  I’m outside.

  I could pump my fist to the sky like the end of The Breakfast Club. Fucking hurray.

  The brisk night air cools off the bathroom stench, and I realize fast that Akara is MIA. Only Banks is waiting near the porta potties for me.

  “How was it?” Banks asks as I roll up to his side.

  “Utter fucking relief and totally disgusting.” I dig a travel-sized hand sanitizer out of my back pocket and squirt some on my palm.

  One side of his mouth curves up. His smiles aren’t like Akara’s, which almost always sparkle his eyes. Banks’ smiles are darker, almost half-hidden and fleeting.

  His observant gaze skates across the bustling carnival, but he cocks his head to me. “You hate porta-shitters?”

  I smile at his name for the boxed shithole. “Yeah, I’d rather go behind a bush or dig a fucking hole than pee on someone else’s crap.”

  Banks laughs. “I was planning on defending them, but you’ve got a point.” His South Philly accent comes out more than his twin brother’s.

  “You really like porta potties?” I eye his height.

  He hoists a shoulder in a slight shrug. “After two deployments, porta-shitters are like churches. The only place to have one moment of silence.” He plucks the toothpick from his lips. “You dig a hole and some knucklefuck is gonna come annoy you for ten minutes about a rumor they heard from another platoon.” His eyes settle on mine for a softer beat, and I almost forget about the flash photography.

  Kids are snapping photos of me while they wait in line for face-painting.

  Banks asks, “Did I sway you to my side and beauty of porta-shitters?”

  How do you flirt well?

  I wish I knew at times, but I don’t want to be someone I’m not just to get his attention.

  So I sink into the casualness of our conversation. “I’m still team shithole.” Fuck, Sulli. That wasn’t cute at all—the thought is abruptly cut off by his laughter.

  “Yeah?” he says between laughs. “My metaphor or analogy or whatever literary thing didn’t do it for you?”

  I smile and elbow his side. “What? That a toilet is like a church?”

  “It’s godly enough to be called a fucking throne.”

  “The hole is my throne,” I say with an outstretched arm, knowing full well this is a sexual innuendo.

  Banks bounces his head, his laugh deeper in his chest. He surveys the kiddy train-car ride and the families helping their children in the caboose. “Even if some knucklefucks come walk up and shoot the shit with you while you’re shitting?”

  “Yeah, why not? I fucking hate being alone most of the time anyway.”

  His brown hair is long enough to brush the back of his neck. He curls a strand behind his ear. “Isn’t swimming more solitary?”

  “I had Moffy growing up. We went to swim meets together—he’s the closest thing I have to an older brother. I could’ve done any sport without him, but it wouldn’t have been the same. I think…” I scuff my boot on the dirt and stare out at the bright Thrill Drop, an adrenaline tower, in the distance. “I think that I would’ve been lonely. With how many cousins I have, I’m just used to being around people, even if I’m not that good with people.”

  Everyone knows that I’m not that great with words like Jane. She’s a witty princess. I feel like the foul-mouthed voyager sailing the ocean blue, who’d reroute back home too quickly. I’d miss everyone too much, too fucking badly.

  “You’re telling me,” he says huskily, “I’m twenty-nine, and I’ve never really been alone. Never lived alone. Never spent more than a day truly alone.” He catches my gaze and lifts another shoulder. “Maybe people like you and me are just meant to be in the company of a buncha knucklefucks—or we are the knucklefucks.”

  I slug his arm. “Probably the latter.”

  We share a smile, and our attention finds the same spot. The same person. Akara is pacing slowly near the miniature train caboose, a phone to his ear.

  Business calls.

  I’ve been slowly growing used to Akara’s abrupt, unexpected departure from my detail. Ever since he created his own security firm, he’s been too busy to protect me 24/7. I’m proud of him for building something big, and I don’t want to be the reason he fails.

  “He looks really stressed,” I say to Banks as we watch Akara.

  “Yeah,” he nods. “He’s grown an extra wrinkle overnight. Right above the third and fourth one.”

  I laugh into a snort.

  His lip lifts too, but our humor weakens as concern mounts.

  Banks is here to protect me for these moments, when Akara has to step out, and he cares just as much about his friend.

  A second passes when I realize that I’m just waiting around the fucking porta potties. For what?

  Not, for what?

  For whom?

  My eyes flicker to Banks. “You’re not going to mention that I don’t need to wait around for my bodyguard since I have you?”

  He shakes his head once. “I know what he means to you.” His gaze sweeps the area. “But you don’t have to wait around for Akara if you don’t want to.”

  My stomach tightens. He’s my bodyguard. Wherever I go, Akara will eventually catch back up to me. But I feel like we’ve been hanging out at the carnival as friends, and even if he just briefly left, I’d want to spend the next few minutes with him.

