Page 19 of Freckles

“Maybe.”

He spins to face me. “Try a yes or no.”

“Could I give her a phone with everything already loaded?”

“Sure. That’ll be way easier.” I expect buying it to be a task for tomorrow, but he pulls out a drawer crammed full of new smartphones. “Take your pick.”

I select one with a turquoise case to match her eyes. “Can you grab me her student schedule while you’re at it?”

“I can do an entire workup on the little lady, but the full dossier costs double.”

“Double times zero?” He nods. “Knock yourself out.”

When I take my seat again, his shoulders hunch. “You don’t need to supervise, you know. If you won’t feed me gossip about the new love of your life, you can fuck off and I’ll bring it all to you when I’m done.”

My inner control freak would vastly prefer to stay but it’s not like I know what any of the code scrolling up his screen means or does. I clap him on the shoulder before making my way downstairs to the kitchen.

Onyx sits at the table, a large slab of oak that can sit eight, eating from a bowl that contains about three parts milk to one part cereal. His pitch-black hair falls over his face, the sharp gaze of his pale blue eyes peeking from the shadows like ice crystals.

“Tyson says you’ve got a girl.”

“The fuck?” I throw myself into the chair opposite, legs splayed in front of me and shove a hand through my hair. “How did he even—”

Onyx twists his phone screen around to me. Tyson added a still from Ezra’s video to the message as an identifier and my hands squeeze into tight fists.

“Says she’s a nun.”

“She’s a senior at Westlake.” I snatch the phone and delete the message, groaning as I see he’s sent it to Ezra as well.

Onyx pushes away his bowl and stands, stretching out his spine until the vertebrae pop. I take his bowl to the dishwasher because he’s unaware dishes don’t wash themselves and reminding him is a shortcut to frustration.

We do have a housekeeper, Sibil, but she spends more time out on the back patio, smoking and taking sneaky sips from a hipflask, than she does cleaning. A deficiency we overlook because she cooks the most divine food known to man and, even better in our line of work, knows how to keep her mouth shut.

A trait Tyson could stand to learn.

But I forgive him when, five minutes after I head to my room, Tyson brings me the modified phone, and a dossier on Francesca Qualley.

Perfect.

I kick off my shoes and climb on top of my large bed. Everything on it is custom made to fit my height, the mattress and bedding both extending a foot longer than normal.

Along with my car, a pristine Bentley Bentayga pimped out with cricket-ball leather upholstery and a wood and leather steering wheel, it’s my only extravagance.

I never thought of myself as the sort of man who’d welcome a family, a wife and kids, not even as a daydream. Tyson’s right that I’ve mostly treated girls like they’re single-use entertainment. But a few minutes in Francesca’s company and I’m changing my mind. It might be nice to have someone to welcome me home at the end of a gruelling assignment or cheering from the stands during a tough game. A person to talk to who isn’t my competition, or a psychopath with training to enhance the worst aspects of their personality.

I scroll through the information Tyson provided, a smile spreading wide at the thought of Francesca greeting me when I return home after a long day spent working for my uncle.

She doesn’t seem to like me, but I don’t mind. It would still be nice.

Even if she’s cuffed there, against her will, eyes blazing in protest.

CHAPTERSEVEN

FRANCESCA

On the drive home,the darkening sky of the winter afternoon turns the city into a setting from a gothic horror. The naked winter trees throw stark shadows over the pitted tarmac of the road.

I park my car in the lean-to beside the house and walk across weed infested gravel to the front door.

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