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)
Secretly?
Donnelly is staring out the window. Pretending to observe the mayhem outside. “Anyone want an ice cream?” he says like nothing is amiss.
Banks lifts a shoulder to me like you wanna press on?
No.
No, I don’t.
Not now. Not while we’re here. Not while I have a gash in my abdomen and Sulli is two hours away from missing a competition of a lifetime.
“I’ll pass on the Rocky Road,” I tell Donnelly tightly.
“Mint chocolate chip?”
“On all ice cream.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Ripley shuts his storybook, and everyone’s attention suddenly diverts to the baby. He picks up the book. Unsteady on his feet, he stumbles over to Sulli.
She freezes like she’s unsure what to do.
Sulli is pregnant. I didn’t forget. I doubt the rest of SFO did, but the fact is highlighted ten times over. Sulli is pregnant. With my baby or Banks’ baby, and now a baby is teetering over to her.
Sulli. A baby. Sulli and a baby. These things start rolling around in my head like Bingo balls.
“Hey, Rip,” Sulli greets with an easy smile.
Ripley sets the book at her feet, then races back to his dad. Tightly, he hugs and clings to Maximoff’s calf.
“He’s just shy,” Maximoff says to his cousin. “It’s not you.”
“Oh hey, yeah, I get it,” Sulli says with a withering smile. Something’s eating at her.
Banks leans into her ear. I jerk towards them like I’m about to leave this chair. Time to go be with my people.
Farrow grips my leg. Keeping me here again.
“Come on.”
“I’m not done.” He rummages around in his med kit. Maybe a bandage. Gauze. I don’t know. But I’d really like this to be over. He quickens his pace.
Ripley peels away from Maximoff. We all watch as he races over to Farrow. “Papa, Papa! Look.” He picks up the book he’d set down. He shows off the cover of a red convertible.
Farrow smiles, sifting quickly through his med kit. “Is that a car, little man?”
Ripley tries to make a vroom noise.
Baby still needs a bodyguard. Babies—they’re having another one. Sulli is also pregnant. Jane is pregnant. It’s messy.
So very messy.
“Is Akara’s phone going off?” Sulli asks Banks.
Yep, it’s vibrating in his hand. He stole my phone earlier. And he’s the only one I’d even let thieve my phone…besides Sulli.
Banks checks the cell. “Quinn texted.”
“Little bro is missing all the action.” Oscar crunches on a Pringle. “He probably has that FOMEFT right now.”
Sulli perks up a little at her phrase being used by someone else. Someone other than her family. I smile, happy to see her spirits brighten.
Banks reads my phone. “Wishing you a speedy recovery, Akara. I know how shitty it feels to be on the sidelines.”
Sidelines.
I didn’t tell anyone I was benching myself, but I guess it’s easy to assume. Still, I feel the heat of all the eyes on me. Questioning. I wonder who will ask first.
Then a door from the bathroom creaks open slightly. Gabe sticks his head out. “You’re taking yourself off-duty, Akara?”
Oscar speaks up next. “Yeah, Kitsuwon. You off-duty?” I swear he only chimes in so I don’t dodge the question.
I avoid Sulli and Banks’ eyes. It’d be hypocritical of me to remain on-duty with fresh stitches on my abdomen when I’d never allow my men to do the same.
“I’m thinking about it,” I end up saying. Silence. Tension. All of the above start to fill the room again.
Guess I’m a hypocrite.
And I have zero fucks left to give.
I’d rather help protect Sulli and SFO during an event that poses countless dangers. Even if I said, I won’t get involved, I’d find myself sticking my neck out for them. And anyway, Banks is with me.
I’m not alone.
30
AKARA KITSUWON
3 MONTHS BEFORE THE OLYMPICS
APRIL
Body slick with sweat, I quickly yank on sweatpants to my waist. Urgency grinds my muscles, and I have trouble avoiding their gazes. Both Sulli and Banks watch me from the iron-framed bed, sheets twisted up around their naked bodies. Tons of pillows litter the floor of Sulli’s penthouse bedroom, and I’m careful not to trip on the cupcake-shaped one.
Or the one that looks like a dick in the dark.
Curtains shroud the morning light, but I’m almost certain that’s the eggplant emoji pillow.
“Just text him that you’ll check in later,” Banks says, toothpick between his lips. He’s rubbing Sulli’s perked nipple, and she’s grazing her foot against his hamstring, while her fingers circle his abs and ascend to his dog tags. But her green doe-eyes are on me.
I try to focus on anything but them.
“Can’t.” I bend down to the pile of clothes, hunting for my shirt in the mess. Looks like a hurricane plowed through her bedroom. “I brushed Quinn off last week.”
“It’s not up to you whether he can come back to security,” Banks complains. “He needs to stop badgering you. You want me to tell him?”