I think about the reporters and social media types hanging around outside, waiting for a scoop on the Wildlings’ first foray into charity, and my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach.
Dammit.
So much for the gala.
3
TRUETT
After this morning’ssocial media scroll, I can’t decide what I want to do more with my next client: mock him or fuck him until his knees give out.
As much as I’d love to have Rami Bash spread out before me like a feast, I don’t have a death wish.
For one, his father is Anders Fucking Bash, who, at fifty-nine, is still one of the most unhinged and dangerous men on the planet. I only know this because the circles I hang out with—mostly non-lethal hacker types with a penchant for cyber warfare—have known for a long time that the Bashes are well-funded vigilantes who don’t mind getting a little bloody to level the playing field.
To be honest, I’d assumed a lot of the bluster online about Anders Bash was just that: bluster. Then Bash showed up one day for a haircut, booked under a different name. He was friendly enough as I washed and toweled off his hair, but then he sat in my chair.
For one terrifying moment, he met my eyes in the mirror, letting me see who he was under the family-friendly façade he showed the world. I’ve never told anyone this because they’dhaul me in for a grippy sock retreat, but I swear he was peering into my soul with a murderer’s eyes.
He didn’t say another word for the rest of our appointment and tipped me double the cost of the trim, but I felt a chill along the back of my neck for days after.
The next week, Rami Bash walked in, and I nearly turned him around at the door. He was charming, though, and made no reference to his dad’s visit. Bash had clearly been scoping out my shop ahead of Rami’s appointment, and it had felt like he’d been sending a message.
Two years on, I’m still not stupid enough to ignore it.
Unfortunately for me, Rami is a delicious confection of a man: ridiculously hot and achingly sweet with just the right amount of arrogance for taming. Even more torturous, last night was baby’s first charity event.
I checked out the gala socials—just keeping up with the trends, mind you—and Rami looked like he’d been poured into that expensive suit. His hair was a little shaggy, but it was a nice contrast to his impossible eyes and pretty olive skin. Tall, trim, and strong, perfect for fucking into a mattress.
Nope. Put that thought into a lockbox and throw away the key.
Rami’s co-chair, on the other hand, was high as a fucking kite in every goddamned photo. Dude walked into the gala with sugar rimming his nostrils. Then, when he got up to give that speech? Nightmare. He would’ve rambled for hours and lost every single donor if Rami hadn’t basically shoved him aside.
The cops busting in to arrest him was just the cherry on top.
Can’t say I loved the anxious expression the paps caught as Rami watched the officers drag his buddy offstage, and it kinda pissed me off. I know exactly how much work went into this gala, having gotten Rami’s hilarious updates at every haircut for the last several months. Now that I think about it, Rami never mentioned his friend.
That doesn’t surprise me though. Rami Bash is one of thehardest-working rich boys I’ve ever met. Sure, he’s occasionally useless—like that time he tried to help plant trees and couldn’t get his to stand up straight—but he volunteers across the city: sitting with old folks, spending time at soup kitchens, posting about fundraisers.
Every time he posts, the charity in question ends up funded for the next year, and then he skips off to some Tahitian retreat with his cousins like he hasn’t just changed a whole bunch of lives overnight.
Anyway, I’m sure he’ll shake it off. I mean, it isn’t like he’ll have to suffer alone. Lucky asshole has a stupidly rich and incredibly loving family who will break the laws of physics—not to mention any and every actual law—to help him.
Which is why I’ll stick with mocking.
Besides, there’s no family that’ll have me, few acquaintances outside of my online spaces, and no one I could call if Papa Anders shows up again with a set of knives and that dark look on his face.
I’m distracted from my mental rambling by the bell over the door. Rami walks into my shop wearing broken-in blue jeans, a well-loved Harvard T-shirt that stretches across his trim muscles, and a pair of old-school Converse. His hair’s a mess and his exhausted, hangdog expression is entirely out of place. I wonder if he got any sleep at all last night.
“Hey there, big spender,” I say, taking off my trucker hat. He watches my hand as I run it through my hair. Pretty sure he likes my tattoos. “Heard there was some drama at your little gala last night.”
Rami’s blue-green eyes, usually sparking with light and fun, skitter off to the side.
“Oh, c’mon.” I gesture him over to the hair-washing station. “What’s this look about?”
Following my direction, he slumps down into the chair,spreading his legs as he lets his chin drop to his chest, his usually smooth voice uncharacteristically rough.
“Last night was such a fucking embarrassment.”
