Wild Like Us (Like Us 8)

And I’ve known Banks since I was twenty.

He was twenty-two, fresh out of the military, brand new to security, and I just clicked with Banks and Thatcher. At the time, not many guys were around our age on the team. We hung out off-duty. Relied on each other.

Thatcher Moretti became my best friend. We were both eventually leads. Our problems were the same, and we understood each other. Banks…Banks was the friend who added needed levity to the shit that Thatcher and I faced.

Most days would’ve been total hell without him.

So I won’t lie to Banks. We’re on the same side. Always.

“Your dad called,” I tell him.

Banks grips the steering wheel tighter with one hand.

Sulli stiffens in the backseat.

And just like that, I’ve siphoned off all the remnants of a good mood. I’m used to that. I pull switches often. One minute we’re all fun and games. The next, it’s serious.

“Yeah?” Banks frowns. “He bail on you already?”

“No. He’s just coming in a few days late.”

Banks blinks hard a few times, gaze hot on the road. “Don’t set your hopes and dreams on that, Akara. All that man is good for is disappointment.” His eyes flit to me, softening.

He’s worried for me, I realize. He’s worried his dad will be a no-show and fuck me over in the process.

I’m worried for him.

That his dad will show up and prove something worse to his son. Money drove him here. Not love for his family, his sons.

Sulli scoots up between our seats. “Is your dad really that bad?” She drops a bag of powered donuts in the drink console for us.

I open it.

“Yeah.” Banks glances at her, then the road. “The last thing he ever said to me before he left was, You’re the dispensable one.” He shrugs like it’s nothing but I know it’s everything. “I’m the second-born twin. The dispensable one.” He grits down on his teeth. “He can go fuck himself.”

7

AKARA KITSUWON

Sulli yawns into her bicep as she reverses out of the third campsite we’ve marked on the map. We called ahead to two, and they were full by the time we showed up. First come, first serve is not on our side tonight.

“I fucking hate when you have to have reservations to campsites,” Sulli grumbles. “Camping is half-spontaneity, and there’s nothing wild and free about a fucking reservation.” She flips off the At Capacity sign on the bulletin board before peeling the Jeep away.

“Jesus, Mary,” Banks startles awake with the sharp turn. He was lying down in the backseat, my baseball hat over his eyes, and he grabs hold of my headrest, pulling himself up. “What the fuck was that?”

“Not Jesus or Mary,” I say with a smile.

“Thank God.” He sits up more, rubbing his tired eyes. “I don’t expect to see them until I’m six-feet under.” He glances out the back windshield. Where our tires kick up dirt against the bulletin board. “Campsite all full again?”

“Yep,” Sulli yawns.

“Pull over,” I tell her from the passenger seat. “I’ll drive.”

“You just drove, Kits. It’s my turn.” She readjusts her grip on the wheel. While Banks has been sleeping, we’ve talked…not a lot.

It’s been just great.

Really, really great.

Outside of mentioning campsites, the last we spoke was through the McDonalds drive-thru, and I told her Oreo McFlurries tasted like concrete paste.

She said nothing until she dropped the McFlurry on her lap. And then she muttered, “Cumbuckets,” and gave me a look, “Can concrete paste, do that?” Her whole lap was wet with ice cream. Teal running shorts drenched. I handed her a roll of paper towels and helped wipe up the stream of ice cream that trickled down her leg.

She tensed.

I pulled back a little bit, wadding up the paper towel.

She used to always let me help her, but now—now it’s weird. Is it because she’s older? Because she’s dating—or she’s willing to date? I wish I knew. Things are stranger than I can even comprehend. Heat smothered me, and I just nodded to her.

Sulli mumbled a thanks and scrubbed the rest of the ice cream off with harsher, frustrated force.

“I can drive,” Banks offers.

“No,” Sulli and I say in unison, but I add, “You’ve clocked in the most hours behind the wheel.”

“I’m better at staying awake longer,” Banks reminds me.

He’s not wrong. Sulli and I have chaotic sleep schedules. She rises at odd hours. We always nap a shit ton, but I’ve caught Banks popping Tylenol like they’re Skittles today. When I asked him about it, he said, “Just a headache. It’s nothing.”

He needs rest too. Beyond being my friend, he’s one of my men. I’m not driving his health into the ground by leeching his sleep.

“Sul, take the next exit,” I say, like an order.

She switches lanes. “Do you see another campsite?”

“I saw a sign for a motel.” And it might be the last one for a while. “We’re getting some sleep. All of us.”