Wild Like Us (Like Us 8)

The RV campgrounds are quiet in the early morning. Fog hangs low at our feet, and the darkness of night is fading.

Jane told me no campers have recognized them yet. Not even at the RV rentals, where they picked out two long, taupe RVs, and Charlie actually purchased a mammoth-sized, sleek-black RV that could swallow the other two. Pretty much as big as the FanCon tour bus.

Their set-up is pretty awesome and more private than I expected. At RV Campsite #12, a picnic table, fire pit, and scattered chairs are strewn between the two long RVs. The vehicles do a good job of shielding their outdoor hangout area from other campsites.

And the mammoth RV sits further back up against the woods.

Right now, everyone—and I mean, everyone—who journeyed to Montana is congregated around the picnic table where the three of us threw our backpacks. Our appearance whipped open their RV doors and caused Jane and Moffy to rush out to me, and then SFO to sprint out to Akara and Banks.

“The bleeding stopped,” Akara tells Farrow in a more authoritative tone. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours. They’re fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

Moffy is still rigid.

His concern is like hardened cement. Being protective of me has been hardwired into his DNA since we were little kids. But at least he’s not dialing my parents.

Farrow chews slower on a piece of gum. “I just can’t see a scenario where Sulli is this hurt, and you don’t life-flight her to a hospital.”

Akara tries to push his hair back. “Come on, I wouldn’t life-flight her to a hospital for a cut.”

“Is it just a cut?” Moffy asks as he sits on the picnic table with Ripley on his lap. His son holds a sippy-cup and happily watches their puppy rolling on leaves.

I pull my gaze off the baby. “Yeah. Just a cut.” A big fucking one. But I don’t add that. Farrow hasn’t taken off my bandage yet, but I showed him the gauze on my hip.

Oscar, Farrow, and even Thatcher are still eagle-eyeing Akara like he’s acting weird. Like he would do everything in his power to carry me to a doctor.

But he didn’t.

And I’m standing here thinking that I should’ve demanded that Akara and Banks see Farrow last night. Did they downplay their pain? Did I just not look closely enough?

Did we all not look?

But the events course through my head in raw flashes—the gunshots, the agonized growling, the dirt and heavy breath, the water and cold and then warmth, so much warmth—and nothing about that night made me want to confront all the people we care about.

I just wanted to seek comfort in Banks and Akara.

They must’ve felt the same.

Akara turns more to his men. “I wouldn’t life-flight her. I wouldn’t even drive her here. I wouldn’t even call you Farrow. And that needs to be the end of this.” He’s such a boss leader.

I start to smile.

“So what you’re saying,” Oscar continues, “is that you don’t like, like Sulli.”

My face falls. I shift my weight. Feeling too many eyes on me. Feeling a masculine overload of protective men—too many fucking men are here. I look to Jane.

She sidles closer, her hand clasping instinctively to mine.

Thanks, Jane.

Akara glares at Oscar. “She’s right there, Oscar.”

He tosses a chip in his mouth. “I thought we were all friends by now.”

Farrow’s pierced brows rise. “Says the guy who hates buddy-guards.”

Charlie smiles while he flips a page in a book, sitting on the steps of the left RV.

I have my fingers to my lips, my head fucking spinning. Jane’s blue eyes are rapidly shifting between everyone. Like she’s not missing a beat.

“Look, it was an honest question,” Oscar says to his boss.

“You need to shut it down,” Akara says in a tone both friendly and firm. “Sulli is just my client and friend—she knows that’s all she is to me.”

What?

I freeze.

I don’t breathe.

He’s just lying to them. He has to be lying. We agreed not to tell them the fucking truth—but after the night we shared in the tent, those words hurt.

Everyone—and again, I mean everyone—is looking at me. I must wear my utter fucking horror.

Akara’s face drops. “Sulli—”

“Oh no, I get it.” Does my voice sound choked? I nod a ton, my neck feels tight and collarbones jutted out like I swallowed a hundred donuts at once. Banks? I search for him.

He’s next to his brother. And his gaze is softened on me, almost pained. Like he wishes he could come closer and wrap his arms around me. I wish he could hug me too.

Jane squeezes my hand consolingly.

I breathe in and focus on Farrow’s gloves, on Akara’s wounds. “Is it infected?” I ask.

“It’s not,” Akara says more gently to me, an apology in his eyes.

I try to take it, but his other words are still a pit in my stomach.