Wild Like Us (Like Us 8)

“Give me,” Akara leans over and holds out his hand for Banks’ cell.

Banks says to me, “We’d arrive at oh-six-hundred.” He passes his cell to Akara.

So…6 a.m. The venue is only a half-hour from Philly. Wedding is at 9 a.m.

It’s perfect.

“I’m booking it,” Akara says.

I slow the car to the speed limit. We have time then to make it to the airport. But if I wreck this Honda, I really will never forgive myself.

46

AKARA KITSUWON

The drive to the airport is painful. Like being in a slow-moving train that I know is about to crash. And it has nothing to do with being late to the wedding. I’m confident we’ll be there with hours to spare. Even without a private jet.

We did visit that avenue. Sulli called her uncle, but Connor couldn’t find a pilot available in our area. At least not in the window we’re working with.

But I’ve pinned down four other possible commercial flights with short layovers that we could take at last minute. Just in case our current flight is delayed.

Sulli is in love with Banks.

The thought crawls over me every few minutes and digs into my flesh.

Be happy for them, Nine.

How?

How can I be happy when I love her too? I love Sullivan Minnie Meadows, and I don’t want to let her go. I’ve even contemplated whispering the words in her ear. Shouting them with all I have. Making sure she knows how much I love her, so I’ve put everything on the table.

If she chooses him, I don’t want it to be because she’s unsure of how I feel.

But the timing isn’t right. I’m not alone with Sulli. Banks is here too. And I’m more aware that going back to Philly feels more brutal than it should. The closer to the airport we are, the less relieved I am.

Sulli parks on the third floor of the parking deck. Only a few cars dot this level, which gives us plenty of privacy as we climb out and pop the trunk of the Honda. Sulli is digging in the backseat, gathering her backpack and things.

I scope out our surroundings, and as Banks pries a duffel from the trunk, I take the bag from his hands—something’s wrong.

He cinches one eye closed, wincing at fluorescent, parking deck lights that flicker on as dark clouds roll across the sky.

I solidify. “You’re in pain?”

Banks roots a hand to the side of the car.

I drop the bag. “Banks—talk to me.”

He hunches over, gripping the side of his head. “Fuck,” he grits through his teeth.

My pulse spikes. I dig into my pocket, about to call 9-1-1.

“Banks?” Sulli crawls out of the car and races to him, a hand to his shoulder. “Is it your head? Just sit down. Sit down.” She helps him lower against the tire of the Honda.

He rests his head back against the car. Both eyes cinched shut.

I tell him, “I’m calling an ambulance—”

“No,” he chokes, breathing hard through his nose. “Don’t.” He reaches a floppy hand out to steal my phone. I easily hold it out of his clutch.

Sulli squats next to him. “What do you need? Tylenol?”

He nods stiffly.

Sulli races back to our bags and starts digging in them.

Panic has already shot off in me. “Your head hurts?”

He nods. “Like a nail-gun to a…” He can’t even get out the words. He turns his head and pukes on the concrete. “Fuck,” he groans and spits.

“I have water,” Sulli calls out, rolling the bottle to me while she keeps searching for Tylenol.

I grab the water and crouch down to him, my hand on his shoulder.

He bangs his head back, face stuck in a grimace.

“Can you drink something?” I ask, popping the plastic lid to the water bottle.

Banks feels for the bottle, but I put it in his hand. He squirts some water in his mouth, swallows hard.

I grip my phone again. “You need a doctor—”

He shakes his head.

“Banks, I can’t just let you sit here and mask whatever’s happening with pain meds.” My voice is shaking. I’m angry that I haven’t pushed him to see a doctor earlier—like Farrow. Farrow. We’ve been around a fucking doctor for weeks, and I never brought up Banks’ headaches.

And I’m afraid that this is just a symptom of something bigger that’s happening right now.

Banks opens one eye to glare. “My brother…”

He knows if I call an ambulance, he’ll be stuck in a hospital, and he’ll miss the wedding. We all will, because there’s absolutely no way I’d leave him.

He’s one of my men.

But it’s more than that.

“I can’t let you risk your own life to make a wedding—”

“My brother,” he forces, his eyes bloodshot.

“Thatcher would understand,” I retort.

He shakes his head. “I can’t do that—”

“You could die,” I cut him off hotly, standing up. “You could fucking die, Banks. Your migraines could be a symptom of something bigger, and you could end up flat on your back unconscious and seizing. And I love you too much to let you die out in the middle of fucking Minnesota!” My pained voice echoes through the parking deck.