The bumpand screech of rubber on asphalt jolts me out of my favorite dream, the one where Boone consoles me with his tongue on my asshole while telling me what a good boy I am.
Pathetic. It's been weeks since I've needed my comfort fantasy, but now there may or may not be a warrant for my arrest in Geneva.
That depends, I suppose, on how litigious certain people are feeling.
Which reminds me.
I pull up my Notes app and dictate a reminder to send a thank-you gift to Professor Davi. My Brazilian jiu-jitsu instructor is the kind of tyrant who would never dream of letting me buy my way out of the hard work, which came in handy today when I used his devastating arm-bar technique on the hot, new photographer my manager said I absolutely had to work with.
He has a fresh perspective, she gushed.A real artist’s eye.
It sounded like fun, and the designer was a friend of a friend, so I thought…why not?
I’ll tell you why not. That asswipe photographer—with a fifty-thousand-dollar lens, mind you—didn’t have a handle on basic lighting techniques, let alone afresh perspective.
To be crystal clear, I can work around someone who’s shit at their job, but I draw the line at a coked-up perv who gets handsy with the underage models.
That’s a bigfuck noin my book.
I walked in on him advancing on a terrified girl like a fucking octopus, and within seconds, I had his crumpled body pinned to the floor and wheezing for a sip of oxygen through a bruised larynx.
Fuck, was that really just this morning? At least my eyeliner’s still in place.
The designer fired me on the spot—his collection was bullshit anyway—and there was no way I was leaving Kayla in their clutches.
She didn’t say much, just took my hand and murmured one-word answers as I booked us flights home. We flew together to Cincinnati, and I sat with her as she talked to her parents about what happened.
Before leaving Switzerland, I called my most influential friends to ensure Kayla wasn’t blackballed. Given the mess they’d already made of the photographer and designer on social media by the time we reached Cincy, I’d say they went above and beyond. I promised Kayla and her parents that a better designer and a better photographer would be calling her within the week.
My only problem right now is Holmes, whom I’m barely talking to.
The twin ESP thing is real, though, and Holmes has been blowing up my phone since the second I put that motherfucking “photographer” on the ground. To be fair, my brother did warn me that taking a last-minute booking with a designer I barely knew—and a photographer I didn’t know at all—was a bad idea.
And sure, he was right. I’m not about to hand him that win, though, because he forgets that the ESP thing cuts both ways.
For instance, I now know how much he was lying when he said he and Honoré were never in any danger.
They’re still treating us like newbs, Mav.
Yeah right. From the overheard—fine, eavesdropped—conversations and the fucking palpitations I’ve picked up on lately, I call bullshit.
Right before I got roped into this stupid Switzerland side quest, I found out that H and H sometimes help Uncle Jake and his so-called WhiteHat crew babysit that nightmarish Hell_AI app. I’m pretty damn sure they’re chasing something way more dangerous than some basement dweller’s shady crypto market.
That’s what’s got me twisted up. My gut’s telling me Hedy only divulged the tip of the iceberg, and whatever’s underneath is big.
Like, really fucking big.
What else are y’all hiding from me?
Which is why I keep trying to join that WhiteHat group. The mods have rejected every attempt so far, but I’m pretty fucking persistent when I want to be.
My phone goes off, and it’s Holmes. Again. Ugh.
I undo my seat belt and step into the already crowded aisle. I’m wearing nerdy glasses and have a chunky knit beanie pulled low over my curls. I look like an academic. Maybe even an artist.
Two things no one haseverconfused me for.
As I contort to retrieve my bag from the overhead bin, the shambling line in this cramped metal tube reminds me why I rarely fly commercial anymore. Aside from the logistical nightmare that comes from being made, commercial travel is a sensory assault—people touching me, horrifying bathroom chemicals, multiple conversations that rise and cascade around me until I feel like I’m gonna come out of my skin. Worse, I left my earplugs in Switzerland, so I can’t block out any of it.
