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But insults were hard on Sullivan. Sulli the Sasquatch signs and haters who were jealous of her success. Saying she wasn’t deserving of gold. They couldn’t see how many hours and months and years she sacrificed. All they saw was her wealth and fame.
A bright spot: Sulli has kept mostly under the radar and didn’t grow up on We Are Calloway like the Cobalts and most of the Hales, which has given her some escape from the harsher judgment.
Her teammates on the Olympic swim team were kind to her. To her face and behind her back. I’d have called them her friends, but Sulli always shuts that word down. She couldn’t confide in her teammates about her family. Didn’t trust them fully, so to her, they couldn’t be more than acquaintances.
I don’t know what that’s completely like. I grew up with friends in high school. Bandmates on the drum-line. Other teenagers who did martial arts. People that I actually cared about and people who cared about me.
But after my dad died, all my energy was put into my gym, and I pushed a lot of people away in favor of working to build my empire.
Returning to our camp, we start a fire, and Banks and I take turns hiking to the bathroom to shower off. When I come back to the tent, I spend a good deal of time replying to emails, filling in Thatcher about Team Apex, and then checking in with Michael Moretti.
He arrived in Philly.
He’s settled in, hopefully.
And as far as his short texts and calls go, he said he has everything handled. Normally I like brevity. It saves me time to do other shit, but from Banks’ dad…it’s unnerving.
Maybe because I haven’t shaken his hand yet. Or given him a personal walk-through and rundown.
It’ll be fine.
It’s going to be fine.
So I shove my phone in my pocket. By the time I walk over to the fire, my stomach is growling.
Dinner for today: an add-water pouch of Beef Stroganoff for me and Banks. And for Sulli—the new vegan—a cup of oatmeal.
Sulli is already grimacing as she chews. “It’s the consistency.”
Banks says, “We have dried cranberries and salted nuts if you’re into squirrel food.”
Sulli mixes the oatmeal. “I’m more of whatever fucking animal likes chocolate syrup and whipped cream.”
I lift a spoonful of Stroganoff. “Sounds like a Sulli animal to me.”
We laugh.
I ask her, “Remember when you made me plug your nose while you drank your protein shakes? You took that worse than your hundred pushups a day.”
“Because those protein shakes smelled like a whale’s butthole. You’d be plugging your nose, too.”
Banks wolfs down his food. The Stroganoff is subpar to me but not inedible. Another month here, and I’ll probably be craving spicy buffalo wings or a Thai omelet.
The Thai omelet heavies my chest. Reminding me of my mom in New York. When I was a kid, it was pretty much the only thing she knew how to cook well.
I glance at a text from this morning.
I’m doing better, Nine. No need to worry about me. Have fun in Yellowstone. Love, Mom – Mom
I reread I’m doing better, Nine a few more times before I put my phone up again.
Shit.
Shit.
“Team Apex is Oscar Mike,” Banks says after I already see the campers on the move. They snuff out their fire and all pile into their pristine, brand-new looking Jeep Wrangler that makes Booger look like a bigger junker than she is.
I click my mic. “Akara to Thatcher, Team Apex is heading down the road towards you. Keep me posted if they stop at the RV camp.”
A second later, Thatcher says, “Roger copy.”
As soon as his voice is gone, the only noise comes from the crackling fire. It’s oddly quiet. Team Apex has been around every night this week. This is the first time it’s felt private since we left our other campsite.
Finished eating, we let the fire die out. Banks unzips the tent and crawls in first, Sulli is close behind.
“Oh fuck,” Sulli curses.
“Akara. Out,” Banks says quickly. Instinctively, I grab Sulli around the waist and pull her out of the tent.
“I’m fine, Kits,” Sulli says, but she’s breathing heavily. “Banks, get out of there!”
Banks still hasn’t left the tent and now I’m worried about him. He’s one of my men. His wellbeing matters to me. But I also know it’s more than that.
“Banks! Leave the fucking tent!” I yell, and to Sulli, I ask, “What’s going on?”
29
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
“Snakes,” I breathe hard, adrenaline spiked. “There are fucking snakes in there, Kits.”
I know what I saw. At least three-dozen snakes are slithering underneath and around our sleeping bags inside the tent.
It has to be a practical joke.
I wish I got a better look to distinguish the exact type of snakes. Venomous or not, some fucking creep crept into our tent and placed them there. They couldn’t have just fallen from the sky. We’ve been here for a whole week, and I haven’t seen a single snake.
