Wild Like Us

by Ritchie, Krista

  I’d rather confront his anger than carry the weight of this lie.

  5

  BANKS MORETTI

  Getting laid is easy for me. I’m six-seven, built like a god, and my deep voice could melt the fuckin’ sun. But easy is boring. I’ve had more fun trying to explore the ways to make a woman come than by having a pair of lips around my dick. The longer the roadmap to her orgasm, the better. But I can count the number of times I’ve truly been challenged in bed.

  Zero.

  Big ball of nothing.

  And I’m not so arrogant to think that maybe the problem doesn’t lie with me. If sex bores me, then that’s got to at least be a fifty percent me problem. I’d blame my issues on not having enough time to cultivate real relationships beyond the first lay, but Akara has the same time-sucking job. And he does just fine going out on dates. I’m the one that shuts anything down after one night.

  But I’m not that shocked Akara called it quits with Jenny. He’s the kind of guy that hates to end things the morning after, but Sulli saw Jenny.

  And Akara Kitsuwon is in love with Sullivan Meadows. He just hasn’t fully accepted what’s right in front of his face yet.

  The past few months, I’ve thought to myself: Banks Roscoe Moretti, you old fool, why don’t you play cupid and put these two dummies together? I’ve played Mother Goose to my first-ever client, young Xander Hale—my little chickadee.

  Playing cupid can’t be that hard.

  Except Akara hasn’t just dug in his heels. He’s cemented his ankles in the fucking core of the Earth. The more I try to chisel him out, the more I look over at this strong-willed goddess of a woman. In leagues with Athena and Aphrodite. Joyful, funny, tough-as-nails Sullivan Meadows. And I wonder what the hell I’m doing.

  No one ever warned cupid of accidentally shooting himself with an arrow. Never been good with a bow, anyway. Should’ve seen this clusterfuck coming.

  Because I love Akara.

  I love him too much to ever fuck him over.

  And Sulli—she deserves to be swept off her feet. Probably by Akara. He’s driven like her. He has money. A business.

  He can offer her more than I can.

  All I have is love to give, and seeing as how Akara can give that if he gets his head out of his ass, I’m going to come up short in the horse race.

  I know that.

  I know that.

  Taking a deeper breath, I try to be okay with the state of things. Semper Gumby. Always flexible. I go where the wind blows me. Where I’m needed most.

  Today it’s in an REI.

  Akara and I stand at the end of a shopping aisle. Both our eyes are planted on Sulli as she searches through a bin of plastic camping plates. Out of earshot of our client, Akara whispers to me, “Why were you flirting with her in the Jeep?” If we weren’t friends, he’d have skewered me by now. And I’m not all innocent. I do enjoy busting Akara’s balls now and again.

  “Better question is why you were flirting with her in the Jeep.”

  He adjusts his earpiece. “I wasn’t.”

  “That’s horseshit,” I whisper back, our eyes never leaving Sulli. “You threw a dirty sock at her.”

  “You insinuated she was hot enough to fake-drown for.”

  “She is,” I say. “Tell me fourteen-year-old Akara wouldn’t fake-flail in the deep-end hoping she’d dive down and rescue your ass?”

  “I wouldn’t. Because when I was fourteen, she was eight.”

  I grimace. “Alright, alright, that’s not where I was going, man. She’s twenty-one now.”

  He whisper-hisses, “And I’ve known her since she was sixteen, Banks. She’s like a sister. I’ve told you that. It’s different for you—it’ll always be different.”

  Yeah, I haven’t been her bodyguard for years. I’m not the one she really wants. I joined security right after the Marine Corps and became a bodyguard to Xander Hale. I’ve seen Sulli since I was twenty-two, but I didn’t know her. Didn’t spend time with her. Not like Akara.

  I scratch the back of my head, frustrated, and I lean an arm against a shelf of tin can pots. “Maybe you should go find a mirror and reflect.”

  His eyes flit to me. “Maybe you should go find some cotton swabs and clean your ears out so I don’t have to repeat the same shit a billion times.”

  I nod. “Who wants to tell her we’re making a detour to Bed, Bath, and Beyond after this?”

  Akara smiles.

  I smile back before our gazes return to Sulli.

  “She’s Oscar Mike,” I say, telling him she’s on the move in military lingo. She can’t hear us, but she’s tossing some plastic camping plates into a shopping cart and heading to the next aisle.

  As we walk, a soft thump bangs against my temple. God, I could use a cigarette right now. A few minutes pass, and I’ve gone quiet next to a rack of sleeping bags.

  “What are you doing?” Akara asks, more at my silence.

  “The usual.” I put a toothpick between my teeth and bite down. “Waiting for my best friend to admit to his feelings.”

  “Hey, while you’re waiting, you should go grab a canteen, some water, meal kits for a few dozen years—because it’s going to be a long fucking time.”

  I lift my shoulder in a stiff shrug. “I have forever.”

  He laughs into another smile. “Funny, so do I.”

  My mouth curves up. “You’re almost as stubborn as my brother.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  Thatcher at least acknowledged his attraction to Jane. Akara won’t even admit to himself that Sulli is beautiful. No bodyguard-client boundary forbids him from making a move. He’s the fucking boss, and she won’t fire him.

  Denial—he’s so far in fucking denial that I’m starting to think this is all a lost cause.

  Maybe Akara does just see her like a sister, and my dumbass is putting too much energy in the wrong direction.

  A buzz vibrates my pocket. I pull out my phone. “Speaking of that handsome devil.” Checking the text, my jaw tightens.

  Uncle Joe wants me to invite Tony to the bachelor party. Put him on the list. – Cinderella

  Yeah, I have Thatcher in my phone as Cinderella ever since Donnelly tattooed it on his ass. Barely makes me laugh after reading that text.

  “Fuck,” I mutter and show Akara the message. It’s bad enough Tony Ramella is invited to my brother’s wedding, and now the prick is going to the party.

  Akara looks irritated too. “He’ll probably decline the invite. Right?”

  “He won’t for the same reason Thatcher has to invite him. It’s a family obligation. Uncle Joe is trying to glue-stick everyone back together so there’s not a Capulet and Montague situation.”

  The Ramellas are married into the Morettis and Piscitellis. Tony is family.

  I hate that he’s family as much as Thatcher. Because I’d do anything for family, but Tony…after my brother saved his ass in a fire…he’s still a raging prick.

  He couldn’t give a fuck about my brother or me.

  But I’m not gonna be the one to create a war among my family. My mom is married to Nicola Ramella, and rifts with the Ramellas will directly affect her. She’s had enough hardship in her life. I’m not giving her more.

  I type out a text. Rah.

  That’s it.

  Rah.

  Short for oorah.

  My brother can definitely feel my irritation in those three letters.

  I shove my phone in my pocket. “As if planning this party wasn’t hard enough.”

  Akara glances at me. “You know I can help—”

  “No,” I cut him off. “You have enough on your plate, boss.” Akara needs me. It’s why I’m here in the first place, watching over his client.

  “Not enough that I can’t make time for you,” Akara says. “The offer isn’t evaporating.”

  “Roger copy.” I’m not taking it. For his sake.

  Truth: I never thought throwing Thatcher’s bachelor party would be hard.
I figured it’d be a cake walk. And yeah, I always knew I’d be my brother’s best man one day.

  He’s my twin—he’s been a part of my life before I knew what life was. What he means to me is greater than air, than water. Almost losing him in that fire this year…that was the worst pain I’ve ever felt.

  I’d rather be burned alive.

  Being a best man, easy.

  Organizing a bachelor party, easy. Buy some booze. Some wings and pizza. Probably go to Uncle Joe’s row house, the biggest place among our family that’d cost us nothing.

  Do it cheap.

  Not that I wouldn’t want to spend a lot of money on Thatcher. It’s just not fucking sensible. It’s a party. We grew up saving cash for practical shit. Clothes, toothpaste, the bad-luck day where you get in a wreck or the water heater breaks.

  But Thatcher isn’t marrying some good ole Italian-American girl our grandma introduced him to. Come November 1st—less than two months from now—he’ll be married to a Cobalt.

  American fucking royalty, and now I need to throw a bachelor party that includes Cobalt brothers on the guest list.

