Fearless Like Us (Like Us 9)

The Oliveira family.

They single-handedly saved Studio 9 from going under. Oscar and Farrow didn’t know how in the red the gym was at the time. I never told them.

Maybe Farrow could tell.

Or maybe he just wanted to spend time with his friend at the gym.

He was a pivotal piece in changing my life, and then I changed his by telling him he should join security work. And so like all circular paths, we’re here.

Staring at each other and I’m wondering how we’re going to affect one another again.

“I only want to be a supportive source in your life, like you’ve been in mine,” I tell Farrow. “Check your ankle.”

I was with him during that ankle tattoo. He was back in town at twenty-one. Spent the day at the gym, and we went to the tattoo shop together.

He got the words inked, live by your actions.

Farrow nods a few hearty times while touching his earring. “I’ll talk to Maximoff about an SFO guard on Ripley.”

Oscar and Donnelly do a doubletake.

Shock actually hits me. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Farrow runs his tongue over his lip piercing. “I respect you, and I need to show that more. So, I’ll talk to my husband. I can’t promise it’ll go anywhere.”

I ease a little. “I appreciate it.”

Progress.

That’s something.

Farrow nods back, then says, “And don’t let these two fuckers pressure you to talk about Ryke if you don’t want to.”

“Hey,” Oscar boos.

“Ryke who?” Donnelly plays dumb.

Oscar says, “Donnelly only knows the word Cobalt.”

Donnelly smirks. “My babies.”

I almost smile like Jack and Quinn, but after a beat, Oscar grows more serious, then lifts a finger. “I have one concern, Kitsuwon.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Triple Shield. What happens if Price’s men start complaining about our boss dating a Meadows girl? Most are going to be pissed.”

I clasp my knees. “That’s for me to deal with, guys. If they give you shit, tell me or Thatcher and I’ll talk to Price, but so far, we don’t know if Ryke has even told anyone, let alone the other security team.” Pressure weighs again, and I want to assuage their worries more. “Kitsuwon Securities isn’t in any jeopardy.” My voice holds as much conviction as I can muster. “It’s here for the long haul.”

They all nod, their belief in me apparent.

Failure can’t be an option. If my security firm flops into a death sentence, they’re all out of a job or they’ll have to go crawling back to Triple Shield.

As long as I can keep the current full-time client roster—Maximoff, Jane, Charlie, Sullivan, Luna, and Xander—I’m in no danger of bleeding money. There’s even a pathway for me to lose Sulli’s money and still stay afloat.

I can sell one of our security vehicles. Maybe even reduce my salary again.

Everything will be okay.

“We’re here for the long haul too, boss,” Donnelly says. None of us are here for the money. Security work isn’t a cash cow, but for them to stay afloat, I need the company to make money.

Costs are everywhere. And talk about someone who needs cash, Donnelly has been tattooing on the side to earn more. Even though I’m clueless as to where he’s spending it all, I know Donnelly can’t afford a pay cut.

My insides twist considerably because I don’t want to let SFO down. I never have before. Their faith in me is the ground beneath my feet.

11

SULLIVAN MEADOWS

Beer bottles line my dresser. Bottle caps scatter the ground.

After the announcement and the raw conversations we went through, I retreat to my bedroom and soak in a bath first. Akara and Banks shower in their apartment, and while I climb out, dry off, squeeze my hair—a bolt of panic courses through me. What if they never come back?

Staying in their apartment, away from me, would be easier. Just forgetting Yellowstone. Forgetting us. All the confidence I’d built in us seems to wash away with the water in the drain.

By the time I pull on a sea-foam green tank top and step into matching boxer-shorts, my door opens with a soft knock.

Banks and Akara are back with damp hair and a twelve-pack of beer.

Seeing them breathes oxygen into my lungs, and a smile grips hold of me. Once upon a fucking time, my mom told me, “Swimming isn’t everything, Sulli.”

I was crying after I added four-seconds to my 200m freestyle. I won the heat, but I swam my slowest.

“It’s everything to me,” I blubbered.

I was seven.

Mom seemed worried. She hugged me close, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “I love that you love the water, but that’s not all there is to life. I know it seems like that now, but I promise, there’s more to look forward to, more adventures with me and your dad and your baby sister. And when you grow older, you’ll find that can’t-eat-can’t-sleep, reach-for-the-stars, over-the-fence, World Series kind of stuff.”

I sniffled, “What kind of stuff is that?”