Fearless Like Us (Like Us 9)

“Yeah…” Thatcher scrutinizes Akara for a blip and maybe my unease. “You know the full context, right? Banks told you before you hired our dad?”

Akara frowns. “Just that those were the last words his dad said before he left.”

“Banks said nothing else?”

Akara’s head whips to me, looking for answers.

I have them.

My stomach twists in a billion knots. “Kits,” I breathe. “Banks should tell you himself.”

Thatcher grinds down on his teeth. “The three of you aren’t on the same page? How is this going to work?”

Okay, it might not be an A+ showing for our triad, but we’re new to this. We’re not fucking perfect! We didn’t pretend to be. And why do we have to keep proving ourselves to everyone?

Akara has a hand on his forehead, distraught. “What am I missing?”

37

AKARA KITSUWON

Sulli wants me to wait for Banks to reveal the entire truth, but if it were up to him, it’d never happen. He’d rather go die on a sword than slit one across the back of my knees and throat.

“Dammit, someone tell me the truth,” I curse with fire in my chest. “We all know Banks won’t.”

Sulli must not have the heart to slug me for the curse word. Her conflicted gaze travels to Thatcher and to me. Jane takes Sulli’s hand in hers with comfort and support.

I don’t want Sulli to break a promise to Banks, so I drill into Thatcher. “I need to know. This goes beyond our friendship with each other. I hired your dad. If there’s a conflict of interest…?” I trail off seeing some sort of pain in Thatcher’s eyes.

His brows knit together like he’s staring at the sun. “I thought he would’ve told you.”

Tell me.

Tell me.

Please, dammit, tell me! I’m nearly rattling with adrenaline and dread. “Thatcher.”

“The night…” He struggles to even say the words.

Jane helps. “The night Skylar passed away.”

Thatcher nods once, then finishes, “My dad wished Banks were the one who died that night, and he wished it out loud. To him.”

My head goes numb. Body goes numb.

Michael Moretti wished Banks dead. He told him he wanted him dead. I know death. I’ve met death as a teenager, and to think a father could wish that on a young son after Banks was suffering from the loss and pain of losing his brother…

I hate Michael Moretti.

I despise him.

I’m sickened at the thought of having him even near Banks. How Thatcher is okay with that for his twin brother, how he can so easily forgive—maybe he’s better than me. Maybe he’s too good, but I’m not putting money or my company above Banks.

Michael Moretti can go, and I need to find Banks. Now.

38

BANKS MORETTI

“No, you cannot touch him,” I say for the umpteenth time tonight. Jesus, you’d think they’d understand I’m not in a museum asking them to keep their hands off a fuckin’ marble statue. This is a living, breathing sixteen-year-old human being.

Who currently has his hoodie drawn up as he packs in the midsection of a strange-looking snowman. “Sir Frost Squall of the Northern born,” Xander decrees to his friend. Easton Mulligan works on the head and places gum drops in circles for eyes.

He’s giving their snowman four eyes, no kidding. “Frost Squall, the all-seer,” Easton says, “part of the elite Northern born who can spot battles three lands away.”

Xander smiles over at the pale, dark-haired boy. Easton still looks like a teen vampire, but in the past year, he’s had a growth spurt. Not so much in height but in build. He’s still lean but less scrawny, which makes Xander look like a twig next to him.

I smile, knowing their friendship hasn’t sputtered out into nothingness.

“Back up,” Donnelly barks as he sidesteps in front of another young girl who wears a Gucci beanie. Every kid and teenager here are either the child of a socialite or a friend of the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts. I’m betting this girl’s parents are schmoozing other adults and totally oblivious their daughter is bothering Xander Hale and his security.

“I just want a selfie,” she whines.

Xander flinches and tries to obstruct himself from view with the snowman. Easton notices and stands on the other side of Xander to fully conceal him.

“Not tonight.” Donnelly keeps his arm out, and when this girl tries to duck under him, I block her with my own body.

She rams into me, hard enough to fall back on her ass.

Tonight is a clusterfuck, and my raging migraine isn’t helping. I chew on a toothpick to try to ease the thunderstorm banging against my temple. But the only thing that’s going to help is being away from these screams that verge on excited, overwhelmed cries.

“Back up,” I snap angrily. Fire must be coming out of my fuckin’ eyeballs at this point because the girl skitters back, grabbing her friend’s hand in the process.