Infamous Like Us (Like Us 10)

She breaks into a smile. “I know you are, Banks. But I’m here, you know, if you ever need to talk again?”

I hug her close. She lifts her chin, and I slide a hand along her squared jaw. As our lips near, I whisper, “Thank you.”

“I feel like I should thank you.”

“For what?”

“For falling in love with me.”

“You don’t need to thank me for loving you, mermaid. My love for you isn’t a gift that can be given and taken away. It’s just eternally there, and it’s yours to do with what you want.”

She kisses me.

I breathe in the kiss, pulling her closer. My pulse beats strongly as emotion builds under her fingers. She grips my hair with desperate desire, and my hand encases her jaw in the longing I spoke on. Our tongues meld in natural, soulful strokes, her lips swelling beneath mine. And I wish I could say it lasted minutes—but comms go off in my ear.

“…Roosters…” Crackle. “Roosters…I repeat, the…” Static.

“Banks?” Sulli draws back as my hand flies to my ear.

I wince at the comms interference. But finally, the sound is more audible. “…the Roosters are here.” What the fuck are they doing in Los Angeles? At the Olympics?

Akara slips inside, chest rising and falling in months’ long fury. “Did you hear?” he asks me.

“Yeah.” I’m burning up.

“What’s going on?” Sulli questions. “Is anyone going to fucking tell me?”

I look to Akara. It’s his call. This is security.

He makes a choice. And he announces, “The Rochesters are here.”

14

SULLIVAN MEADOWS

5 MONTHS BEFORE THE OLYMPICS

FEBRUARY

I grip a baseball bat in a furious fist.

Venom seeps in my bloodstream like I’m fueled by an invisible chorus, pounding drums in my heart and screaming harmonies in my head.

Go. Go. Go.

My feet strike pavement. Rage carrying me ahead.

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

Fuck him!

Outside of anyone who’s ever messed with my sister, I’ve never wanted to cause someone pain in my entire life. Not like this. But if someone deserves it, it’s my ex-boyfriend.

Will Rochester has returned home from a vacation in Maui. Fucking Maui. He jetted off to an island after dropping bomb after bomb on me and my family with The Royal Leaks. And he’s not licking his wounds. No he’s fucking sunbathing!

On Instagram, he’s posted photos of himself tanning on a yacht, drinking fruity cocktails out of a coconut, and jet-skiing along the Pacific. I’m tired of wishing he’d slam his jet-ski into a rock.

For one, he’s no longer in Hawaii.

He’s back in Philly.

And he didn’t reject my DM when I asked to “meet up” outside his family’s house.

One month has passed since we discovered the Rochesters were the mole behind The Royal Leaks, and in that month, my anger has not been put to rest. I’ve cradled it like a newborn baby. Nourished it. Let it blossom into something angrier than before. For this moment.

On behalf of my entire family, I’m going to confront him.

“Hey, let’s think about this,” Akara says, keeping the same lengthy stride as me and Banks. We trek heatedly down a suburban street. The Rochesters live a few streets over in the same gated neighborhood as my parents.

A quick flyby to my childhood home to retrieve a bat, and now we’re on foot to the real destination.

“I’ve had a month to think about it, Kits,” I tell him. “Fuck him and his stupid chiseled jaw and his bland personality and his deceitful fucking butthole!”

“He showed you his butthole?” Akara banters with mock rage.

I growl, in no mood to try to laugh or be cheered up or swayed from this path.

Akara looks to Banks. “Back me up here, man.”

“You heard our girl,” Banks says. “Fuck him.”

Akara grimaces, “Not you, too.”

I cut in, “I’ve made my decision, Kits. Someone has to talk to my ex, and that person has to be me.”

“Right on,” Banks says, eyes pinned ahead like he’s focused on a target. Ever since I laid down the plan, Banks has been one-hundred-percent ready to confront Will.

Akara, on the other hand, has been more cautious. He hop-steps in front of us and walks backwards to speak face-to-face. “You need a baseball bat just to talk?”

“It’s for intimidation.” Will doesn’t need to think he can push me around.

Akara spreads open his arms. “Aren’t you a lover, not a fighter?”

That’s what I’m always telling him. He’s been my fighter, my defender. They both have. And when push comes to shove, they’d use the bat. I wouldn’t.

“Then you hold the bat.” I toss him the baseball bat.

He has top-notch reflexes, but Akara lets the bat thump against his firm chest and clatter to the fucking pavement.

“Seriously?!” I shout.

“No bat.”

“We’re taking the bat!”

Banks picks up the bat.

“Thank you,” I say loudly, still heated.

Akara glares at Banks. “Drop the effing bat.”

I interject, “Stop ordering my boyfriend around, Kits.”

“He’s my man, Sul. It’s my job to order him.”