He hefts up a brow. “Because I have two outside clients of my own, and they expect a little more when I stretch them.”
I go cold, like the heat got yanked out of me. Even though the contract I have with Cillian is only verbal, if he’s screwing other women, then…
“Look, maybe it’s just my clients who expect more. Maybe he only teaches his to dance, or do burpees, or whatever.” He rubs his jaw, as though nervous he might’ve put his foot in his mouth.
“Forget you saw a woman come out of Cillian’s trailer. Forget we had this conversation. Leave without turning around.”
He obeys my compulsion, marching away, leaving his car door gaping. I snap it shut with a flick of magic, agitation stacking on top of anger. So much for seeking solace with my fake boyfriend.
I want to find Cillian even more now. I set aside my guilt and step back into his camper in the hopes of finding a notepad with his clients’ names and phone numbers.
I end up finding a terracotta statue of palms pressed in prayer, a few changes of clothes—mostly sportswear—a camp stove, some cooking utensils, a survival guide, and several creased cookbooks.
I flip through the guide to the dog-eared passage on wound care. Did he get this book after juvie? Before?
I crack open the cookbooks next, my attention sticking to the title page and the loopy handwritten dedication on one of them.
Reevey,
This present is as much for you as it is for me, since I expect you to make every recipe in this book for me.
Love always,
Quinn?
The corners are bent,the pages pockmarked with oil. I frown as I thumb through what must be another one of his bargain-bin finds, because who the hell are Quinn and Reevey otherwise?Relatives? And what sort of name is Reevey? A man’s, a woman’s, a nickname?
As I take the stairs back to street level, my mind skips from one scenario to the next, and back again. Here I’d come to rant about Ines, but instead picked up a fresh set of problems.
“Where are you, Cillian Lowry?” I grumble to the cloudless summer sky.
If only my magic could help me track people.
Chapter 18
Cillian
Ishow up late to the deli and get in line behind an actual customer. The drilling just outside angers the headache forming at my temples.
I should’ve taken some ibuprofen. I slide my fingers under the arms of my sunglasses and knead the fluttering skin.
When it’s my turn, I ask, “BLT, hold the bacon.”
The short-order cook sizes me up—from synthetic hippie wig to ripped jeans—before reaching behind the counter for a prewrapped lunch sandwich. “Bathroom’s in the back.” He nods to a short hallway.
I’m guessing I have to look at my sandwich behind a closed door. Once inside the single-stall bathroom, I unwrap the sandwich. I’m expecting a scrawled message on the wrapper, or a halved bun with a strip of paper inside, but there’s nothing. Did they forget to add a message?
The doorknob rattles.
“One sec,” I call out, reducing the bread to crumbs to locate a message.
I startle when the locked bathroom door swings open. “What the hell, man. I said I needed a sec?—”
A masked Hunter in full black gear enters. “Come with me.”
Of course my stepbrothers wouldn’t give me the directions to their new HQ. If only I’d gotten the address from Quinn before?—
The man tosses a black balaclava at me—one with no eye-holes. “Leave the wig and sunglasses and put this on,” he murmurs.
