Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
And he pukes.
I circle my palm along his deltoids, and with my other hand, I fumble in my macrame backpack for my phone. Temp bodyguards are posted outside the small bathroom. We’re in the VIP section of the casino, so less foot traffic, and I’m not worried about a pervert or heckler trying to mess with us in here.
Even while enduring this migraine, Banks ensured the bathroom was secure. He shouldn’t have had to do that for me.
He spits into the toilet.
“Can I call Thatcher?” I ask before I dial the number. Even though I don’t have a great relationship with his twin brother right now, Thatcher should know what’s going on.
Banks groans, “No.” He vomits again.
Fucking God. I can’t just watch my boyfriend suffer in pain?! “I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No.” That was a much harsher no. He spits again. “It’s passing…” He takes another deep breath. “I promise it’s passing, Sulli.”
“Like you promised you’d go to the doctor? Like that kind of fucking promise?” I grip the phone tighter. I can’t lose Banks.
“I’ll keep my word. I’ll go. Just give me a sec.” He hangs his head, battling the pounding in his temple probably. And then he flushes the toilet. Only when he shifts his body—sitting back against the basin—do I ease off on calling 9-1-1.
Color has returned to his cheeks. I press my knees on either side of his legs, and I sink low over his lap while I scrounge in my backpack. I’m not the most prepared person in my family, but I always have a water bottle. And lately I’ve been carrying travel tissues.
I rip open a pack of tissues and dab Banks’ lips.
His eyes roam around my features, and before I can tilt my water bottle to his mouth, he takes the bottle from me.
“Prideful,” I note.
He almost smiles. “I’m not in a coma. I have hands that I like using.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, especially on this one girl with the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. I could almost drown in them.” He swigs water while I start to smile. And he adds, “It’s a good thing she’s an Olympic swimmer.”
“Retired Olympic swimmer.”
“Once an Olympian, always an Olympian.”
“It used to feel like that.” I shrug tensely. “Now I just think…I miss it. I don’t want to miss it because even if I experience it again, what’s afterwards?”
He swallows water. “Does it matter? Your life doesn’t need to be planned out.”
“That’s the problem—without a direct path and fucking purpose beyond the Olympics and winning medals, people aren’t going to think I’m being responsible with my life. And then what?” I hear myself and I cringe.
Responsible with my life.
That’s not what I wanted to be. And who am I even trying to please anymore?
“I think you know the answer,” Banks murmurs, reading my features well.
I glance at the phone in my hand. “Should I call Akara?” He still hasn’t texted us after we gambled thousands of dollars into a gutter. I really had hope that he’d show up.
Banks shakes his head stiffly. “He’s not coming to ‘Lantic Sidy. He made it abundantly clear he doesn’t want shit to do with us today.” He reaches out a hand. “Give me Mini-Akara.”
I pass him the Akara popsicle stick.
For a second, I think Banks is about to flush him down the toilet. My pulse shoots to my throat. “Banks—” I’m about to stop him.
He jabs the popsicle stick in the role of toilet paper. “Now he’s with us.”
I let out a breath and a softer smile. “You feel better?”
Banks nods.
Knock knock.
Fuuuck, my heart is on a roller-fucking-coaster, riding up and down. The mole has still been active in January. Banks shoves a hand in his pocket and pulls out his cellphone.
I lean forward and read upside-down.
THE ROYAL LEAKS
We reveal all the truths about the American Royals. These are verified and come directly from the source.
ROYAL LEAK #1: Sullivan Meadows lost her virginity in a threesome.
ROYAL LEAK #2: Farrow Hale hates his dad, Edward Keene.
#TodaysLeaks #VCard #WhoEnteredFirst? #daddyissues
I pale. “Fuck.”
Banks has gone from looking sickly to looking ready to throw himself in a fucking cage match. “I swear to Christ you’re being targeted.”
“What do you mean?”
“The leaks—you’ve been named more than anyone else. Why is that?” He fumes, then shuts his eyes in slight pain.
“Alright, okay—fuck the mole. We hate them…just stay calm. Is there a trigger or something that brings on the migraines? Is it the light?”
He shakes his head a few times. “I don’t know…I’ll be fine. It’s passing.”
“Please let me take you to the fucking hospital after this.”
“I’ll call a doctor and make an appointment before we leave the bathroom.”
After I agree to that, Banks rereads the leaks. “Looks like my dad issues aren’t the only ones being put on blast.”
Sucks for Farrow, for fucking sure. Or maybe he won’t care. He’s the most unbothered human being I’ve ever met.