The last few days, Lola hasn't even fought with me, and even Lyndall's giving me the cold fucking shoulder. Though, when I question my sister, I'm not met with the wall of stone silence or monosyllabic answers that I get with Lola.
I'm met with wild lectures, fiery words, and petulance. Once I even got the, "If you don't know, then I won't tell you," which is as helpful and informative as a kick in the balls.
I have spent the afternoon in the office, and I'm waiting for Lyndall to come home from violin next door.
"You need a secret tunnel." She collapses on the sofa in a fit of sudden and apparent exhaustion.
I contemplate a drink. "You came from next door. It's a three-minute walk if you crawl."
"That's not the point. I have to come up with conversation to have with Con, and he's scary and silent."
"You're very friendly with Dad's men." And I could bite my fucking tongue.
She gives me a look that could break stone into a million tiny, fragile pieces.
She plays with her hands. "I have to know the names of those who get assigned to me. And he spends a lot of time up at the school."
I wince. "Not the right phrasing."
He doesn't do anything. At least, nothing I could find. I doubt he'd still be breathing. Besides, he's married. Two kids.
Still. "It is the wrong phrasing, isn't it?"
"You're the cyber stalker, you tell me."
Ouch. "Nothing I could find, but that just means he doesn't post about it."
The problem with a lot of fucking organized crime. Give me the billionaire class any day. They get into trouble, are criminals because they don't think laws apply to them, but they're not good at hiding it. They think their small cabal of post-money fools means they can say what they want, when they want.
They post all over the place on all sorts of dark and questionable sites.
But when one falls, they're like dominoes.
"Have you seen anything...?"
She rolls her eyes. "Con's pretty decent for a murderous, scary, silent man. He watches out for me."
She makes it sound like he's in the wrong when he's doing his job.
Which is how I see my role of molding, guiding, paying for, and keeping an eye on Lola.
Doing my fucking job.
It's just one that isn't any kind of chore.
She stands up, picking up her violin case. "Speaking of captured women, when are you letting Lola out of that room? It's inhumane."
"That suite's bigger than her postage stamp apartment."
"What's a postage stamp? Is that what old people call the tagline on emails?"
She makes it sound like she's past email, which she probably is. She's more messenger-based, but she still has to use it.
"No. It's what old people call stamps to send mail. Actual mail. Packages."
Then she grins and grabs her bag. "I'm just kidding. We studied them in history."
She needs grounding.
