She’d be safe. That’s all that fucking matters. Screw the rest. I whirl around.
And around.
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
I run a hand through my hair and jog halfway up the row of Teslas. I’m tempted to call out her name, but I don’t want to draw attention. A trendy fedora-wearing couple walk hand-in-hand through the parking garage. The sound of a beeping car lock goes off.
I pull out my phone.
“Banks?”
I spin around.
Seeing the candy-apple red windbreaker, long legs—Sulli slips out from behind a large blue garbage can where she’d been hiding, and I run to my girlfriend with all my might. She holds her arms around herself, her eyes bloodshot.
“Thank God,” I breathe and pull her into my arms, holding her tight.
She shudders and clings against me in more than just post-shock. “Your face…” I must be bleeding. Panic lights her eyes. “Akara—where’s Kits?” Her voice spikes. “Is he…?”
“We have to go.” I grab her hand, and with a racing pulse, we move out.
28
AKARA KITSUWON
I can’t do nothing. Just sitting here. Weakly and with searing heat along my waist, I use comms and alert SFO of the detained threat. Thatcher and Oscar are on their way. Just in case we need more backup.
I call in the assault to the authorities. Just in case GBA’s security didn’t listen to me. They’re not my men. They’re not even Triple Shield. I honestly have no fudging clue who they are or what they’re trained to do. They could be three floors up struggling to restrain the men we knocked out.
Somehow, I get out the words. Our location. The assailants. The danger. All over again.
It’s already been called in, I’m told.
When I hang up the phone, I’m not even thinking about the hours I’m going to have to spend detailing what happened to the cops. Or the paperwork my own firm is going to have on their hands.
I’m just thinking about her.
I imagine Banks pulling her to safety. I imagine his arms around her while she tucks herself to his chest, and it’s the only solace I have in this damn stairwell.
It’s the only peace I want to die inside.
Lightheaded, I rest my temple against the wall. And then I think, do I have enough strength in me to move? If I stand up on my own, will I pass out?
I want to try, but as soon as I bend my knees, stars dot my vision, and I almost black-out.
I stop.
I breathe.
And just when I’m about to succumb to the fact that I might die alone and forgotten—I hear footsteps. Ascending towards me.
“Kits!” she shouts.
Tears prick my eyes. Angry, happy tears—and as soon as she races into view and I see she’s okay, I glare at Banks, “I said get her out.”
“I couldn’t leave you.”
I have no reply because for once, I’m glad he didn’t listen to me.
He grabs my forearm and heaves me to my feet. Sulli pulls my other arm over her broad shoulders. They brace my weight.
And help me move.
Celebrity Crush – July 28th
Sullivan Meadows’ Bodyguard & Boyfriend, Akara Kitsuwon, Stabbed Protecting the Olympic Swimmer
We’ve just received news that Akara Kitsuwon & Banks Moretti were in an altercation with four unidentified men in the Haverford Hotel in L.A. The police were called to the scene after the incident, and all four men have been arrested. Sources say that the assailants were looking to stop Sullivan Meadows from competing in her upcoming Olympic events by attacking the swimmer. With a leg break? A stab wound? Celebrity Crush can’t verify their complete intentions, but boy, does this sound familiar. Echoes of the 1994 incident with ice skater Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan, anyone? (See article: Ice Skater Nancy Kerrigan Attacked!) Luckily, Sullivan Meadows’ bodyguards were there to protect her! While our Olympic star walked away unscathed, the same can’t be said for her boyfriends. Sources say that Akara Kitsuwon was stabbed, and Banks Moretti has minor injuries from the fight.
No word on whether Akara Kitsuwon was hospitalized.
Subscribe to Celebrity Crush to keep updated on his whereabouts.
29
AKARA KITSUWON
I didn’t go to the hospital.
Despite Sulli and Banks’ pleas, I’ve parked myself in Farrow’s hotel suite. The place where the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts are staying was only a couple blocks from the attack. What Banks called “a resort not a fucking hotel” after seeing the pool’s water slide and grotto swim-up bar our first day in California.
I’d rather be here than stoking more headlines about being effing stabbed.
But mostly, this is way faster than waiting in the ER. We’re outside the Olympic Village right now, and Sulli needs to be in the stadium and prepping for the Mixed Relay in less than two hours.
Factor in L.A. traffic, and we don’t have time to waste.
She’s been refusing to go with Banks until she’s 100% positive I’m not going to take a turn for the worse.
“I’m not leaving,” Sulli declares again, probably off the intensity of my gaze.
“Imagining you losing a medal tonight because of me hurts worse than being stabbed in the fudging abdomen.”
“And you bleeding out while I’m in a pool trying to win a trinket will haunt me for fucking life.”
“An Olympic medal isn’t a trinket.”
“You mean so much more to me, Kits,” she combats. “So stop telling me to go.”
I’ve never wanted to be the reason Sulli has failed, anymore than she’s wanted to be the reason I need to sell Studio 9. But I love her, and I’m listening to her pleas.
Just to make our lives more interesting—and awkward—the suite is packed.
SFO is here, and they’re hearing me argue with Sul. I’m honestly surprised Oscar hasn’t broken out a Snickers bar and popcorn yet.
Banks has his arms around Sulli while she hovers near me at the suite’s dining table. First-aid gauze and antiseptic spread out. I’m shirtless, slouched on a dining chair with a water bottle in a limp hand.
Farrow is seated close. “He’s not going to bleed out, Meadows.” Wearing surgical gloves, he meticulously uses forceps and suture thread to stitch my wound. “The blade didn’t hit any arteries or nerves or organs. No infection, from what I can tell.” His eyes flit up to mine. “You’re a lucky fucker. Again.”
Again.
It takes me a solid second to realize he’s referring to the cougar attack from last fall.
I shift a little in the chair. Stifling a wince, and I focus on Banks.
He has butterfly tape over a gash in his eyebrow. Farrow said he’d stitch him after me. But except for the cut and a couple busted ribs, Banks is okay.
He’s okay.
She’s okay.
Everyone knows I’m not okay, but like the cougar attack, I don’t give a crap about the severity of the injury—as long as I’m able to stand up and walk over to Sulli.