  So I wait.

  Banks doesn’t even bat an eye at my choice.

  And not long after, Akara pockets his cell and jogs back over. “Sorry, Sul. Had to take the super, important phone call about taxes.” He sighs. “It was riveting.” His sarcasm is all over his face.

  “Oh
hey, at least you’re important enough to take important calls.” I smack his well-defined abs.

  He steals my hair tie out of my bun. Fuck! My long hair falls, and he flings a strand at my face and walks backwards, just as I try to steal the hair tie back.

  He raises it above his head. “At least I’m important enough to protect a very important person.”

  I try to grab the hair tie again, but Akara hides it behind his back. I tell him, “Banks must be more important since he’s clocked in more hours protecting me.”

  Banks laughs, and Akara snaps the hair tie at his friend’s face.

  We’re all laughing again, and Banks returns the hair tie to me. “Thanks,” I say as I fix the strands up in another messy bun, and I spot bright bulbs that spell out American Circus Funhouse.

  “Want to check it out?” I ask them.

  They’re already leading the way.

  I follow them up creaky metal stairs and into a tight hallway. It’s actually weirdly quiet. The outside sounds of laughter and the music from amusement rides are more muffled here.

  Banks messes with his earpiece. “Comms are jammed?”

  “No service,” Akara tells him. “It’s fine. Thatcher is keeping tabs on everyone.” Thatcher Moretti. He’s the SFO lead. Banks’ identical twin brother is actually higher than Banks on the security hierarchy.

  Metal disks line the hallway, and they spin Akara 360-degrees when he steps foot on one. He keeps complete and total balance.

  Like a badass.

  Banks trips. “Jesus, Mary—”

  Akara catches Banks’ wrist and pulls him onto the second spinning disk. They’re hugging to stay on the same metal plate.

  I grip the side railings and use my upper-body strength to avoid touching the disks. Leaping my way through.

  Akara cups his hand over his mouth. “Cheating!”

  “Hey, I’m being fucking resourceful. Why else put railings here?”

  “For people like Banks,” Akara quips, stepping easily on the next disk.

  Banks follows and laughs. “She’s allergic to land, so she’d know how to avoid it. I’m a fucking tree. I actually like standing.”

  “She’s not a mermaid,” Akara says as we pass the rest of the spinning disks.

  Banks looks a little ticked. He even shoots Akara an annoyed glance.

  Akara frowns back like, What?

  I look Banks over, my pulse quickening, and I bite my lip, feeling a smile. He came to my defense. Feels like some type of romance—or I could be really fucking playing myself. How far-fetched is it that Banks could see me as more than a friend?

  He’s never even made a move.

  I get that there are bodyguard rules. Close but not too fucking close, but some of my cousins have decimated those rules.

  Maximoff.

  Jane.

  They deserve a round of applause for doing the fucking impossible and making it all work.

  We enter a much larger blue room. Polka-dot-painted boxing bags hang like a maze. And I tell Banks, “Don’t mind Kits. He doesn’t believe in mermaids.”

  Banks cocks his head at Akara. “You don’t believe in beautiful women who swim in the sea?”

  “With a tail?” he asks incredulously. “No, man. That shit is for Disney movies. Anyway, Sulli is more like a…” He eyes me. “String bean.”

  My mouth falls, and I’d slug his arm if he were closer.

  He smiles teasingly. “No muscle. Can’t lift a five-pound weight. Way too tall. Definitely a string bean.”

  I push a boxing bag aside, trying not to zero in on the “too tall” part. I am taller than the average woman, but the rest of his words were bullshit. I have a lot of muscle and a fucking six-pack that I worked hard for.

  Plus, I can lift over a hundred-fifty pounds.

  I mean, fuck, I can lift him. “Let me carry you out of here and we’ll see how much of a string bean I am.”

  Akara just laughs.

  Banks grips the top of a boxing bag, and when my eyes meet his, it feels like he can see right through me. Heat blazes my neck because I’m not totally fucking sure what he’s thinking. But I just know I wish I could hear it.

  We loiter around for a second. Standing among the colorful boxing bags. And I look between them while they joke about redecorating the Studio 9 gym with polka-dots and stripes.

  Would I like Banks or even Akara to pull me closer? Yeah. But not just in playful jest. Not just to protect me. In actual, real want. Desire. Fucking passion.

  Things I’ve only ever seen as a bystander and on TV shows like Roswell (thanks to Luna’s obsession). I don’t want to make out with an alien though.

  I want to be devoured by a hot fucking man. Who I trust, who makes me feel so completely comfortable and confident even in my inexperience.

  I’m picky about guys. I won’t physically let just anyone in. I crave those comfortable, trusting pieces while being mixed with the I wanna bang you attraction.

