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?”