Before either of us can respond, a student shouts, “HEY, SASQUATCH, YOU HAVE ANY POT BROWNIES?!”
I glare colder at that shitbag.
Akara glares hotter.
Sulli moves her chair forward, pressed up against the table. Understanding what she wants, we move our chairs further backward. Our bodies create a barrier behind her and block Sulli from onlookers. She shelters herself in front of us and mutters, “Fuck the mole.”
30
AKARA KITSUWON
Disco lights flash on the wooden skate rink, closed for a private event.
As per Oscar’s party invites, everyone is wearing their “Long Beach, California” best. Floral shirts, cut-off shorts, fanny packs—we look more like 80s beach babes, but hey, we tried for Jack Highland-Oliveira’s 28th birthday.
Which is strangely exactly one month before my birthday. Before he married Oscar, we actually talked about combining our birthdays into one party—we both share a lot of the same friends and it seemed better to do one party instead of two—but now he has a husband who wanted today to be all about him.
Hey, I get it.
I’m not a big birthday guy. So less is usually more for me anyway.
Hand-in-hand with Sulli, we skate easily into the barrier where Banks is struggling. At first sight, you’d think he’s clumsy, but he’s not. He can stand still, on guard, like an unbreakable wall. Just put wheels on his size-15 feet and his balance goes in the crapper.
“Leave me,” Banks says, his skate almost slipping out from under him. He grabs onto the side. Dang. Banks. I almost laugh.
“Never,” Sulli says strongly, hunched a little forward from a bout of cramps today. (I really hate when she’s hurting.) Clasping Banks’ hand too, she declares, “I leave no fucking boyfriend behind.”
I tease, “You better only have two.”
“Hardy har—”
Knock knock.
Knock knock.
Great.
Just great.
The notifications hit multiple cellphones. Donnelly glides on his skates while taking out his phone. He’s wearing the shortest cut-off shorts. His white ass is hanging out.
Oscar, Farrow, and the rest of SFO pull out more phones. Clients even take out their cells, but Sulli peers at mine. Selfishly, I’m thinking, just not Sulli.
Just not Sulli.
I don’t doubt for a second Farrow is hoping it’s not Maximoff, and Thatcher is hoping it’s not Jane on the receiving end.
THE ROYAL LEAKS
We reveal all the truths about the American Royals. These are verified and come directly from the source.
ROYAL LEAK #1: Sullivan Meadows had heavy, nonstop bloody periods and now has daily cramps.
#TodaysLeaks #SharkWeek #crampycramps
“What the ever-loving fuck?” Sulli is squeezing our hands to death.
Jane skates closer, then waits as Sulli turns more to Banks and me. Our girlfriend’s face is beet-red as she whispers, “I didn’t want the other bodyguards, let alone the fucking world to know about the bloodbath between my legs.”
I glare at SFO to stop staring.
They drift further away on skates. All of Omega looks concerned. Oscar has an arm around Jack, and his gaze softens on Sulli.
Oscar is even less amused by The Royal Leaks as they’re sincerely stressing out the people we dedicate our lives to protect.
In this case, it’s stressing out my girlfriend.
“Is everyone looking over here?” Sulli asks.
“No,” Banks lies. “They’re just looking at Akara. He has a fucking booger.”
Sulli snorts into a laugh.
I smile, happy to hear that sound, even if it vanishes fast. I whip out my phone and text Connor Cobalt about the recent leak. “I’m telling Connor to look into your new gynecologist. She might’ve broken the NDA.”
Sulli winces, “Fuck, I should’ve just gone with Farrow as my doctor for the birth control.”
“We don’t know if she’s the mole. We’re just covering all the bases.” I pocket my phone. “We talked about your period at the penthouse too.”
“You still think the penthouse is bugged?” Sulli frowns.
“It’s all-clear,” Banks reminds me.
We’re missing something.
I know we are.
31
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
Philadelphia Eagles game. A sea of midnight green packs the football stadium. Second quarter, and the Eagles are tied with the Giants. Football season reminds me of my dad. We’d always go to at least one game together every year, and we shouted expletives and cheers until our voices were hoarse on the ride home.
Banks says football reminds him of his dad too. They’d throw the ball back and forth when he was a kid.
Today could be somber with memories since my dad and I aren’t at the best place like we were back then. I know he wants me to choose one guy. He made that fucking crystal when he wouldn’t let both stay at the cottage.
But romance is in the air. Alleviating bad fucking feelings. Banks bought me a veggie hot dog, and Akara fits a new Eagles hat on my head.
No strangers in the stands know we’re together, but it’s not that unnatural for Akara to be playful with me in public as just my bodyguard.
I glance down our row. Jane, Thatcher, Farrow, Maximoff, and their son Ripley are here. The 10-month-old has headphones to block out the noise. I have pics of my mom and dad doing the same thing for me at football games as a baby.