  But it’s right here. They’re beyond bangable.

  And I trust Banks.

  I trust Akara.

  They’d never take advantage of me. Never hurt me. I know they’d take care of me before, during, and afterward. They’re completely different guys, and I should be lucky that I’ve made two friends out of them, out of bodyguards.

  Two friends who I’m attracted to.

  “What’s that look?” Akara asks me with playfulness.

  I won’t lie. “You’re both fucking hot.”

  Banks smiles, one of those shadows of a smile.

  Akara laughs brightly.

  They know they’re hot.

  I wrap an arm around a boxing bag. “I feel comfortable and safe around you two, and I figure if I never have another boyfriend in my life, I could totally see myself losing my virginity to either of you.”

  Akara’s face drops.

  Like plummets.

  Like I took a needle and popped a fucking balloon.

  Oh my fucking God.

  Banks scratches the back of his head. His eyes are on Akara.

  We joke all the time! This isn’t that different, right? Boobs, tits, ass, penis, cock—what’s so different about me mentioning my virginity? It’s not a joke to me, but they should at least respond like we’re friends, right? I said everything really casually, right??

  RIGHT?!

  I stammer, “I mean…I…um, it’d be like doing me a favor—I mean, not like that. Not a favor.” My face burns. “I’d hope you’d want it too. Don’t just sleep with me out of obligation. Fuck, what am I saying?” I’m boiling up. “It’s just…I want it to be good, and I think you’d both be really good—you’re experienced, and yeah…” I want to disappear. “It’s something…something to consider. Losing my virginity to one of you…?”

  I can’t even look at them.

  Silence.

  All there is is utter fucking silence.

  2

  SULLIVAN MEADOWS

  I’m suffocating beneath their lack of fucking words. It might only last a second, but my embarrassment clocks this moment at fucking eternity.

  I realize now that I didn’t friend-zone them.

  They’ve friend-zoned me.

  I’m the un-bangable one.

  And even then, maybe we’re not as friendly as I thought. Friends should be able to respond to me!

  “I, um…” I can’t recover.

  Abruptly, I bolt to the right.

  I run through the heavy bags. They smack my cheek as I push through.

  “Sulli!” Akara shouts.

  “Wait!” Banks calls. “Wait!”

  I can feel them behind me, but I’m faster.

  I’m always faster.

  Shoving a few more, I come clear to a door marked 3. There are three fucking doors. Of course there are. I choose the one in front of me, and I dart inside…

  “No,” I mutter.

  Mirrors.

  Dozens upon dozens of mirrors.

  I’m surrounded by my hor
ror-stricken, wide-eyed face. Everywhere, my reflection stares back at me, some misshapen and distorted by the curved and bent glass. My breathing is rapid, but not from exhaustion.

  I sprint to the left, meet a wall, then to the right. Meet another dead-end.

  Let me fucking out of here!

  I rest my hands on my forehead.

  Concentrate, Sulli.

  I touch my lips. Thinking.

  “Sulli!”

  I hear them call my name, but they sound distant. They must’ve chosen a different door. After I collect my shit, I see a sign that says, no running.

  Hilarious.

  And then I spot another door, hidden behind a mirror that warps my face, so my panicked eyes look humongous.

  Racing out of the door, I crawl through a yellow rotating barrel, then thrust open an exit door to the outside. Inhaling a lungful of crisp night air, I move forward. The carnival is still in full swing like I never left. I skip down metal stairs without slowing.

  “Sulli!” Jane calls.

  I turn my head and see Jane waving her hands. Without thinking, I sprint towards her. She’s like my big sister, so instinct says, go to Jane.

  But she’s not alone.

  Outside the funhouse, a larger group of mostly bodyguards surround her and Charlie on a patch of grass.

  Keep running.

  Keep going.

  I grab onto Jane’s arm, not wanting to stop, and I say quickly under my breath, “Let’s fucking get out of here. Right fucking now.” My eyes dart to camera phones.

  So many fucking camera phones. Carnival attendees are recording us, but our families have always been the spectacle. Bodyguards are barring the audience from physically reaching us. So I can focus on Jane as her eyes pop out.

  “Why?” She speaks hushed.

  I’m burning, and it pours out fast, “I opened my big fucking mouth. That’s why. I told Kits and Banks they’re really fucking hot and they make me feel safe and comfortable, and that if I never have another boyfriend in my entire life, then it’d be cool to lose my virginity to one of them.” I nod forcefully. “Yep, and I thought they’d take it like pals, you know like buddies. But they were fucking silent!” I wave a hand. “So I ran, but then I ended up in the mirrors and I got lost and they were looking for me…and oh my fuck.” The funhouse.