Page 75 of Mr. Romantic (Mister 2)

“Pax,” I say.

“Who is this and how did you get this number?”

“Don’t be a dick, asshole. Match gave it to me.”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone as Mr. Mysterious works out who’s calling.

“Nolan,” he deadpans.

“Paxton,” I say back.

He lets out a long breath. “I hope it’s not bad news.”

“It’s not.” Not yet, I think.

“I hope you’re not gonna sell my house. I still want it back when I’m done.”

“Dude, it’s not about you.”

“Then why the fuck are you calling me?”

Man, this guy. I swear. He’s got no people skills at all. How the fuck he ever got into Brown, I will never understand. “I hear you can find dirt on people.”

“Who told you that?”

“Jesus Christ.” I scrub a hand down my face and try to be patient with the guy. “I know you, