Wild Like Us

by Ritchie, Krista

  Akara shoots me a blunt, fuck you look, then whips out his phone as we make our way back to camp.

  I try not to laugh too much. “Who are you texting?”

  Sulli steps over a fallen tree trunk.

  “Farrow,” Akara says. “I’m asking to get them removed tonight.”

  He was supposed to get his stitches out tomorrow. I laugh. “Asking or commanding?”

  Akara’s not the kind of person to ask permission for something he wants, even if it’s from a doctor.

  He doesn’t reply to that, just keeps texting.

  Sulli and I share a smile. These past seven days have been comical seeing Akara out of his element. Taking a small step back in terms of physical labor has put him in a fucking tizzy. No lifting. No carrying a backpack. Per his doctor’s orders.

  Sometimes I wonder if he’d be okay with using this time to catch up on work—send emails, make business calls, all that paper-pushing shit—if he weren’t competing for Sulli’s time. But it’s not like he’s ordered me to go the fuck away.

  Akara has the power to say, Banks, your detail is changing. I’m transferring you to Maximoff for the rest of the trip.

  It’d be understandable. Farrow is on the med team. As SFO’s glorified floater, I’ve floated over to Maximoff’s detail pretty often so Farrow could take med calls.

  No way in hell am I complaining about Akara’s insistence to keep me on Sulli’s detail with him. I don’t want to be anywhere else. It crashes against me. Because I’ve never cared too much about where I’m told to go, I just go.

  For once, I want to be rooted to something.

  To someone.

  Akara makes a frustrated noise at his phone.

  “What?” Sulli asks.

  “He’s not replying.” Akara touches his mic, and I can hear him through my earpiece. “Akara to Farrow, what’s your location? I need these stitches out tonight.”

  Christ help me, I struggle not to laugh.

  Farrow’s reply is quick. “You’re getting them removed tomorrow morning, Kitsuwon. See you at seven a.m.”

  Akara huffs.

  Sulli looks to me since she can’t hear through the mic.

  “Farrow didn’t budge,” I tell her. “Oh-seven-hundred, we’re getting our old Akara back.”

  Sulli nudges Akara’s good elbow with hers. “Oh hey, don’t fucking stress. What’s one more night taking it easy?”

  We all talk on our way back to the new campsite.

  Moments between our friendly banter, the tension returns. And there’s not just one source anymore.

  Akara and I are dating the same girl; Sulli still has to choose one of us, and the three of us hooked up in a tent seven days ago—the tension is a badly mixed cocktail of awkward, painful, and hot as hell things.

  At the end of the line, Akara and I have a job to do.

  And ever since we packed up our tent and moved campsites, security has been harder. Right now, we step into the new camp, nestled less in the woods. Parking lot is in view, and a road curves around different camping spots.

  All security risks.

  Our teal tent is erected in the “tents only” section, and we’ve parked Sulli’s Jeep a few feet away. The “RVs only” area is a good five-minute trek.

  It’s a better distance if something else goes down, and it also gives us privacy away from SFO and her cousins. If my big mouth spends too much time with my brother, I’m still worried I might say shit I shouldn’t—and the longer I’m with Sulli, the more I wish I could confide in Thatcher.

  I’m usually the one giving him advice.

  But lately, I feel like I need him to remind me that I’m gonna lose her. Because I keep dreaming of a life with her beyond Yellowstone, and it’s gonna kill me when she leaves me behind.

  Second.

  I’m always second choice, second place.

  I try to leave that behind as Sulli and I drop our firewood outside our tent. Akara’s phone buzzes with a text.

  Sulli jabs a thumb to the Jeep. “I’m grabbing my toiletries, then heading for the showers.” She points at me while walking backwards. “Stay frosty.”

  My mouth curves up. “Stop stealing my lines.”

  “Copyright them then!” she shouts, waving goodbye as she sprints to the Jeep like she’s in a race with herself.

  I watch her for an extended minute. Ensuring she’s safe, then my focus pinpoints on other campers: a bright orange tent, a green tent—only two campsites down. In distance to chuck a football at us.

  And they’re the only other campers at this tents only area. We’d move further away, but this is the closest spot to the new rock Sulli is gonna free-solo.

  Plus, they popped up their tents after us.

  Back in South Philly, I wouldn’t move my ass off a pub stool during an airing of Friday Night Fight (pro-wrestling), and I’m not about to move my ass now.

  Name’s Banks Roscoe Moretti. I’m a prideful motherfucker. I almost laugh out loud at my own joke like a dumbass.

  Get your mind right.

  Snap to.

  I narrow my gaze on the campers.

  They look like granola-eating, B.O.-smelling, earth-kissing twenty-somethings. Basically older versions of Ben Cobalt and Sulli’s little sister Winona.

  Right now, they ogle Sulli like they recognize her. Maybe not know her. But they at least know of her. And in the past week, this isn’t the first time their eyes have super-glued to Sulli.

  Akara slips his phone in his pocket. Sidling to me, he follows my gaze. “I found those four on Instagram.”

  “Right on,” I say, impressed.

  “It wasn’t hard. They hashtagged Rattlesnake Knuckle, and it’s not a popular tag to filter through.”

  Sulli has been climbing the Rattlesnake Knuckle route this week. Only with safety gear so far. She said it’s a harder climb.

  It’s taller at over a hundred meters. 400-feet up. The rock is a slick slab with a wide fissure running through the center.

  Just as I’m about to ask more about the campers, Sulli closes the trunk. Akara and I focus on her like she’s the only living, breathing soul in these woods.

  She sees us watching and checks us out like our staring is an invitation. “Hey.” Her voice sounds raspier as she nears.

  Mary, Mother of God, I’m in way too fucking deep.

  Akara adjusts his earpiece, his muscles flexed. “You ready for that shower?”

  Her face reddens. Don’t blame her when Akara’s question could imply we’ll be taking a shower with her. Like we did after the cougar attack.

  He runs a hand through his hair and his eyes drift over her for a second. “We’ll be outside the door.”

  “Fuck, yeah. No, I knew that.” She’s quicker than normal hightailing it to the bathroom. And it takes me a second to catch up and jog out in front of her.

  The campground only has one communal bathroom, equipped with three shower stalls. Before she reaches the knob, I open the door and check each stall. Confirming they’re empty.

  I nod to Akara in the doorway.

  He nods back.

  Sulli bypasses me to the furthest shower from the door.

  “We’ll be right outside,” I tell her. Christ, my voice sounds fucking deeper. “Yell if you need anything.”

  She gives me a thumbs-up, her chest rising in a heady breath, then disappears. Tension strings between her and us, and I can’t cut it. The campground isn’t as private as the other one.

  It’s not like before.

  But holy hell am I pent-up. Moments like this from an Olympian are giving me Olympic-quality blue-balls.

  Going outside, I shut the bathroom door and stand beside Akara.

  He leans against the brick siding. “I screwed that up,” he exhales, his eyes drifting to the other campers. “I hate this campsite.”

  “Copy that.” I pop a toothpick in my mouth. “Can’t even pee in the woods without looking over my fucking shoulder.”

  We go quiet.
r />   I want to ask him something. I glance at him, then scan the campsite.

  He glances at me like he wants to ask something too, then looks away. “Are you going to say it or am I?”

  “You are my leader.” I bite on the toothpick.

  Akara goes ahead and asks, “Did we have a threesome?”

  I lean back too. “Is it a threesome if you and I didn’t do anything?”

  “Fuck if I know, man.” Akara snaps a finger to his palm. “I’ve never hooked up with a girl with another guy before.”

  “Me either.”

  Akara asks, “What about two other girls?”

  I shake my head. “No, have you?”

  “Once.” Akara frowns, thinking. “This felt so different than that. It wasn’t casual or…” He has trouble finding the exact words.

  “Yeah, I know,” I nod, already understanding.

  It was the most emotional, intimate moment I’ve ever had with a girl. And we didn’t even have sex. And another guy was there.

  The worst part is liking what we did. Because one of us isn’t going to be with her. The silent fact lingers, and we share a more distraught look before our gazes return to the campsites.

