Fearless Like Us (Like Us 9)

House meeting. Tonight. Required. – Thatcher

I make a face.

“What?” he laughs.

“Thatcher. Your brother-in-law is not the easiest roommate to live with. Yesterday, he made a chore list. I might’ve missed dish duty on accident.” I grimace. “Granted, I was swimming on the roof, and I just lost track of time.”

“He sounds like someone I’d actually want to live with,” Beckett says.

“Let’s trade him for Eliot,” Charlie quips.

Beckett laughs with the shake of his head. “You would never, and neither would I.”

Charlie doesn’t disagree, but asks me, “What did Thatcher want?”

I pocket my phone. “I have a house meeting tonight. It seems serious, but it might just be another chore list.”

A knock sounds on the door.

A girl with curly brown hair pulled into a bun and light golden-brown skin peeks inside. “Hi, sorry to be a bother. Beckett?”

“Roxanne,” Beckett nods.

Charlie says a couple words in Russian.

Roxanne looks surprised but also in a hurry, just telling Beckett, “Curtain in three.” She shuts the door, but we hear a squeaking sound.

“Did she slip?” Charlie asks Beckett.

“She’s a little clumsy for a ballerina,” Beckett says but also gives his brother a foreboding look. “Don’t, Charlie.”

“Don’t, what?” Charlie knows what Beckett means.

“You promised to never fraternize with anyone at the company.” Beckett stands up. “I work with Roxanne.”

I chime in, “How do you know she understands Russian?”

“I told him,” Beckett says to me. “Back when I thought he didn’t like her.”

“I don’t like her,” Charlie says. “I hardly know her, Beckett.” He moves away from the wall. “And I would never break a promise I made to you.”

But he’d blackmail me.

Don’t be bitter, Sulli. They have a twin bond. Charlie would do absolutely anything for Beckett. And I realize outside the dressing room door, I have two men who’d do absolutely anything for me.

17

AKARA KITSUWON

Hi Mr. Kitsuwon,

I saw the “closed until further notice” sign on the door to Studio 9 Boxing & MMA Gym, and I wondered if you’d be interested in selling? My son C.J. Bishop used to practice martial arts at Studio 9, and as he graduates college soon, I’d like to help him live out his dream of owning a gym and keeping the one he loved so much alive.

At your best convenience, I’d love to chat more and provide an offer you’ll find substantial.

I glaze over the rest of the email.

Here’s my number blah blah blah hope to talk soon. Yeah.

I bet.

In the penthouse’s kitchen, I hunch over the sink with my phone in my fist, and even if I want to flippantly write this offer off, I can’t stop staring at the email.

A dad wants to kickstart his son’s dream.

Is there poetry or symmetry in this offer? Is this what I should do? This is an easy out.

The logical out.

Especially when it comes with money. The financial burden of Studio 9 will be gone, but so will my hand in a gym that I love.

The one that I built.

The one that I’ve never even considered selling.

Until now.

All of a sudden, a flat tortilla smacks my cheek. I cut my gaze to the left where Banks and Sulli have been hovering over bowls of guac and salsa. Jane and Maximoff made a whole “taco bar” on the kitchen counters for Taco Night.

Last I saw, Sulli was eating a vegan corn chip out of Banks’ hand and giggling with the cutest smile—and that vibrant laughter should’ve taken my brain off of work.

But it didn’t.

A tortilla to the face did.

They act like nothing happened, but I clearly see the tortilla lying pathetically in the sink. “What the H-E-double-hockey-sticks?”

Sulli snorts.

I straighten up, phone still in my fist. “Who threw a tortilla at me?”

“Me.” Sulli bounces her brows. “I was testing the velocity of a tortilla. Fucking perfect projectile.” She turns to Banks. “You think corn tortillas are slower?”

Banks picks up a corn tortilla. “Only one way to find out.”

I point at him with my phone. “You don’t know what you’re about to start. You smack me in the face with a tortilla, Banks, and I’m not letting you out of here without retaliation.”

“Bring it on.” He chucks the corn tortilla at me.

I slip left. It splats against the forest-green cupboard, and we all explode into action. I fling the bowl of shredded lettuce at Banks’ face.

He gets a mouthful of iceberg and Romaine, and Sulli pelts me with vegan chips, laughing. We’re all laughing, and bowls clatter as food flies ceiling high. Ground beef splatters on the cupboards, my muscle shirt, my face, and I sling sour cream at Sulli and Banks with a spoon.

“Foul play! He’s gone for the fucking dairy!” Sulli laughs.

We slip on the floorboards, slick with taco juices and sautéed onions.

Shoot.

We laugh and grab onto each other for support before we reignite the food fight. Every concern, every stress, and burden retreat to make way for the ecstasy that explodes inside of me.