Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
She’s already made her decision.
And we’ve already made ours.
Together—the three of us—until the very end.
Banks grinds down on a toothpick. “Should we wave?”
“Nope.” I stifle the urge to flip off the camera guy, who’s seconds from approaching. “We’re not playing nice with press.”
Banks wears a crooked smile. “I’m loving this give-no-fucks Akara.”
My lips almost rise. “We’re not letting anyone get to us.”
It’s what I’ve been saying for months.
Banks smiles more. “Except for two nights ago, when we were a heartbeat from creating a fake Twitter account just to fight a troll. And a week before that, when I came close to decking a reporter. Then you restrained me, only to almost sucker-punch him.”
I force myself not to roll my eyes. Honestly, last night, I still considered making fake accounts, which is supremely unprofessional and not a precedent I want to set for my men.
Still, I’m considering.
Just a little.
A lot, a little.
So yeah, Banks is right. I’ve been giving no fucks lately. And yet, still, some media and “fans” have crawled under my skin.
“We’re not letting anyone get to us is a mantra that we’re trying to follow,” I whisper to him. “Not one that we’re always following.” I add firmly, “And they’re not breaking us up.”
Banks nods strongly. “Amen.”
It’s us against the world now. It has been for six months, and I’ve never been more assured of keeping course, no matter how dangerous it’s been or how dangerous it’ll become. I’ve never felt closer to Banks and Sulli.
“Akara Kitsuwon, right?!” the reporter with red lipstick and a blue blouse shouts down at us. Testing the waters to see if I’ll engage.
I rotate my back to her. GTFO is practically written on my shoulder blades. The more the three of us reject the media, the more questions arise. But Banks and I have been bodyguards long enough to know that anything we give them can be twisted.
So we’ve left them with nothing.
The downside: Sulli is getting shit on for being a “bratty princess” after denying some Olympic press coverage.
For how hard she’s worked, all the hours she’s spent training, all the moments she’s given up with family to put in the work—I hate seeing Sulli be pegged as something she’s not. She didn’t get a free ride to this year’s Olympics.
She earned her spot.
“They’re leaving,” Banks says quietly to me, watching the reporter and camera guy exit. Fireworks boom in the distance, and our heads swivel to the bathroom.
I hope the noise isn’t rattling our girlfriend.
“She’s been in there a while, hasn’t she?” I ask him.
“Around fifteen minutes.” He eagle-eyes the bathroom door behind us. Shut to the public. Only because we’re guarding the thing.
We share a look.
I call this one Boyfriend-to-Boyfriend, and no, Banks Moretti is technically not my boyfriend—but we’re both hers, so this crap makes sense to me.
He slides a hand across his unshaven jaw. “Maybe the press is getting to her too.”
“Or she’s nervous about carrying the American flag with her idol.” I put mocking emphasis on her idol like I’m a jealous toddler and not a twenty-eight-year-old entrepreneur-bodyguard-boyfriend.
Hey, at least I didn’t gag.
Seriously, I’m never going to be a fan of Tobias Kingly. He has enough of those, one of which is Sulli.
“They should’ve just let her carry it,” Banks retorts. “Fuckin’ sports politics.”
The national committee initially picked Sullivan as the flagbearer for Opening Ceremony, but the public outcry about Sulli being in an “indecent” relationship caused them to change their decision. So they also selected Tobias Kingly to appease everyone except me and Banks.
Sulli said she didn’t care. Less eyes on her.
Banks cares.
I care.
We check the time again. Concern growing. I rock onto my heels, and with my back to the door, I rap my knuckles against the wood.
Banks calls out, “You doing alright, mermaid?” He raises his voice so she can hear.
“Fuck, sorry! I’ll be out in a sec!”
Banks frowns to me. “She didn’t say she’s doing okay.”
“Yeah, she’s definitely nervous.” It puts us on edge, and we’re a couple seconds from just barging into the bathroom when comms crackle.
“France entered the stadium.” Thatcher’s stringent voice is in my ear.
“Finland looks dope,” Donnelly says.
“They look like flight attendants,” Oscar chimes in. “Brazil still beats everyone. Hands down, best looking country out there.”
“Someone’s biased,” Farrow replies.
I click my mic. “I should only be hearing from Thatcher, guys.” I pause. “But Finland does look like flight attendants.”
Banks smiles beside me.
“Flying high,” Donnelly adds.
I wait for Thatcher to include something. Anything. Maybe an affirmative that only him and I should be communicating. But comms go quiet.
I thought we’d be at a better place by now. But things are still tense. Awkward. Not where I want me and my friend to be. Let alone my lead.
“There’s a country named Georgia?” Gabe Montgomery says on comms. “Oh shit, sorry didn’t mean to put that through comms!”