Wild Like Us (Like Us 8)

Jenny smiles a friendly smile. “You must be Sullivan. I’ve heard so much about you.”

What? I frown deeply at Akara.

He’s shaking his head. “Not from me, Sul.”

Jenny laughs softly. “Right, definitely not. He told me there’s a bodyguard-client confidentiality thing. I totally get it. But I know a lot from online. My little sis just started competitive swimming, so she looks up to you a lot.”

“Oh, fucking rad,” I say into a single nod. Jenny seems…nice. Like really nice. I don’t know why that aggravates me even more. It really shouldn’t especially since she has a little sister just like I do.

Weight sinks further in my gut.

Jenny returns her attention to Akara. “I’ll be waiting, Kits.” She winks flirtatiously before slinking back into his bedroom.

My stomach has tossed five times.

Kits?

Kits!

She called him KITS!

What. The. Fuck!

I’ve never heard a single person call him that but me. My mouth dries, and I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Breathe, mermaid,” Banks whispers beside my ear. He pries the frozen broccoli out of my iron-grip. My hand is pink and numb.

Akara runs his fingers through his black hair a thousand times before rooting his palm on his stiff shoulder. Like his muscles are too tight. His gaze is on me, at least. He’s not avoiding me. But then he drops his hand to say, “What do you need, Sul?”

Oh no.

“Oh no,” I actually say. “We’re not going to talk about her?” I realize how loud I’m speaking. “Sorry,” I whisper. My eyes ping down the hallway to the other bedrooms. “I didn’t mean to shout.” Disturbing a sleeping Donnelly and Quinn wasn’t on the agenda when I decided to come here at 4 a.m.

It wasn’t a well thought-out plan.

Fucking obviously.

Akara comes closer. “She’s a friend of a friend. It’s just casual.”

“But she called you Kits?” I frown deeply.

Banks places the frozen broccoli on a shelf behind me.

Akara cringes. “It happens. Some people have seen We Are Calloway—and there are times that you’ve used the nickname on air.”

Honestly, I haven’t really watched a lot of the aired segments since I joined the docuseries. Watching myself on TV is fucking weird.

I swallow a lump in my throat. “That makes sense.” But I’m burning alive, a heartbeat from stepping into the freezer and shutting the door.

Because the more territorial I seem over Akara, the worse I feel. He’s not mine.

We’re not dating. We’re barely even friends at this point. Whatever we were is dangling on a cliff by a cheap friendship-bracelet string. The kind that frays after one hot summer.

I tuck my water bottle under my arm. Step away from the freezer. And try to salvage what’s left here. So I nudge his arm. “I hope you gave her an orgasm. Rocked her world. Stroked her clit. All that good stuff.”

Banks hangs his head, eyes on the ground with a soft smile.

Akara is trying to read my features. Maybe to see if I’m sincere. His eyes are asking, you’re okay? We’re better?

Banks lifts his head. “Yeah, Akara.” Humor laces his voice. “You stroke that clit?”

Akara smiles, flips off Banks, then turns to me. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Rethinking. Before he says, “If you really want to know, I made her come four times. So you can stop worrying about that.”

I’m really not worried about it.

Just trying to re-knot the friendship bracelet of our friendship.

It feels like a little too late.

“Yeah, I won’t worry anymore,” I tell him.

He frowns. “We’re okay?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “You tell me, Kits.”

He rakes a hand through his hair. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re allowed to have a girlfriend—”

“She’s not my girlfriend—”

“Friendly casual date, whatever.”

Akara sighs, hating this place we’re at, but of the few times we’ve fought or entered awkward territory, he’s always tried his hardest to repair the damage. It means a lot to me. Because at the very least, I know he doesn’t want to lose me completely.

Maybe that’s why his silence after the funhouse felt so fucking different. I’m usually the one who avoids and he’s the one who insists on working through the mess.

“Can we just start over?” I ask him.

He massages his hands, but his eyes never leave me. “How far back? Do I need to reintroduce myself to you?” An attractive smile inches up his face. “Hi, I’m Akara.” He extends his hand. “Born and bred in Northwest Philly, fourth-generation Thai, son of a broker and of a former-pro Muay Thai fighter. I hate people who walk too slowly on sidewalks, and I’ve had the honor of protecting a competitive string bean.”

It makes me smile.

And I shake his hand with a firm grip. “Sulli.”

“Just Sulli?”

“You can look me up on the internet.”

“Ouch.” He touches his heart.

I pat his sweaty shoulder. “I do have to tell you something that can’t be found online.” I look around for Banks. He’s tossing his paper plate in the trash, about to leave. “Wait, Banks,” I say fast. “You should probably hear this too.”