  Thatcher has told me, “Let’s not do it at Uncle Joe’s row house.”

  Fuck me.

  Anything for my brother. But opulence isn’t something I understand. Like a gold brick fucking another gold brick, it makes no damn sense to me. Somehow, I gotta pull a rabbit out of a hat so this party looks made-for-royalty.

  Akara and I fixate on Sulli as her phone rings.

  She does a quick 360, making sure no one is in eyesight or earshot. Her eyes sweep me, then Akara for a brief second before answering her cell.

  Squatting, Sulli hides behind a display of mountain bikes, phone to her ear.

  She does that in public sometimes.

  The squat and talk.

  It’s hotter than she knows because she squats with her legs spread open. It takes all my unholy energy not to stare at her so that I can focus on her AO. And her area of operations right now is as riveting as water dripping from a spigot.

  The store is practically empty.

  Too easy.

  No targets, no shitheads, no threats.

  Akara’s eyes are rooted on Sulli. I can’t tell if he’s staring at her pussy, and I’m not about to triple-fucking check like a tennis match to figure it out.

  She talks quietly enough that we can’t hear her call. And the tension from the car ride to REI swarms me like a bad memory. The suffocating heat, her revoking the offer to take her virginity after we were little church mice, silent as can be.

  I tuck hair behind my ear, and I slip Akara a glare.

  “What?” he asks calmly and quietly under his breath.

  “You know you’re an asshole.” My voice is deep and hushed.

  He picks a bright neon-yellow bike helmet off a shelf in reach, and then reaches up to put it on my head. “In what way?” He smiles a little, even as he eyes his four o’clock, scanning the aisle.

  The straps dangle by my chin. “You literally ordered me not to answer her declaration or question—whatever it was in the funhouse. And you’re ignoring her too. Now she’s retracting her offer—and she’s allowed to change her mind,” I add fast, “but how much of that is because we’ve made her uncomfortable by staying silent?”

  Her statement was a moment of sincere vulnerability.

  She said she was comfortable with us.

  Trusted us.

  And we’ve nuked it.

  A groan dies inside his throat, and he places a closed fist on the shelf next to him. Eyes still on Sulli. “There’s no good way to answer it without ruining…what we have.”

  I smack his chest. “Which is?”

  “We’re friends.” He licks his lips, pushing back his black hair. “But it’s not like you and me. The two of us are closer in age. We’re both men. I’ve been friends with you longer. She’s older now…but it’s…” He sighs, confused, then shakes his head. “Her statement was hypothetical anyway. She’s going to have a boyfriend who’ll take her virginity. Let’s just thank whoever it’s not the fucking Rooster.”

  Yeah. Her ex-boyfriend, Will Rochester, is a cock.

  I almost smile, remembering our exchange with Sulli when she found out her boyfriend’s code name on comms.

  “He’s not a cock!” She slugged Akara’s shoulder.

  I laughed, then she slugged mine.

  “His cock is probably ten times bigger than both of yours,” she said in defiance.

  “No way in hell,” I told her.

  She stared at our crotches. Unabashed, brazen as fuck.

  This was almost a year ago. Akara reassured her she wasn’t the butt of a joke, but I get the feeling she’s thinking she’s one now. Left out. And we can’t help that sometimes. Akara and I are older, like he said. We have a friendship that’s different than when she joins us.

  Not better or worse, just different.

  In REI, Akara tells me quietly, “She doesn’t need me or you to do it.” To take her virginity.

  “Then tell her that,” I say. “Tell her something.”

  He shakes his head. “She wants me to say yes.”

  “Then say yes.”

  He goes quiet.

  “Mary Mother of God,” I groan. “Then I’ll say yes.”

  He shoots me a look like no you will not. And we’ve returned to square one.

  Back in the funhouse, I was so close to replying to Sulli, if that’s what you want, I’d be of service. But against better judgment, I turned to Akara. He gave me one of his classic shut the fuck up, Banks looks. So I shut down.

  It wasn’t until Sulli ran out of the funhouse that Akara told me hand-to-heart not to reply to her. Ever. To let her statement languish until it doesn’t exist.

