Fearless Like Us (Like Us 9)

Them.

I balance on my snowboard and take out my phone. Check the news outlets. Nothing. I expel an agitated breath.

Over the past few days, I’ve texted Sulli and Banks reminding them to announce their relationship online. None of this works if the public still believes the leak.

I’m going to have to call them. Shit.

With a glove wedged under my armpit, I dial a number and press the cell to my ear.

Once the phone rings, panic escalates in me. I haven’t spoken to her in a week. One whole week. Barely even talked to Banks on comms.

The line clicks on the second ring. “Kits?” Sulli’s hopeful voice nearly tears me apart.

“Hold on a sec.” I put her on hold and call Banks.

He picks up on the third ring. “Akara,” he says, relieved.

I inhale a sharp breath and ignore skiers in pink vests who shuffle around me. “Wait for a second, Banks. I have Sulli on the other line.” I merge the calls with one click. “Okay, can you both hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Banks says.

“Yeah,” Sulli replies. “What’s going on, Kits?”

“You’ve both been ignoring my texts.”

Silence bleeds over the line, and for a moment, I think they’ve hung up on me.

Then I hear Sulli’s strained breathing.

Don’t do this, Nine.

I blink back pain. “Hey, this isn’t up for negotiation,” I say lightly like we’re all still friends, even when I know we’re not. “I need you to announce your relationship.”

Banks lets out a rough noise. “You can shove that order up your ass. You’re gonna have to fire me.”

My hand clutches the cell tighter. Cold bites my exposed flesh. “Then you’re fired.”

“Kits!” Sulli yells. “You can’t fucking do that.”

I grind my teeth. “I know what you’re both doing,” I snap. They’re stalling. Hoping. Waiting. For me to change my mind. I tell them bluntly, “I’m not changing my mind. Announce your relationship or I’m going to start shifting Banks off your detail.”

Firing him is a crap bluff. It isn’t in me.

Silence again.

Then Sulli breathes, “How do we confirm it?”

“However you would’ve announced all three of us.”

“No, I won’t fucking do that,” she refutes.

“Then some way,” I snap. “I don’t care how as long as it gets done.”

“Why the rush, man?” Banks asks.

Because it hurts.

Because I need the door shut.

Because if I have a chance, I might run back. And I can’t. I can’t. This is how it was always supposed to be. They need to be happy without me.

“Just do it today,” I say coldly. Then I hang up.

I press the side of the phone to my forehead, gripping it tighter. AHHHHHH! I silently scream in my head. Nothing feels right. Even in my winter gear with my favorite snowboard beneath my boots, I feel sideways and bent.

I slip my phone back in my pocket, and with my glove back on, I take off—Quinn way ahead of me and out of sight. Wind whips against my face as I speed down the steep slope with precision and ease, shifting my body left and right.

For a mere second, troubles fall to the wayside and I just breathe.

And then I hear a guttural noise—a scream that pitches my mind back to the horrific sounds inside my dream. I’m dunked into dread. Until I realize the scream isn’t mine and it’s not in my head—it’s coming from somewhere further down the Black Diamond.

Birds squawk and flap away from treetops. The scream morphs into a groan, and my dread becomes nothing but urgency. Someone’s hurt.

Quinn.

It can’t be him.

He’s a fudging snow bunny.

It can’t be him.

I accelerate as fast as I can go without losing control of my board.

Halfway down, I easily spot the bright orange blob lying against a tree on the right bank. No. No. “QUINN!” I yell, crouching expertly and gaining more speed.

When I reach the tree line off to the right, I apply pressure to the edge of my board, coming to a stop, and I snap off my buckles. “Quinn, talk to me.” I whip off my goggles.

He groans, banging his head against the pile of snow. “I tried to…slow down, the tree.”

“Okay, okay—what hurts?” I pull out my phone to call the ski patrol.

He winces through his teeth. “My leg. I think…I must’ve just sprained my ankle…a little. I’m okay. I can…I can walk it off.” He’s about to vomit.

I talk to ski patrol and call in the accident on the Black Diamond. While I do, I silently wish Farrow were here right now to assess his injury. Fuck.

Shit.

I swear up and down in my head. “Okay, thanks.” I hang up. “Ski patrol is coming.”

“Is he okay?!” A couple girls slow on their skis.

Quinn makes a woozy smile. “Yeah…just a scratch. I’ll be…fine.”

“Oh…you’re Quinn Oliveira,” the girl in a purple puffer jacket gasps. “Are you sure you’re okay…?”

Great. Just great. The Casanova of SFO is attracting not two but suddenly five girls. They congregate around me and an immobile Quinn, but the purple-jacket girl is the only one who says her name: Nessa Nolan.