Monsters Look Like Gentlemen
It never ceased to surprise Sydney how wildly different her pickups went for various missions. A year ago, she’d climbed into a jeep at four in the morning, disguised as cleaning crew, at a military base overlooking the dark tropical seas surrounding the Kwajalein Atoll in the Marshall Islands. Seven months ago, she’d hopped into the back of a rickshaw while arguing in French with the driver as they left the bank of the Congo River in Kinshasa, while a protest rippled around them between a luxury development’s security guards and the fishing village downstream.
Today she was dressed in a black suit more expensive than her monthly rent, disembarking from a private jet at London Heathrow with a superstar named Winter Young; his manager, Claire; two of his backup dancers; and four other security guards.
It was early evening, and the prelude to a storm was starting to drizzle across the tarmac. The edges of the sky were awash in tones of deep purple and blue. Attendants lined up at the bottom of the stairway, and as Winter emerged from the jet with his entourage, they took their items and shuttled them to a black sedan. Clean wet cloths were handed to them, along with refreshing spritzers and a set of luxury toiletries. There was even a shoe shiner at the sedan’s door, giving each of them a quick polish on their boots before they headed into the car.
As they waited to enter, Sydney saw Winter tilt his head up to the skyand savor the feeling of rain sprinkling on his face. There was something endearing about the gesture that made her smile. A pair of aviators tinted the skin around his closed eyes a faint green. Under a draped peacoat, his collared shirt was rumpled as if he’d slept in it—the sleeves pushed haphazardly up to his elbows and exposing the geometric lines of his tattoos, his collar’s top buttons still undone—and his hair was the perfect level of mess. His trousers were clearly designer, tailored perfectly to end just above his ankles. He both looked like he’d literally rolled out of bed, and somehow also better than at any point over the past week, which she found truly insufferable after a ten-hour flight.
He caught her expression. “What?”
Her smile wavered. She snapped back to herself. “Nothing,” she said.
They all piled in. Leo whistled appreciatively as they slid into the plush leather seats. “My aunties want me to bring back some chocolate for them,” he said to Claire. “Think we can make a detour?”
Claire lifted an eyebrow at him. “Noted. Any special requests?”
“Cadbury Twirls,” Leo said.
“Anyone else?” Claire said as she tapped on her phone.
“Yorkies,” Dameon answered.
“Galaxy bars,” Winter added. “Kinder Buenos.”
“Just Necco Wafers,” Sydney said. “If you can find them here.”
They all looked her way.
Dameon blinked at her. “Necco Wafers?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re the only person I know who eats those,” Leo said. “Don’t they taste like chalk?”
“I like them,” she replied.
Winter shrugged. “Leave her alone,” he said, returning to his scribbles.
She smiled a little at their reactions. As if to prove it, she pulled out a roll of Necco Wafer candies she usually kept in her pocket, then held it out.
Everyone shook their heads politely.
Sydney popped a wafer into her mouth, crunching idly. “More for me, I guess.”
Leo and Dameon fell into a low conversation about something, while the other guards sat in silence and ignored her. Sydney ignored them in return as she fiddled with the waxy paper of the candy roll. Her eyes settled again on Winter, who was leaned back, left leg resting across his right knee, and lost in concentration as he scribbled on a well-worn notepad. Writing music, she assumed. She had to hand it to him, at least—the boy worked with an intensity that surprised her, had trained with her with the laser focus of someone used to throwing his entire being into his craft. Maybe he would even remember everything she’d taught him.
She felt the familiar itch to steal something, and her gaze lingered on his notebook.
His eyes flickered to her, as if he’d heard her thoughts. She looked quickly away, pushed down the urge, and bit down on another Necco Wafer.
“We land,” Claire was saying now, looking at none of them as she scanned her phone, “we get picked up to head to the place Eli Morrison has set you up in, and then we head out for dinner at six.”
Sydney analyzed Claire as the woman went on. As good as she was at talking, she could tell Claire wasn’t a natural speaker. Not an extrovert, either. She noticed it in the way the woman didn’t seem to know exactly what to do with her hands when talking to others, so instead she’d clutch her phone at all times as an unconscious comfort.
Her gaze darted to the two backup dancers sitting with Winter. It was jarring to see such attractive boys all in a row. She knew the one to Winter’s left was named Leonardo Medina Santiago, handsome and cheery, the youngest of a family of four who—she’d learned while doing research on Winter’s crew—had given up an offer to attend Stanford University in order to pursue his dream of being on a stage, much to the anguish of his parents. She studied how his body twitched with restless energy, howhe leaned in toward Winter. His confidence was genuine, the kind that came out of a solid family.
The other was Dameon Carter, hazel-eyed, long and lean with dreadlocks, prettier than he was handsome, a Black boy from New Orleans who had five younger brothers—which might explain the endless amount of patience he seemed to have. Dameon lounged quietly on Winter’s other side, his eyes closed, content to listen as Leo rambled on. Whenever Winter laughed or answered, his eyes would slit open, as if pulled by his presence. There was some kind of past there between him and Winter, and a serenity about the boy that intrigued Sydney, particularly because he also still seemed to notice everything.
