He winces.
“Oh fuck, sorry.”
Akara is about to reply, but my phone rings. I check the Caller ID. Have to take this one. Answering the phone on speaker while I drive, I say, “Hey, Cinderella.”
Thatcher makes a gruff noise, not in the mood for my jokes. “I’m calling about the leak, Banks.”
Sulli and Akara go still as they listen in.
I rotate the wheel. “We’re really doing this now?” I wonder, no desire to dig into our past. Definitely not over the fucking phone.
“Yeah, we are,” he says sternly. “Someone is leaking private intel about my wife. About your girlfriend. We either do this now or we wait down the fucking line when it’s too late.”
I stare hard, unblinking. “You’re on speaker. What do you want to know?”
“Did you ever tell anyone about him?”
About Sky.
All I hear are the tires bumping along the freeway.
“Yeah.” I pause. “I told Sulli and Akara.”
Thatcher is quiet.
I wish I could see his face. Is he shocked that I’d rip those words out, recount that night, and say them to someone else when we can barely talk about Sky? Or maybe he’s realizing how much I love her and him. But I end up saying, “You know they wouldn’t leak anything.”
“I know.” He takes a beat. “I told Ben.”
My jaw hits the steering wheel. “Ben Cobalt?”
“Yeah.”
Thatcher got really close to the family he married into. I’ve tried not to yearn for tight bonds with Sulli’s parents and sister because they love Akara. Loving him doesn’t mean they can’t also love me, but our friends and family keep acting like one of us needs to fall for the other to rise.
Jokes on them, I’m not falling.
I want more for my life, and why the hell can’t I be the phoenix? Rising up next to the girl I love.
I focus more on the road and Thatcher’s admittance. Ben Cobalt knows about Skylar.
All this time, I thought my brother only ever told Jane. My lip curves upward. Proud of him for being able to open up. Not shocked he’s never confessed this until now. Our heart-to-hearts about Skylar last seconds and end with me pissed off—if they occur at all. Hell, we’re only sharing now because we want to protect everyone.
“Anyone else?” I ask while I have the chance.
“I think Farrow and Maximoff know about him, but they never asked me more.”
My eyes narrow in confusion at the freeway. “How did that happen?”
“Tony told them back when I was fake-dating Jane. We were at the bingo hall on a double date, and he made a big scene about how they didn’t know my own brother existed.”
I boil. “I’m glad you never told me because I would’ve knocked him on his fuckin’ ass.”
“I tried.”
I nod, believing it. Farrow must’ve stopped him. “So Tony Ramella and his big mouth have been known to spread information we want kept private.”
“He’s also in the inner-circle.” He’s a Triple Shield bodyguard and protects Connor Cobalt. “But it’d be career suicide. He has no clear motive.”
“Money, Thatcher,” I say. “That’s motive enough.” Tony is the least selfless bodyguard on the damn roster. He’s in this job so he can boast about protecting celebrities. All arrogance and pride.
“I’m just trying not to let our dislike of Tony affect our judgment.”
For fuck’s sake, why is everyone’s judgment being questioned today? We hang up with no real resolution, and I look to Akara, who heard everything. “What do you say, Hardy Boy? Is Tony Ramella a suspect?”
“He is now.”
25
AKARA KITSUWON
This is definitely a date.
Sulli almost walks out when we arrive, as she whispers to me and Banks, “Fuck, I’m severely underdressed.” Michelangelo’s Pizza is upscale. White tablecloths kind of upscale. Waiters even splay cloths over their arms and pour sparkling water in wine glasses. An oil-lit candle and single red rose sit on each intimate-sized table.
Intimate.
The word burns my retinas.
Banks frowns at Sulli. “Wait, you didn’t know Michelangelo’s is fancy?”
“I thought it was a fucking pizzeria,” she whispers pretty loudly. People are looking, and I shoot them glares to stop looking. She wedges herself more between me and him to hide at the entrance. “Like a sports bar with arcade games in the back. Not this.”
We try to conceal our girlfriend between our bodies. Just until she decides whether she wants to bail or not. Comms hum in my earpiece, no big chatter tonight. Banks and I scan the restaurant from afar, and I tilt my head to him. “You knew Michelangelo’s is fine dining?”
He lifts his shoulders and whispers, “I thought everyone fucking knew that, including you.”
I whisper just as heatedly, “There’s practically a thousand pizza joints on this side of town.” I barely pause. “And another thing, Sulli’s wearing jeans and a jean jacket—and you didn’t think she couldn’t have known?”
“I didn’t think she cared about dressing up,” Banks whisper-hisses. Yeah, we’re hissing under our breaths, both riled up and pissed. More so at the fact that we’re about to chaperone our girlfriend on a formal date with another dude.