“Fucking jeez, are we in the Labyrinth?”
“Not unless Akara is David Bowie,” Banks jokes.
I laugh. “Maybe we should shake Kits down. See if he’s still Kits.”
Banks smiles down at me. “You just want to fondle his ass.”
“So what if I do? I like his ass.”
“She likes your ass,” Banks says to Akara.
“I knew it,” Akara says to him, like I professed my undying love.
Their teasing is flushing me head to toe. And I just really love their friendship, and fuck, I’m glad it’s fully intact.
“After you,” Banks tells me, and I realize I haven’t stepped through the doorway.
I go into the next hall first, but I can tell they checked for threats. No one is out in front of me. So I walk a little ahead until they lead again. They go left.
How they’ve memorized this maze of a hotel, I’ll never understand.
Banks casts a glance back. “You aced that interview.”
“Fuck, really?” I’m not the best at interviews. Never have been. Even from the FanCon tour days, I’ve seemed to either stumble and fuck up or be too quiet.
Banks nods.
Akara shakes his head.
I gape.
Akara says, “Could’ve used a little less Kingly.”
I almost snort.
Of course he’d say that. I want to tell him how bringing up Kingly was a total diversion, something my cousin Charlie would have concocted. Like a powerhouse chess move. I don’t say anything though, mostly because Charlie is a sore subject.
Banks resents him for blackmailing me in Yellowstone.
Akara dislikes him because he says he can’t trust him. He thinks Charlie will always hurt people he loves. He’s done it too many times now.
I’m trying to forgive Charlie for being an ass. The more Akara and Banks hate him, the more I find myself coming to his defense. Like the hate is just too fucking strong towards my family member, and he needs another person in his corner.
The fucking irony is that Charlie would probably kick me out of his corner and want to stand alone.
By the time we reach a long stretch of hallway, elevators in view at the end, my stomach grumbles.
“Hungry?” Banks asks.
“Yeah, we should definitely head to the fucking caf after this…” I trail off, noticing four broad-built men slip behind us into the hallway, which has been mostly desolate since we left the roof.
No notebooks or “reporter” vibes—they look like they stepped out of a King of the Ring pay-per-view that I’ve watched with Banks.
It’s nothing. I try to shrug off their presence. I bet they’re just security for anchors. These are big-time news reporters after all.
Akara slides a hand to the small of my back. He pushes me forward towards the elevator. Banks steps behind me too.
It’s nothing. “No boob coverage?” I joke.
“In a sec,” Akara says lightly as we keep walking.
My pulse hikes because that second quickly becomes a minute. I want to make a joke about double-ass coverage, but I can’t surface the words.
We reach the elevators.
“What do you feel like eating today?” Akara asks, casual enough. I can’t detect any hint of worry in his voice.
Banks punches the button beside the closed elevator doors. His hand feels heavier on my shoulder.
“Um…if I could say a donut, I would,” I reply. “Fuck, I’m going to have the biggest baddest donut when we get back home.” Home meaning Philly.
After the Olympics.
“We’ll have a couple with you, mermaid,” Banks tells me, his voice a little stilted.
He’s less good at acting casual. Or maybe I can just tell that he’s more tensed than I can tell with Akara. Are they that concerned about the four men behind us? I brave a glance.
The men linger for the elevator. They aren’t in suits or button-downs. Just plain tees and jeans. No lanyards. No badges.
Banks sidesteps and blocks my view before the men can catch me staring. They wait for the elevator too, but this is probably the only elevator on this floor.
Beep.
The elevator light blinks. Metal doors slide open. I’m leading the pack, the first one to step inside. Akara follows me, but Banks remains out in the hall. My heartbeat spikes. What’s going on? He’s turned around and saying something softly to the four men.
“Kits,” I breathe, raw concern latching my voice. “Tell Banks to get in here. Tell him.”
Akara presses P1 on the panel of buttons. He turns to me, and our eyes lock for a fraction of a second but what feels like centuries.
“We’ll meet you down there,” he whispers.
“Kits.” I hear my sheer terror. And I almost reach for his hand, but I stop myself. My breath halts. No.
We can go.
The three of us.
We can leave together.
This isn’t happening.
They’re fine.
“I love you, Sul.” He slips out of the elevator. My throat dries and I pin myself to this spot. Do what he says. Do what he says. Don’t make their jobs harder.
Pulse racing, I convince myself those four guys are just there to talk to Akara and Banks. I convince myself that they’re waiting to catch an elevator ride to the lobby, and my bodyguards just don’t want them to share the same small space as me.
I convince myself of all these things.
The elevator doors begin to slide closed, and in an instant, my illusion ruptures.
All four men charge the elevator.
The last thing I see is Banks holding back the assault, and Akara buckling forward.
27
BANKS MORETTI
They want in the elevator—they want Sulli—and I’m a brick wall they’re never sledge-hammering through. 1 to 4, I’m expecting a knockout battle considering they outweigh me. The Fucker, the Bastard, the Shitbag, and the Prick.
I’m prepared for hell as the four of them crash forward, and with a scream inside my lungs—you’re not reaching Sulli—I deck the Fucker and physically restrain the Shitbag and Prick with hand thrusts and a fist to the gut.
The fourth guy, the Bastard—I’m not taking care of him.
Because Akara is.
I just notice my metamour at my side. He’s not with Sulli. Sulli is safe in the elevator. Give her enough time to escape. The three thoughts torpedo through my head.
2 to 4. It’s still an unfair fight anyway I toss it, but with my size and our combined skill, I like our odds a lot more.
That’s until I see Akara caving inward and blood pooling between his closed fingers.
I lose it.
Red with rage, I throw the strongest elbow to the Prick’s windpipe. He chokes and buckles at the knees. Hacking up a lung.
2 to 3.
I’m already tearing through two men to reach the Bastard that hurt Akara.
“Get back!” I yell.
Right as I reach the Bastard, he kicks Akara in the ribs, and then I thrash an uppercut to his jaw. He grunts and stumbles with a thunk into the wall. A bloodied knife clatters out of his hand.
I go to grab the weapon.
And from behind me, a bicep suddenly hooks around my throat.
Fuck.
He tries dragging me backwards. I try to turn out and throw the Fucker over my head. He’s too heavy. Just as strong, and I struggle to breathe. Mic yanks out of my ear—didn’t have time to call backup to meet Sulli.