Wild Like Us (Like Us 8)

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Land isn’t that bad.”

He nods. Our eyes stay latched for a sensual beat before he steps into the tub. Dropping his boxer-briefs on the tiles before he shuts the curtain, giving us both privacy.

My smile hurts my fucking face. Banks really does want my first time to be more starry-eyed and romantic. But I begin to frown remembering that his firsts weren’t what he hoped.

Leaning back against the wall, I shut out those thoughts and slip my hand beneath the towel and between my thighs. More swollen and wet than I even thought. Skidding my finger over the tender, bundle of nerves, my whole body convulses—I shudder.

Fuck.

I close my eyes and picture Banks next to me. Behind the shower curtain, he’s stroking himself. Maybe even imagining me.

His arousal towards me is like a liquid drug seeping through my blood stream. I’m higher than the fucking clouds.

My back arches, my hips wanting his hands. Imagining is enough to quake my limbs, and I ripple into an orgasm. Noise catches in my throat.

His grunt is also smothered. Maybe by the knowledge of me here.

When I come down, I wash my hands and throw on my clothes: clean underwear, turquoise boxer PJ bottoms, and a long-sleeve yellow top. Banks steps out, shutting off the shower. After he dries off with a towel, he gets dressed too. Jeans and his white tee.

The air is comfortable.

I squeeze out my wet hair. We slip each other smiles, and then the reality of where we are—a motel-stop, on the way to Yellowstone territory so I can free-solo—comes whirling back as we hear the squeak of a door opening.

The motel door.

The front door.

“Akara is back?” I ask Banks.

“Must be,” Banks says, slipping his phone in his pocket. SFO has mentioned that comms lose range at a certain distance, and since I’m the only one in Wisconsin, he’s not wearing a radio. He’d only have Akara to talk to on comms, and they haven’t been apart that much.

Banks is staring at the shut bathroom door like he can see his friend on the other side.

I just kissed Akara’s friend. My bodyguard’s fucking friend.

And Banks just kissed his friend’s client. Oh and I’m eight years younger than Banks, which I’m not sure how Kits will take. Considering he didn’t love that Will Rochester was older. And he wasn’t even that fucking old!

“Cumbuckets,” I say in a daze.

“What?” Banks looks me over.

“Kits is going to care that we kissed,” I realize. “You’re different—you’re his friend. He’s going to be so pissed…or worse, disappointed…like I did something wrong—”

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Banks tells me.

“Yeah,” I nod, believing this too. “It’s not like I’m married to Akara.”

Banks looks suddenly distraught.

“We’re not married,” I defend. “If we were, then he’s already cheated on me a thousand times—”

“Not a thousand,” Banks sticks up for Akara. And maybe it should hurt me that he does, but the fact that he values Kits like I do—it stings my eyes. Swells my heart and lungs. Makes me like Banks even more.

“A handful of times,” I correct softly, “which doesn’t make it any better. Cheating is cheating, and we were never married to begin with. I can kiss anyone, as much as he can be with Jenny or Jessica or fucking beautiful Patricia.”

Banks cracks a smile. “Never saw beautiful Patricia. What’d she look like?”

“Imaginary, I guess.” I add, “I made her up.”

He nods. “I got that.”

I want to smile, but it loses strength fast. “Fuck, what are we going to do? I don’t want to hurt him. It hurts me thinking about it.”

“We’re on the same front-line with that one.” He scratches the back of his neck. “But we have a whole road trip together. I’m not loving the idea of hiding this from him.”

I touch my lips in thought. “Yeah, it’d be better if we tell him right away.” How fucking awkward is the rest of the trip going to be? Being a third wheel blows. I’m in that seat when Akara and Banks do the whole “we’re best friends and guys and you just wouldn’t get it” routine.

I wouldn’t want Akara to be put in that position.

“Want me to handle it?” Banks asks.

“We should do it together, I think.”

He nods. “Alright. Let’s do it now. Better than sitting in hell.” He slips past me, turns the knob, and he steps one foot into the room and dead-stops.

I come up beside him.

Fuck me.

It’s not Akara.

11

SULLIVAN MEADOWS

Gathered at the motel’s bedroom window, three familiar faces turn around at the exact same time. Like they rehearsed this epic entrance for a We Are Calloway promo.

Maximoff Hale.

Jane Cobalt.

Charlie Cobalt.

My three older cousins. The closest thing I have to older brothers and an older sister.

Surprise doesn’t even cut what I’m feeling. Fans revere Maximoff, Jane, and Charlie, and I’ve always held such admiration for them that I’ve joked with Luna how I’m partly their fan. The other part—I’m just lucky that they’re mine. My friends.