Page 18 of Freckles

“Mm.” He tilts his head, eyes crinkling with amusement. “I wasn’t aware you liked any.”

“What’d you mean?” My frown grows deeper. “I’m always with a girl.”

“You fuck them. You’re notwiththem. Ezra is the opposite.” He wriggles his shoulders like he’s settling in for a comfy chat. “When’s the last time you saw a girl more than once?”

“I wasn’t aware you took such a keen interest in my social life.”

“Because you’re the world’s most incurious man.” The grin he uses to accompany the words take away any potential sting. “You should be in the dictionary under the phrase ‘blindly follows orders.’”

“Phrases aren’t how dictionaries work and the word you’re searching for is soldier.”

A foot soldier in my uncle’s army is how I think of it. Or how he wants me to think of myself. Uncle Lance is very good at putting people into boxes before they can test others to see how they fit.

If I had my choice, I’d promote myself to lieutenant at least. Anything to stop being placed on assignments with Ezra. There isn’t a task my egregious cousin can’t enshittify beyond repair.

“Can you do it or not?”

“Irritable as well. She must’ve got under your skin. What’s her name?”

“Francesca.” He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Francesca Qualley.” I rub my neck, the room feeling uncomfortably hot. “She had a run-in with Alice—”

Tyson’s feet hit the ground, and he leans forward, shoving his palm in front of my face. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re talking about the ginger whore on Ezra’s video?” He must read something on my face because he laughs, relaxing into his chair again, fingers steepled under his chin like a Bond villain. “Oh, this is good.”

“She’s not awhore,” I snap. “And she sure as fuck didn’t enjoy it.”

“Apologies for the mislabelling,” he says with another eyeroll so expansive he’ll soon be in danger of them falling out.

“Can you just run the software and tell me the cost?”

“For you? Zero. All I need is another few snippets of gossip—”

“Which you’re not getting. How’d you like it if I dissected your love life?”

“You’re in love?” He claps a hand to his heart. “Man, that was quick. Or have you been secretly pining after her forever and it was seeing your cousin’s dick in her mouth that led you to make your move?”

I have him out of the chair and slammed against the wall in less than a second, my arm pinning him by the throat high enough his feet dangle above the floor.

Through gritted teeth, I say, “How about you show a bit of goddamned respect?”

“Hey! I respect the hell out of whores. Who’s got time to date?”

I shove my face into his. “Stop calling her that. Use her name or I will fucking hurt you for real.”

He pulls a wounded face but when I keep my grip firm, he sighs. “Fine. She’s a nun. Would you like me to clone Sister Francesca’s entire profile, so you can see the pious websites and apps she looks at for her daily inspiration?”

The smirk stays in place, but I slowly let him down to the ground.

Out of everyone in the household, he’s the hardest for me to read because everything gets filtered through differing layers of jocularity. Onyx reveals more of his true self, and the nature of his work means he’s always playing a role.

After a few seconds of faux coughing and spluttering, Tyson gets to work, and I pace the room while his face is lit by the blue glow of his many screens.

There’s a pair of handcuffs by the bed, man sized, and I stare at them for a full minute. Not because I give a shit what his sexuality is, but because I don’t think they’re for his—according to him—paid sexual partners.

I think the cuffs are for him.

The cock cage to the side doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Get the fuck away from my bed or I’ll start to get the wrong idea,” he calls out, not turning from his work for a moment. “Are you able to get hold of her mobile phone? Because then I can streamline a lot of this shit more effectively.”

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