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)
“I’ll get it,” I tell them. “It’s probably Thatcher.”
Sulli and Akara look unenthused at this prospect. My brother isn’t winning any friendship awards with those two, but maybe he’s come to his senses and he wants to make amends with Akara. Become BFFs again.
I want that for Akara.
But I also don’t want him pining after my brother. If Thatcher is ready to move on, then I hope Akara feels like I can be enough of a friend.
“Should I leave?” Sulli asks.
“No,” Akara and I say in unison.
Sulli picks at her anklet again. “I just don’t have that good of a relationship with him. It’s fucking awkward.”
“It’ll be alright,” I try to assure. “He’s just concerned. He’ll be asking us the same thing everyone else is. Are you okay? How are you feeling? Easy shit to answer.”
“Yeah, you’re probably fucking right.” Sulli rests her chin on her knee. On my way to the door, I hear her ask Akara, “Can you answer his questions for me? I don’t feel like talking to Thatcher.”
Gotta fix that.
Don’t know how. My brother has been prickly. And since the incident, he’s been a six-seven overly worried cactus. Maybe he’s here to ask Akara for a longer security meeting about the clusterfuck.
Yesterday’s meeting was cut short.
Akara cut it short. We wanted to be with Sulli. To console her. To hold her. Security logistics be fucking damned, she’s all that mattered to us.
Of course, professionally, it wasn’t smart. Personally, it was everything—there was no other option.
Akara Kitsuwon gave no fucks, and I could’ve kissed his fucking toes. I wanted out of that meeting so fucking badly, and he made it happen for us. I love that he understood she needed both of us and not just me.
Another knock raps the wood.
“Yeah, I’m coming!” I shout.
Akara and I haven’t considered moving out of the apartment, but we do spend more time in Sulli’s bedroom than in ours.
For one, it’s bigger there.
For another, it has more personality. Ours is just a waypoint from here to there. Today, it’s been a place with more privacy. Less cats and dogs. Less people to run into and ask, how are you feeling?
Can I get you anything?
If I want to feel that kind of overbearing concern, I’d rather just meet it with Sulli and Akara. Not with my brother. Not with his wife. Not with Farrow or Maximoff or Luna (not that Luna has badgered me—she’s been her regular spunky self).
Another knock.
“Jesus, Thatcher.” I peer into the peephole, and I go cold.
That’s not my twin brother.
5
BANKS MORETTI
“Who is it?” Akara asks, studying me while Donnelly cleans his wrist for the tattoo.
My jaw hardens. Body crystalizes to some prehistoric stone that needs chiseled. “My dad.” I take a short breath. “Don’t get up. I’ll deal with him.”
“Seriously?” He’s shocked.
Sulli is shocked.
Hell, I’m shocked that those words came out of my mouth. I would rather open the door to the devil himself than to my dad. But I refuse to be a fucking coward and pass this to Akara.
I’m done retreating and avoiding.
The last two days have reminded me that I’d sooner die on my feet than live on my knees. I won’t live life ruled by fear of a father.
As I unlock the door, I realize I have no clue what he wants or what he’s going to say. What’s he even doing here? He works for Akara.
That’s still true. My dad, Michael Moretti, trains the temp bodyguards.
I bet he just wants Akara.
Looks like he’s getting his dispensable son instead.
I swing open the door, and instead of offering an invite into the apartment, I slip out into the hallway. And I shut the door behind me.
“Banks,” my dad greets, brown eyes darting to the door I just closed.
“I didn’t know you were stopping by,” I say tightly.
He scratches the salt-and-pepper scruff on his jaw. He has a long face, olive skin, bushy brows, and thick hair—grayed enough that he’s nicknamed “Silver Fox” by the temp bodyguards. He’s in great shape. His black tee molds his muscles, and he carries himself like a Navy SEAL. No one is ever surprised when they learn he is one.
“I should’ve called,” he realizes. “Or, I shouldn’t have. Your brother said you probably wouldn’t answer.” He slips his hands in his jean pockets and lifts his shoulders up in a shrug. Something about his mannerisms remind me of me.
My eyes burn. Unblinking. “Thatcher is right.” I have a few inches on my dad, but he makes himself feel taller somehow. “And it’s not just you. I’m not really picking up the phone that much right now.” Not after the incident.
“You haven’t talked to your mom yet?” He’s gotten rid of his South Philly accent. That irks me for some reason.
I run my tongue over my molars. “No, not yet. She’s been calling, but…” I lift my shoulders. Fuck, I feel like I’m mimicking him.