“Yeah. I’m having a car service come pick him up since Thatcher isn’t in Philly anymore.”
I asked Thatcher about his Uncle Dino’s car service, a mom-and-pop company, but he told me flat-out, “Uncle Dino hates him. He hasn’t talked to my dad since the divorce.”
Hiring Michael is beginning to feel like doing business with the devil.
Before we go inside, I just give Banks a run-down on the plan. How we’re linking back up with Thatcher, Oscar, and Farrow in Montana.
“The good thing is they lost paparazzi outside of Ohio, so we should be media-free for a while,” I add. “And hey, people may not even recognize any of us out here. It could be the easiest time in security we’ve ever had.” Still, an uneasiness hangs in the air.
I rap my fist to the wooden door frame, feeling like I just jinxed myself.
Banks laughs. But he’s staring at the door frame like he needs to touch knuckle-to-wood too. “Fuck it.” He knocks the wood.
And then we enter our motel room. Foam mats are already splayed on the ground, near the foot of the bed.
Banks inhales sharply, then seems to exhale roughly. His shoulders drop. Not sure why.
Gently shutting the door behind me, I slide the deadbolt. Sulli is fast asleep and curled up, she didn’t even grab a sleeping bag. They lie in a heap by the window.
I grab one and unzip it like a blanket. Nearing her quietly, I crouch down and lift the green sleeping bag up to her shoulders.
She stirs a little, nestling into the warmth, but she doesn’t wake.
Taking care of Sulli and being with Sulli is so natural to me. It’s not a routine, I realize. It’s a necessity in my life, and maybe that’s why I’ve butted in every time someone has tried to fill it.
Banks and I get ready for bed: brush our teeth, change into drawstring pants, then I cut the lights. “You want me by the door?” Banks asks.
I’m the boss. I call the shots.
Including where I want a bodyguard to sleep, and I could be a complete dick and banish him to the door. Far, far away from Sulli because my Spidey-sense—what Banks calls a “fuckbag detector”—is tingling. Though, maybe it’s broken. Maybe it’s off.
Because Banks isn’t a fuckbag.
I mean, I was wrong about Jack Highland-Oliveira. He’s genuinely that nice.
I snap a finger to my palm. Don’t be a dick.
Don’t be a dick.
“You want the door?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter.” He makes a concentrated effort not to look at Sulli.
I lick my lips. “Okay, you take closest to the window. I’ll take her other side.” Basically, we’re on either side of Sulli.
Banks nods, not questioning my decision. “Night.” He smacks a hand to my arm.
I nod to him. “Night.”
A minute later, we’re lying down on our backs, covered with our own sleeping bags. Sulli is turned towards me. Resting my hands under my head, I stare at a stain on the ceiling.
Trying not to stare at her. But my eyes flit to her lips, soft breath expelling between them, then I look back up. Every part of today rushes into me. Between what I feel for Sulli and my friendship with Banks, my brain is a rotating planet of thoughts and varying emotions.
I can’t even shut my eyes.
So I turn my head and see Banks on the other side of Sulli.
He’s awake.
Staring at the ceiling.
Fuck.
It’s going to be a long, sleepless night. For both of us.
14
AKARA KITSUWON
My dreams have been unusually vivid these past few years. They’re hard to shake out of, and the biggest indicator I’m still dreaming is always the snow.
No matter where I am.
It starts snowing.
Even tonight, Sulli pounds at a steel door. Latched shut. Trapped in a tiny, cramped metal room together, heavy flurries fall from the ceiling. Snowing in an enclosed room.
Dreaming.
I have to be dreaming, but I don’t wake up. I’m stuck inside my head. Snow drifts into her long, chocolate-brown hair, and as I try to wrench the latch open, my fingers bleed.
She bangs her fists. “HELP!” Her shrill scream punctures something in me. Swiftly, I draw Sulli back against my chest, wrapping my arms tightly around her waist. Lips to her ear, I whisper, “Hey, it’s okay.”
She grips onto me.
She heaves for air.
Oxygen depletes from the room.
I struggle to inhale, but I use every strained breath to whisper, “It’s okay, Sul.”
Still in my hold, she reaches back and cups my neck, squeezing as though to say, don’t leave. Our eyes rest on that steel door.
Snow packs higher around our bodies.
I barely feel the cold.
“We’re going to die here,” she chokes. Has to be a dream. Sulli wouldn’t give up this fast.
“We’re not.” I don’t understand my certainty until I hear two pops from the other side of the steel door.
It swings open, and Banks stands there. On a mound of snow. Chest rising and falling heavily as he sucks on the brittle air. His gun looks comfortable in his grip, but he drops it anyway.