  “Incoming,” I say.

  Two campers have left the orange tent.

  A dirty-blonde, curly-haired woman and a wiry, white guy with a North Face headband venture our way.

  Tilting my head, I whisper to Akara. “What do you know about them?”

  “They’re a climbing team named Team Apex. They live in Bozeman, but they hop from campsite to campsite around the Yellowstone region for climbs.”

  Do they have ulterior motives?

  Some fans are masquerading as hecklers. They go in for a simple autograph or selfie but actually wish a famous one would do something awkward or say something stupid—just so they can post a human slipup for clout with their friends.

  I mean, one snapshot of a glare, and they’ll just deem them asshole celebrities.

  Truth: I prefer the clients who want me to shove strangers away from them. Like Xander and Sulli. I love when I can be short and threatening and not give a damn if a heckler throws a tantrum at my feet. I’ve had to haul asses away from Xander so that he could just simply cross the fucking street.

  And while Sulli’s not nearly as famous or draws as many crowds, I’ll do the same for her.

  Even now.

  I gear up to lightly brush them off.

  But I don’t expect what comes out of the guy’s mouth.

  28

  AKARA KITSUWON

  “Ryke Meadows isn’t welcome on this mountain, and neither is his daughter,” the scrawny Team Apex guy states like this is a casual opener to a conversation. I recognize him from Instagram. His name is Lincoln and the girl beside him is Jordyn.

  While he stuffs his hands in his pockets, he leans back on his heels like he nonchalantly said, hey, how’s it going?

  Jordyn nods in agreement with him.

  Lovely.

  We’ve encountered two pricks who think a mountain belongs to them. Growing up in an affluent neighborhood, these are some of my least favorite people to run into. For Banks, who grew up in a poor neighborhood, these are also some of his least favorite people to run into.

  He glares at them like they’re human stink bugs.

  There’s less heat in my eyes. One of us needs to deescalate.

  Calmly, I say, “I take it you’re not a Ryke Meadows fan.”

  Banks effortlessly sidesteps to block the bathroom door fully, but they’re not paying him enough attention to notice.

  Lincoln snorts. “The guy is a sellout, dude. Have you seen his Ziff commercial? He’s out there chugging a knock-off Gatorade for cash, and he wants to be known as the best climber? Fuck that.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Jordyn chimes in. “Climbing should be pure. Not something to be profited on.”

  “Knockoff Gatorade,” Banks grumbles under his breath. They don’t hear, and I try not to smile. Ziff is a Fizzle product, and he might as well have insulted the Calloway sisters. Sulli’s mom.

  Also, Ziff is quality.

  I bite back an inciting retort. “Sullivan isn’t Ryke,” I tell them, hating that I even say these words because I’d like to defend Ryke too. But this will calm them faster, and we don’t need enemies at our camp. “She’s here to climb just like you two.”

  “Not like us,” Lincoln points to the bathroom. “She’s in there alone. Taking up the whole bathroom. There are three stalls.”

  Jordyn nods strongly. “Spoiled princesses shouldn’t be climbing Rattlesnake Knuckle. Tell her to stick to indoor rock walls.”

  They both leave like that’s the endnote.

  Shit.

  “What asswipes,” Banks says gruffly. “Ben and Winona would never.”

  “What?” I make a face.

  “Those climbers don’t own this mountain,” he tells me more angrily.

  I almost smile. “Don’t tell them that,” I say like an order. “We can’t have them pissed at us. It’ll just distract her.”

  Sulli is going to eventually free-solo once she feels comfortable climbing the route.

  Banks just nods, then grimaces.

  “What’s that look?”

  “I hate how easy it is for me to take orders that I don’t like.”

  “It’s why you’re good at what you do,” I remind him. “Someone has to be the yes-man.”

  “More like yes sir man.”

  I give him a pointed look. “Start calling me sir and see what happens.”

  “You’d probably get a nice boner.”

  With a smile, I quip, “I do love being in power.”

