Wild Like Us (Like Us 8)

Love to push his buttons and see him switch from friend to shut up, Banks, and it’s been too easy lately. Strangely enough, it has nothing to do with Sulli.

“This is ridiculous. I can carry a log,” he combats.

“I know you can,” Sulli says. “But that doesn’t mean you should.”

I crack a lopsided smile. “What she said.”

Akara gives me a look. “It’s been seven days since Farrow stitched me.”

“And I’m no doctor, but as far as I know, if you’ve got stitches, you can still break them open.” I nod to him. “I’ll let you hold my logs once they’re out.”

Akara shoots me a blunt, fuck you look, then whips out his phone as we make our way back to camp.

I try not to laugh too much. “Who are you texting?”

Sulli steps over a fallen tree trunk.

“Farrow,” Akara says. “I’m asking to get them removed tonight.”

He was supposed to get his stitches out tomorrow. I laugh. “Asking or commanding?”

Akara’s not the kind of person to ask permission for something he wants, even if it’s from a doctor.

He doesn’t reply to that, just keeps texting.

Sulli and I share a smile. These past seven days have been comical seeing Akara out of his element. Taking a small step back in terms of physical labor has put him in a fucking tizzy. No lifting. No carrying a backpack. Per his doctor’s orders.

Sometimes I wonder if he’d be okay with using this time to catch up on work—send emails, make business calls, all that paper-pushing shit—if he weren’t competing for Sulli’s time. But it’s not like he’s ordered me to go the fuck away.

Akara has the power to say, Banks, your detail is changing. I’m transferring you to Maximoff for the rest of the trip.

It’d be understandable. Farrow is on the med team. As SFO’s glorified floater, I’ve floated over to Maximoff’s detail pretty often so Farrow could take med calls.

No way in hell am I complaining about Akara’s insistence to keep me on Sulli’s detail with him. I don’t want to be anywhere else. It crashes against me. Because I’ve never cared too much about where I’m told to go, I just go.

For once, I want to be rooted to something.

To someone.

Akara makes a frustrated noise at his phone.

“What?” Sulli asks.

“He’s not replying.” Akara touches his mic, and I can hear him through my earpiece. “Akara to Farrow, what’s your location? I need these stitches out tonight.”

Christ help me, I struggle not to laugh.

Farrow’s reply is quick. “You’re getting them removed tomorrow morning, Kitsuwon. See you at seven a.m.”

Akara huffs.

Sulli looks to me since she can’t hear through the mic.

“Farrow didn’t budge,” I tell her. “Oh-seven-hundred, we’re getting our old Akara back.”

Sulli nudges Akara’s good elbow with hers. “Oh hey, don’t fucking stress. What’s one more night taking it easy?”

We all talk on our way back to the new campsite.

Moments between our friendly banter, the tension returns. And there’s not just one source anymore.

Akara and I are dating the same girl; Sulli still has to choose one of us, and the three of us hooked up in a tent seven days ago—the tension is a badly mixed cocktail of awkward, painful, and hot as hell things.

At the end of the line, Akara and I have a job to do.

And ever since we packed up our tent and moved campsites, security has been harder. Right now, we step into the new camp, nestled less in the woods. Parking lot is in view, and a road curves around different camping spots.

All security risks.

Our teal tent is erected in the “tents only” section, and we’ve parked Sulli’s Jeep a few feet away. The “RVs only” area is a good five-minute trek.

It’s a better distance if something else goes down, and it also gives us privacy away from SFO and her cousins. If my big mouth spends too much time with my brother, I’m still worried I might say shit I shouldn’t—and the longer I’m with Sulli, the more I wish I could confide in Thatcher.

I’m usually the one giving him advice.

But lately, I feel like I need him to remind me that I’m gonna lose her. Because I keep dreaming of a life with her beyond Yellowstone, and it’s gonna kill me when she leaves me behind.

Second.

I’m always second choice, second place.

I try to leave that behind as Sulli and I drop our firewood outside our tent. Akara’s phone buzzes with a text.

Sulli jabs a thumb to the Jeep. “I’m grabbing my toiletries, then heading for the showers.” She points at me while walking backwards. “Stay frosty.”

My mouth curves up. “Stop stealing my lines.”

“Copyright them then!” she shouts, waving goodbye as she sprints to the Jeep like she’s in a race with herself.

I watch her for an extended minute. Ensuring she’s safe, then my focus pinpoints on other campers: a bright orange tent, a green tent—only two campsites down. In distance to chuck a football at us.