Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Risking a bit of attention, I walk over to the driver-side window. “Hey there, hot stuff,” I say.
Akara gives me a look. Up-down. Like he’s sizing me up. “D.”
I frown. “D? Like dick?”
He laughs. “No. That’s what I grade your flirting.”
My jaw drops. “F,” I say. “For fuck you.”
“Ooh, but you already have.” He teases and shuts off the Jeep. He takes the keys from the ignition and hops out onto the curb with me. I notice the dangling keychain. An otter. I reach for it in fondness and Akara willingly gives me the keys.
I start to explain. “My sister gave me this—”
The keys are ripped from my grasp. It happens in a blur. A flash. A passerby steals them and rushes away, and I feel Akara shielding me from the stranger instead of trying to grab the keys. My feet react before my brain can catch up.
I untangle from my boyfriend.
And I run.
“SULLI!” Akara’s screams are nothing compared to my pace. I can feel him trying to keep up with me.
“SULLI!!” Banks’ voice echoes in the air. I can feel Banks trying to catch up to me.
They can’t.
I’m faster.
I’ve always been faster than my boyfriends. Faster than security. Faster than everyone, even Moffy. Even my dad.
I run.
And run.
Adam Sully.
The Jeep.
Those keys.
I don’t see where I’m going. I just make sure to keep the thief in sight. A dark navy sweatshirt and an Eagle’s baseball cap. Don’t lose him.
Don’t lose him.
My shoes slosh in puddles, and I side-sweep an old dumpster. It takes minutes before I close the distance in a dead-end alleyway. I have him now. I have him. I grab a fistful of his sweatshirt, only for the fabric to be yanked from my grasp as he whirls around on me.
He points a gun.
The barrel is dark and endless.
I go cold.
Flashes of my family fill my head like a slideshow on warp speed.
My mom. Blonde hair whipping in the wind. Her smile pulling at her scar. Her green eyes lighting the world.
My dad. Running beside me. His stride strong. His hugs.
My sister. Twirling together on the tire swing.
Them.
Akara and Banks.
Laughing with me.
Holding me.
Together in the frost-covered woods, beneath a globed, glowing moon—smiling with me, breathing with me, living with me.
I’m going to die here.
Click.
I choke on air. No bullet in the gun.
The thief laughs like it’s a joke. The baseball cap shields his face, and he presses the trigger again. My whole body seizes in fear. Wetness seeps between my legs.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Each time he presses it. I feel like I’m dying inside.
And then Banks slams into him, knocks him down into the ground. Bang!
That next shot goes off into the garbage can, and I sink to my knees. It wasn’t empty. The gun wasn’t empty. I’m shaking. I…I pissed myself.
I try to breathe.
Trembling—I can’t stop shaking. Akara wraps his arms around me while Banks slams the butt of his gun into the thief’s temple. Lights out.
“Breathe,” Akara whispers in my ear. “Just breathe.”
Why did I run after him? Instinct. I let my love of that Jeep fog my brain. But I couldn’t let myself do nothing. Banks missed his brother’s wedding for that fucking Jeep. I wasn’t about to let a thief…
“Shhh…” Akara whispers.
I’m sobbing.
When did I start crying?
He holds me. Banks watches, keeping a knee pinned to the thief. Police sirens go off in the distance. Akara says something to Banks, but his voice is faraway in my ear.
“She’s already in your hands. Take her home, Nine,” Banks says. “I’ll deal with the police. We can keep this out of the media.”
Those words are the last thing I hear before I’m lifted. Cradled. Carried.
Rewind. Go back.
Go back to where I’m joking with Kits. Rewind to the car where I’m wild and free. Rewind and pause and play and don’t let me run. Don’t let me run.
Never let me run again.
That thought steals more breath, like a knife into my gut, and I think, Don’t rewind. Fast-forward. Go onward. Press play.
Will I ever be okay again?
Will I ever be okay?
59
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
NOW
“SULLIVAN! LOOK HERE!”
“How do you feel after the shooting?!”
“Will you ever attend another concert?!”
“Smile for me!”
“SULLIVAN!”
“BANKS!”
“AKARA! LOOK HERE!”
None of us respond—a lot has changed, but giving silence and a middle finger to paparazzi has stayed the fucking same. While I’m sandwiched between Banks and Akara, I flip off the cameras, and flashes ignite, shouting escalates.
Even as my pulse pitches, I breathe in and I remember, forward. Just move. I know I stand out wearing Akara’s candy-apple red windbreaker. I intentionally put the jacket on this morning—not to draw cameras towards me—but because I’ve realized, more than anything, I want Banks and Akara to find me.
If we’re split apart. If I’m dragged backwards.
I want to know they’ll see me.
They’ll catch me.
Akara speaks into his mic. Suddenly, more bodyguards surround us, pushing aside the packed media we try to elbow and shove our way to the marina on an early Saturday morning. Really, my security is doing the shoving. I’m just trying to stay upright and not stumble.