“Is that Sullivan Meadows?” a girl yells loudly from the pack of teenagers.
I do the dumb fucking thing and look. As I make slight eye-contact, they all start shouting my name.
“SULLIVAN!”
I can’t stop and chat.
“SULLIVAN!”
“CAN WE GET A SELFIE?”
I really will piss myself in that photo.
And I’m not Jane or Moffy—my older cousins are so willing to sacrifice their time and heart and energy to fans. To strangers. Who I know could turn on me in a second if I do anything they deem “unacceptable”—I’ve seen them turn on my mom and dad as easy as the flip of a pancake. And I’m not good at small talk with people I can’t trust. I’m constantly in my head wondering if I said the right or wrong thing. One wrong move, one slip of the tongue, and they could blast private info to the world.
And of course I want to do the right thing. I want to be as fucking good as Moffy.
But my dad is good and so selfless, and the media still calls him “inappropriate” and a “disgrace” because he dated my mom when she was only eighteen.
Because some people still believe he had an affair with my Aunt Lily, and they believe that Moffy is actually his son.
It’s not true. He’d sooner die than cheat on my mom.
So I don’t care to try to prove anything to anyone but myself. Tabloids can call me standoffish and disrespectful when I decline photos and autographs. I just march on.
“SULLIVAN!” another teen screams, and they begin to detach from the funnel cake stand and follow my tracks.
Akara slips Banks a silent look, and then Banks falls back behind me.
I joke, “Boobs and ass coverage.”
Banks lets out a laugh. “Looks like you’re covering Akara’s ass, mermaid.”
Mermaid.
My lips rise, but from behind, he can’t see my smile. As Akara walks ahead of me, my eyes fall to his ass.
He has a nice ass. Round. Perky.
He has a nice a lot of things. A sharp, heart-shaped jawline, thick black hair that’s grown longer in the summer, an athletic build highlighting long hours spent at Studio 9, the MMA gym he owns, and also kissable lips (that I’ve obviously never kissed).
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.