With my limited experience in kissing, I just think his lips look like they’d do the job fucking well. The same way that Banks’ long tongue looks good for eating girls out.
Some lusty observations aside, I focus on Akara. “Kits,” I call out to him. “You should turn around and cover Banks’ ass. Spread the love.”
Akara smiles back at me. “Your boobs are more important, Sul.”
“Amen,” Banks chimes in.
I laugh, but the sound slowly fades. A part of me wishes they were actually flirting and not just cracking crude jokes with me.
They quiet down as the teens gain speed. Banks edges closer, his chest almost brushes up against my back. He maintains a sliver of space and seems aware not to touch me.
I can’t help but focus on him. On the closeness. On the not-yet-there touch. His body heat prickles my skin, and my pulse thumps.
Hot guys can become ugly the second they open their mouths and heinous shit comes out. So I don’t put a lot of stock in good looks, but Banks Moretti is a beefcake at first sight.
Scruffy jaw and a strong pairing of muscles with an imposing height.
After getting to know him, he’s a sweeter, beefier beefcake. He can make me double-over laughing, and he’s only ever been considerate and nice to me.
Banks’ and Akara’s vigilant eyes rest on the teenagers, then up ahead to our destination: a row of porta potties near a kiddy train-car ride. Akara speaks softly in his mic, and Banks adjusts his earpiece.
With our easy banter, I forget that they’re not just two buddies. Two of my friends.
They’re my bodyguards.
Akara Kitsuwon is the one who acts like Sullivan Meadows on the verge of pissing herself is the funniest crap since last week where I ate asphalt doing a shitty trick on a skateboard. What’s funny is that Akara looks more like a twenty-seven-year-old pro-skateboarder. He’s even wearing a pair of scuffed Vans and a black tank that shows his lean-cut muscles. But he’s worse than even me at attempting an ollie.
His skills are in Muay Thai, snowboarding, rapid-fire texting, and being a badass boss.
To think he’s the leader of an entire team of men would shock a lot of people. Not just because he looks ready to hit a skate ramp. But because he’s younger than five of the six men he leads.
As far as how he fits in my life…I can barely remember a time where he wasn’t there. He’s been my permanent bodyguard since my ripe teenage years of sixteen. Where I was determined to win gold.
Banks Moretti, on the other hand, I’ve gotten to know more personally in my ripe adulthood of twenty. Where I’ve free-spirited my way into new experiences: my first international trip without my mom or dad, my first kiss, my first failed romance.
He’s the floater on Omega who always seems to float towards my detail, and he’s really good friends with Akara.
They’ve never said it explicitly to me, but I can tell in so many different ways.
Like how they speak through single glances. How they feed off each other’s jokes. How they know exactly what’ll push the other one’s buttons—and they seem to not only appreciate the raw honesty, but they rely on it.
Making friendships outside of my family are often anxiety-ridden and fucking hard. Seeing theirs in action sometimes causes real envy. Internally, I feel like I turn into a six-foot green goblin, but they help smother those feelings because they pull me in like I’m part of their clique.
Buddies.
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.