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No word on whether Akara Kitsuwon was hospitalized.
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29
AKARA KITSUWON
I didn’t go to the hospital.
Despite Sulli and Banks’ pleas, I’ve parked myself in Farrow’s hotel suite. The place where the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts are staying was only a couple blocks from the attack. What Banks called “a resort not a fucking hotel” after seeing the pool’s water slide and grotto swim-up bar our first day in California.
I’d rather be here than stoking more headlines about being effing stabbed.
But mostly, this is way faster than waiting in the ER. We’re outside the Olympic Village right now, and Sulli needs to be in the stadium and prepping for the Mixed Relay in less than two hours.
Factor in L.A. traffic, and we don’t have time to waste.
She’s been refusing to go with Banks until she’s 100% positive I’m not going to take a turn for the worse.
“I’m not leaving,” Sulli declares again, probably off the intensity of my gaze.
“Imagining you losing a medal tonight because of me hurts worse than being stabbed in the fudging abdomen.”
“And you bleeding out while I’m in a pool trying to win a trinket will haunt me for fucking life.”
“An Olympic medal isn’t a trinket.”
“You mean so much more to me, Kits,” she combats. “So stop telling me to go.”
I’ve never wanted to be the reason Sulli has failed, anymore than she’s wanted to be the reason I need to sell Studio 9. But I love her, and I’m listening to her pleas.
Just to make our lives more interesting—and awkward—the suite is packed.
SFO is here, and they’re hearing me argue with Sul. I’m honestly surprised Oscar hasn’t broken out a Snickers bar and popcorn yet.
Banks has his arms around Sulli while she hovers near me at the suite’s dining table. First-aid gauze and antiseptic spread out. I’m shirtless, slouched on a dining chair with a water bottle in a limp hand.
Farrow is seated close. “He’s not going to bleed out, Meadows.” Wearing surgical gloves, he meticulously uses forceps and suture thread to stitch my wound. “The blade didn’t hit any arteries or nerves or organs. No infection, from what I can tell.” His eyes flit up to mine. “You’re a lucky fucker. Again.”
Again.
It takes me a solid second to realize he’s referring to the cougar attack from last fall.
I shift a little in the chair. Stifling a wince, and I focus on Banks.
He has butterfly tape over a gash in his eyebrow. Farrow said he’d stitch him after me. But except for the cut and a couple busted ribs, Banks is okay.
He’s okay.
She’s okay.
Everyone knows I’m not okay, but like the cougar attack, I don’t give a crap about the severity of the injury—as long as I’m able to stand up and walk over to Sulli.
Banks and Sulli’s concern crashes into me like giant waves only to recede and crash again. It becomes hard to look at them. Especially when I know they’d rather take me to a hospital.
Bloody gauze fills a trash bin beside our feet. Pain blooms in my side, but I’ve already tossed a couple of Vicodin, and the piercing heat has started to subside to a dull throb. I thanked Maximoff for the water.
Now Farrow just needs to hurry. The faster I’m done, the faster Sulli can compete.
I smile to try to lighten the mood. “Hey, it was skill. Not luck.”
The suite is still tensed.
Like they can all see through me.
Sitting stiffly on the cream couch, Oscar and Donnelly have been whispering and glancing in constant worry.
Quinn isn’t here. He’s back in Philly running Studio 9.
Gabe hides in the bathroom with the door cracked open, feeling woozy from the sight of all the blood.
Thatcher stands stoically by the closed curtains of a floor-length window. The terrace is locked, but he peeks out of the curtains every so often, then peeks at me.
Silence hangs heavy after my poor shot at levity.
Fantastic.
I’m not used to having people care this deeply about my well-being. I’m more used to worrying about the team than being someone to worry about. And honestly, I’m not the only guy who’s uncomfortable with this attention.
Most of us would rather fling the concern onto our clients or our friends.
Shoot, Banks barely talks about his injuries. He’ll say, “I’m good to go” when he’s flat on his aching back.
Farrow grimaces if you ask him if he’s okay more than twice. (Unless you’re his husband.)
Donnelly will bury himself in his shirt before you ever see him upset.
Oscar has a “serious face” that supersedes hurt.
Thatcher is Thatcher.
And Quinn will snap, “I’m fine!” until you lay off.
Does this profession just attract this type of person? Or are we all here because we’ve needed each other?
I think I’ve always needed Omega, as much as they’ve needed me.
“Every couple of hours, I’ll need to check on this,” Farrow says strictly. “No avoiding me like last time, Akara.”
