Infamous Like Us (Like Us 10)

Palm Tree Guy passes me the Solo cup. I want to blend. Plus, this might calm some of my haywire nerves. Putting the rim to my lips, I swig once, then twice. Letting the beer wash down the back of my throat.

Hoping my pulse stops jumping.

I take a large swig as he begins filling another. “We’re looking for someone.”

Banks adds, “A girl around 5’5’’—brown hair, probably glitter on her face?”

He doesn’t come out and ask have you seen Luna Hale? because there’s no way we know that Luna didn’t come here under some cloak of disguise. And it’s not smart to alert the whole frat house a famous girl could be here.

Palm Tree Guy laughs. “Man, there’s about a million girls in this house that match that description.”

“A million?” My brows rise.

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.” His head swings back to Banks. He narrows his eyes at him. “You look really familiar, man. Are you on the football team?”

Banks shakes his head. “Thanks for the help.” He puts a hand on the small of my back, ushering me away from the kitchen.

“The help?” I look to Banks. “You mean the opposite of fucking help.”

“Getting in a fight with frat bros isn’t gonna help us find Luna.” He seems on edge. Like he thinks this is a fucking possibility. “This isn’t my crowd.”

“It’s not mine either,” I mutter, uncomfortable as people push up against me to shift into a hallway. Banks tucks me closer to his back, his hand slipping up to my forearm for a better grip.

“You alright?”

I nod, finishing off my beer. I collect an unopened beer can off a fold-out table and pop the tab. Chugging. Something is in Banks’ eyes that I try to ignore.

Concern? I don’t fucking know.

You do know.

I don’t.

I don’t.

We check the living room, the dining room, and the den to no avail. Passing the laundry room, I hear deep grunts and overenthusiastic moans. My face contorts. No. That can’t be her. Banks adjusts his earpiece and looks faraway before telling me, “Akara will be here in five.”

Third beer. I pop the tab.

I drink.

Banks is stressed.

I’m making him stressed.

I reach for a fourth beer before I’ve even finished the third. The knots in my stomach won’t subside and go away. Go away. Find Luna.

I drink.

“Where the fuck are Frog and Tovin?” Banks questions huskily, glancing around.

We’ve returned to the living room. “We must keep passing them.” I sip and look. Sip—

“Oh my God that’s Banks and Sullivan!”

Oh.

Fuck.

I freeze.

Banks draws me to his chest. I hide. I bury my face into his jacket. My pulse is jumping as girls shriek, “What are you doing here?!”

“Oh my God!”

“Can I have a picture?!”

“Where’s Akara?!”

People cram around us. I feel them pushing. Touching. “Banks,” I choke out.

“Back up!” Banks yells caustically, shoving. He shoves people back.

I roll my face to the left. Peeking. Holy fuck…college students circle us with their phones out, recording and snapping photos. Like we’re about to break dance.

Instead, we’re stone-cold statues.

And they just keep videotaping us.

Banks has a protective hand on my head. I’m afraid to leave him. To break away. But the music grows louder and the drunken shouting is inarticulate. I piece some apart.

“SULLI!”

“SHE’S MY BESTIE!”

“FUCK ME, BANKS!”

He’s mine.

Fuck you.

Hands are on me again. Banks tears them off, and I hear an angered frat bro bark, “Hey, don’t touch my girl, man!”

And another guy yells, “Just let us take pictures with Sullivan!”

“Let us fuck her!” Laughter.

Banks is pissing off the frat guys as much as they’re pissing off Banks.

“Fuck you!” my boyfriend yells what I want to but struggle to scream.

“We hear she likes multiple dudes! Is that why she’s here?!”

A guy reaches for my ass.

Banks catches his wrist, twists, and socks him in the nose.

“Ohhhh!” the crowd reacts and winces.

And then, the frat brothers all seem to swarm us.

“Sulli, go,” Banks whispers against my ear. He literally puts my hand into another hand. Who’s fucking hand is this? It doesn’t feel like Akara’s hand. It’s too small.

I hold tighter, trusting Banks, and when I risk a glance backwards, I see Banks in a full-on fucking brawl. With four frat brothers. Smashing into beer pong tables. Into furniture. Throwing punch after punch.

“Kits,” I breathe.

Akara has entered the frat house. He’s pushing towards Banks, to help him. I’m being pulled, dragged, away from my boyfriends.

And when I face forward—that’s when I see the long, pin-straight black hair.

She steals a bucket hat off a drunken dude, passed out on the staircase. Without turning, she passes me the hat.

I replace my Eagles cap with the bucket hat, and she swipes an abandoned leather jacket off the banister. After she hands me the jacket, I slip my arms through, spilling some beer, and she reclasps my hand.

“I saw her last this way.” She climbs up another flight of stairs. The third-level.