“Spend the night with us,” Winona says fast. “I whale-y miss you, sis.”
I sit up more. “I whale-y miss you too, Nona.” And I’ll gladly take a night with my family. Avoidance can’t be that fucking bad for the soul. Not when I’m with my sister and my mom and my dad. “Let’s go home.”
“Groovy,” Winona smiles, stepping on the gas.
Windows down, wind whips through the car, and I wonder if it’s strange that I call my childhood house home. I haven’t lived there for a couple years, and still, it feels like home.
Where I’m safest. But if I want to experience more out of life, how much higher do I really need to fly from the nest?
Pulling out my phone, I type out a text.
I’m spending the night at the cottage with my fam
I add a thumbs-up emoji and send it to Akara.
My phone buzzes in a second flat.
K. Call me if you need anything or if you leave. – Kits
It’s so formal.
No emojis. No gifs.
I can’t tell what’s happening to my friendships, except that they’re changing. I wanted them to in a way, but not like this. And I don’t have many left to destroy, but they’re all imploding around me.
3
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
TEN DAYS LATER
I wake up before the crack of fucking dawn.
Sleep and I are mortal enemies. If I’m being particularly honest here, Sleep can go fuck itself. There’s so much I can do in those hours of slumber. So much I can accomplish. But my time is thieved away, and I hate that sleep is a requirement to function at full capacity.
It’s what I think every time I wake up in the early morning. Today—it’s 3 a.m. My retro alarm clock glows a pale blue light as I roll out of bed.
A small smile inches up my lips.
Sometimes it feels like I’m giving Sleep the middle finger every time I wake before sunrise. Fuck Sleep. Fuck it good in the ass. I let out a soft, quiet laugh.
In middle school, I was sent to the principal’s office more than once for my crude humor and…flowery language. Most of the time the other kids ratted me out. “Sullivan just called the class fish pussy lips!” was probably the loudest and most blatant act of throwing me under the bus. I still have those tire marks on my back.
In my fucking defense, that goldfish totally had big ole pussy lips and if the teacher had a funny bone attached to her body, she would’ve let out a fraction of a giggle.
My mom at least laughed when she picked me up from the office.
I guess I was just raised to not give a shit. To say fuck it all. Cursing. Crass humor. All the profane things were never profane to me. They still really aren’t.
My feet fall to the ground, careful not to make too much noise. Habit, really. From the time that I roomed with Luna in the small townhouse.
Now in a monster-sized Philly penthouse with a monster-sized bedroom all to myself, I have less reason to be quiet. But I still tiptoe to my dresser and wrestle through the neatly folded shorts and tops.
Normally, I’d wake Akara up at 3 a.m. He’s used to my odd-hour wakeup calls to go for a run. But I have major news to unleash, and I’d rather deliver it at an appropriate hour.
4 a.m. seems more doable.
I try not to think about the other reason I’m biding time to interact with my bodyguard.
The funhouse.
My stomach twists. I haven’t spoken to Akara or Banks about that night. Really, we haven’t had any serious conversations since the Carnival Fundraiser.
They’ve just done their bodyguard thing, and I’ve been happy to pretend that night never existed.
Fuck, that’s a lie.
Did I mention I’m a shit liar? Can’t even formulate one in my own head.
To be fucking crystal clear, I totally, sincerely wish that I could just look them both square in the face and ask, “Are you fucking attracted to me?” Sometimes…most of the time…it feels like no one ever is.
I’m every guy’s friend.
Best buddy.
The girl pal.
Someone to shoot the shit with but not someone to bang. It didn’t ever used to bother me this much. Because I’m raised by a mom that taught me not to put my worth in the hands of what men think about me. But it’s hard to be the daughter of a former high fashion model, the daughter of a sex symbol, and not feel like maybe I didn’t inherit one tiny piece of her beauty. Her charm.
I’m charmless.
I’m just crude.
I blow hot breath out of my nose.
Too bad I’m also stubborn as hell, and like fuck will I be less crude for anyone. I take another check of the clock. With an hour to kill, I quickly change into a sports bra, gray muscle shirt and some turquoise nylon shorts. A weight bench is pushed up against the far side of my room, and I start slipping on the plates to each end.
I can get a solid workout in before I confront Akara.
Confront.
Wrong choice of word. I sit on the bench.
Talk.
Better.
I grab the bar over my head, and as soon as my fingers curl over the metal, I let all the thoughts drift out of my head. After years of training for the Olympics, I’ve learned how to focus. To empty the invasive thoughts to make way for the here and now.
I count in my head with each rep.
The ache in my muscles goads me to keep going and sweat builds up along my skin. Halfway through, my breathing heavies and it takes more energy to do the same movements.
When my arms start quaking like jelly, I set the bar back in its rack. I may love pushing my limits, but I don’t have a spotter. And an injury is a worse outcome.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my arm, and my eyes flit to the clock.
3:45 a.m.
Close enough. The longer I prolong talking to Akara—the more I’m going to be chicken-shit scared and back out. I can’t back out.
I made up my mind last night. And that’s that.
Grabbing my water bottle from the nightstand, I make a quick exit from my room. I wind through the hallway and leave through the front door, entering a foyer with an elevator.
Akara lives three floors below the penthouse in a two-bedroom apartment with some of the other Security Force Omega bodyguards.
His roommates: Banks Moretti, Paul Donnelly, and Quinn Oliveira.
As the elevator drops me off, and I walk down the hallway of the 30th floor, I type out a quick text to Akara. At your door. Can we talk?
I don’t overthink it before I hit send, and then I slide my cell into my shorts pocket.
Waiting for a reply, I pop the lid to my water bottle. At this early hour, it’s no surprise that the hallway is empty and dead quiet. Water rushes down the back of my throat.
The door suddenly opens—
A very shirtless Banks Moretti exits the apartment.
I inhale quickly and choke in surprise.
“You alright?” Banks whispers in concern and softly shuts the apartment door behind him. That’s strange. But it’s hard to focus on his actions when I’m coughing into my elbow.
I nod vigorously. “It just”—I motion to my throat—“went down the wrong way.” Because I was expecting someone else. Not you.
And not a half-naked you.
Gray drawstring pants hang low like he threw them on quickly to meet me in the hall. Dog tags lie against his unshaven chest. More hair leads down his sculpted body, a trail right to his package.