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)
It’s a common question, I guess. I’m sure Kingly has had to answer it before.
“I like to shave my arms and legs to reduce drag.”
It's a pain in the butt, but I don’t want to permanently laser my hair off completely. I feel more like myself when I have hair on my arms and when it comes back prickly on my legs sometimes. Waxing is a fucking waste. You have to wait for the hair to grow to a certain length just to wax again, and in that time, there’s too much drag, and I’d rather just fucking shave.
The reporter smiles. “Taking notes from Kingly, I see.” She gives me a wink.
So Kingly did answer this question—and apparently, he shaves his arms and legs too. I restrain from looking at the crew because I know Akara is eyerolling the fuck out of this segment. I press my lips together to stop from laughing.
She changes topics to the Ziff Power commercial I did with my dad and then the interview ends. Easy enough. I actually thank her at the end. It was more painless than I thought it’d be, even if I feel a little raw. The most important information wasn’t spilled today, and that’s the best success.
Operation Keep the Bean Sprout a Secret is still very much in effect.
Akara and Banks lead me down the rooftop stairs to a carpeted hallway. An assistant with a tray of coffee rushes past us, delivering beverages to crew and hosts on the roof. The further we walk along the twisting hall, we pass posters of old Hollywood classics like Casablanca and The Philadelphia Story.
Press has been staying at this 5-star hotel just outside the Olympic Village. Coming here is a little more unnerving, but hopefully this interview was good enough to appease the higher-ups for the rest of the Olympics.
Banks braces a door open that leads into another hall.
“Fucking jeez, are we in the Labyrinth?”
“Not unless Akara is David Bowie,” Banks jokes.
I laugh. “Maybe we should shake Kits down. See if he’s still Kits.”
Banks smiles down at me. “You just want to fondle his ass.”
“So what if I do? I like his ass.”
“She likes your ass,” Banks says to Akara.
“I knew it,” Akara says to him, like I professed my undying love.
Their teasing is flushing me head to toe. And I just really love their friendship, and fuck, I’m glad it’s fully intact.
“After you,” Banks tells me, and I realize I haven’t stepped through the doorway.
I go into the next hall first, but I can tell they checked for threats. No one is out in front of me. So I walk a little ahead until they lead again. They go left.
How they’ve memorized this maze of a hotel, I’ll never understand.
Banks casts a glance back. “You aced that interview.”
“Fuck, really?” I’m not the best at interviews. Never have been. Even from the FanCon tour days, I’ve seemed to either stumble and fuck up or be too quiet.
Banks nods.
Akara shakes his head.
I gape.
Akara says, “Could’ve used a little less Kingly.”
I almost snort.
Of course he’d say that. I want to tell him how bringing up Kingly was a total diversion, something my cousin Charlie would have concocted. Like a powerhouse chess move. I don’t say anything though, mostly because Charlie is a sore subject.
Banks resents him for blackmailing me in Yellowstone.
Akara dislikes him because he says he can’t trust him. He thinks Charlie will always hurt people he loves. He’s done it too many times now.
I’m trying to forgive Charlie for being an ass. The more Akara and Banks hate him, the more I find myself coming to his defense. Like the hate is just too fucking strong towards my family member, and he needs another person in his corner.
The fucking irony is that Charlie would probably kick me out of his corner and want to stand alone.
By the time we reach a long stretch of hallway, elevators in view at the end, my stomach grumbles.
“Hungry?” Banks asks.
“Yeah, we should definitely head to the fucking caf after this…” I trail off, noticing four broad-built men slip behind us into the hallway, which has been mostly desolate since we left the roof.
No notebooks or “reporter” vibes—they look like they stepped out of a King of the Ring pay-per-view that I’ve watched with Banks.
It’s nothing. I try to shrug off their presence. I bet they’re just security for anchors. These are big-time news reporters after all.
Akara slides a hand to the small of my back. He pushes me forward towards the elevator. Banks steps behind me too.
It’s nothing. “No boob coverage?” I joke.
“In a sec,” Akara says lightly as we keep walking.
My pulse hikes because that second quickly becomes a minute. I want to make a joke about double-ass coverage, but I can’t surface the words.
We reach the elevators.