  I’m not a coward. Neither is he.

  But this is fucking cowardly. He’s just so afraid of changing his dynamic with Sulli. He’s gripping onto the past and trying to piece back the remnants, but it’s already gone.

  Probably for the better. She’s not the teenager he used to protect anymore.

  Sulli stands up and pockets her cell.

  We grow quiet as she approaches.

  “My parents called,” she explains. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.” She nods a lot to herself, maybe nervously.

  We’re not scared of her parents. Akara and I were bodyguards to minors before, so we’ve had to deal with their parents throughout the years. He just has more experience with the Meadows than me.

  Sulli pulls her cart closer. “We should finish shopping.” She glances at my helmet, her lips inching in a smile. “I don’t think that one’s your color.”

  I snap the buckles, then eye Akara. “She’s insulting your shopping skills.”

  “Hers aren’t any better.” He places a bright pink helmet on Sulli’s head. “Gotta protect this one.” He knocks the helmet with a light fist.

  “Careful,” I tell Akara, as we walk to the center of the store. “You break it, you bought it.”

  Sulli pushes the cart, staying quiet. She even removes the pink helmet and places it on a rack of lanterns. Red patches roast her cheeks.

  My pulse nosedives. I should’ve just flirted back with her instead of making a joke to Akara. God fucking dammit. She looks more aware like it’s the two of us versus her, and not just the three of us joking around.

  Her neck is flushed, and she actually tries to outpace us. The wheels screech on the cart, and we let her go ahead.

  “Shit,” Akara mutters and fits a baseball hat on backwards.

  We roll to a stop.

  Sulli has halted in front of a display of tents. Two fingers rest to her lips in her iconic concentration face. An expression that has graced sports magazine covers.

  Brown hair falling over her shoulder, she turns to Akara and me. “How fucking big should the tent be? Do I need two—?”

  “Protocol is one,” Akara reminds her. “But if you’d be more comfortable with—”

  “One is fi
ne,” she cuts him off, her voice tight. “Just fucking fine.” She tries to whisper but she’s terrible at it.

  I hang my head, smiling.

  Akara meets my gaze, smiling too. Even in her frustration, she’s really cute.

  “Hey, string bean,” Akara calls to Sulli. “Maybe up it to a four-person tent for this one.” He squeezes my shoulder.

  I smile again, biting on the toothpick.

  She sizes me up, starting from my feet. No, really—she lingers on my feet, on my hands, then my dick. “Yeah, Jane said your brother has a big shoe size.” It tenses the air. “I mean, I’m just guessing your size is the fucking same.”

  “Shoe size, yeah, but we’re not the same.”

  “Oh hey, I know.”

  I nod more. Christ, I feel like a jackass for assuming she might see me like a carbon copy of Thatcher. I hate being treated like we’re the same person.

  We’re two separate human beings with individual thoughts and desires, and I forget we even look alike half the time.

  I motion to a teal four-person tent. “That one looks good.”

  “This one?” she points and looks for confirmation.

  I nod.

  She reads the tag for details.

  Comms crackle in my earpiece, and I hear the Alpha lead. “Price to Akara and Banks, we’re heading inside the store.”

  Akara clicks his mic. “See you.”

  My focused gaze diverts to the entrance. Two bodyguards are escorting a scruffy-jawed fifty-year-old Ryke Meadows and his forty-three-year-old bubbly wife. She’s not bouncing on her toes like usual. Daisy Calloway searches left and right for her daughter. Concern etched in her eyes.

  “Ca-caw!” Daisy calls out.

  Sulli cups her hands over her mouth. “Ca-caw!”

  Daisy spins around in the wrong direction.

  Being six-seven, I’m the only one who can see over the shelves. I wave a hand until Sulli’s mom spots me. Her face lights up, she speaks to Ryke, and they both sprint over to the tents.

  When I was Xander’s bodyguard, I dealt with Ryke’s half-brother: Loren Hale. Xander is a particular client, and mostly Lo was grateful for me and Thatcher.

  Ryke is different. He’s told me, “Don’t get too fucking close” when I was already standing four hockey sticks away from Sulli.