  He smacks my chest lightly with the back of his hand, and then suddenly, the bathroom door opens that he’s leaning on. Banks steadies himself before falling through the opened doorway.

  We both look at Sulli.

  Dressed in a clean pair of workout leggings and sweatshirt, she squeezes out her wet hair. “Are you two talking about boners without me?” Her lips downturn like she’s been left out.

  I tilt my head. “FOMEFT is really hitting you hard.” Fear of Missing Every Fucking Thing is Sulli’s version of FOMO (Fear of Missing Out).

  “I’m usually the one cracking the boner jokes.”

  “Beat you to it, mermaid,” Banks says.

  Before we can crack more jokes, I let Sulli in on what the campers said. I’m not going to hide anything from her, and she needs to know who to trust.

  Definitely not them.

  When I finish, she doesn’t look too shocked. “Lots of climbing forums have whole threads about my dad. Most climbers dislike him for the same reasons. He’s a ‘sell out’ or fucking whatever. It’s not worth my energy. Can we just ignore them?”

  “Already ignored,” I tell her. But that’s not completely true. It’s my job to keep threats on my radar. They’re in my line of sight from now on.

  Over the years I’ve spent on Sulli’s detail, I’ve mentally added up the number of people that were blatant assholes. Not close to the number of shits that’d spew hate towards Jane Cobalt.

  But insults were hard on Sullivan. Sulli the Sasquatch signs and haters who were jealous of her success. Saying she wasn’t deserving of gold. They couldn’t see how many hours and months and years she sacrificed. All they saw was her wealth and fame.

  A bright spot: Sulli has kept mostly under the radar and didn’t grow up on We Are Calloway like the Cobalts and most of the Hales, which has given her some escape from the harsher judgment.

  Her teammates on the Olympic swim team were kind to her. To her face and behind her back. I’d have called them her friends, but Sulli always shuts that word down. She couldn’t confide in her teammates about her family. Didn’t trust them fully, so to her, they couldn’t be more than acquaintances.

  I don’t know what that’s completely like. I grew up with friends in high school. Bandmates on the drum-line. Other teenagers who did martial arts. People
that I actually cared about and people who cared about me.

  But after my dad died, all my energy was put into my gym, and I pushed a lot of people away in favor of working to build my empire.

  Returning to our camp, we start a fire, and Banks and I take turns hiking to the bathroom to shower off. When I come back to the tent, I spend a good deal of time replying to emails, filling in Thatcher about Team Apex, and then checking in with Michael Moretti.

  He arrived in Philly.

  He’s settled in, hopefully.

  And as far as his short texts and calls go, he said he has everything handled. Normally I like brevity. It saves me time to do other shit, but from Banks’ dad…it’s unnerving.

  Maybe because I haven’t shaken his hand yet. Or given him a personal walk-through and rundown.

  It’ll be fine.

  It’s going to be fine.

  So I shove my phone in my pocket. By the time I walk over to the fire, my stomach is growling.

  Dinner for today: an add-water pouch of Beef Stroganoff for me and Banks. And for Sulli—the new vegan—a cup of oatmeal.

  Sulli is already grimacing as she chews. “It’s the consistency.”

  Banks says, “We have dried cranberries and salted nuts if you’re into squirrel food.”

  Sulli mixes the oatmeal. “I’m more of whatever fucking animal likes chocolate syrup and whipped cream.”

  I lift a spoonful of Stroganoff. “Sounds like a Sulli animal to me.”

  We laugh.

  I ask her, “Remember when you made me plug your nose while you drank your protein shakes? You took that worse than your hundred pushups a day.”

  “Because those protein shakes smelled like a whale’s butthole. You’d be plugging your nose, too.”

  Banks wolfs down his food. The Stroganoff is subpar to me but not inedible. Another month here, and I’ll probably be craving spicy buffalo wings or a Thai omelet.

  The Thai omelet heavies my chest. Reminding me of my mom in New York. When I was a kid, it was pretty much the only thing she knew how to cook well.

  I glance at a text from this morning.

  I’m doing better, Nine. No need to worry about me. Have fun in Yellowstone. Love, Mom – Mom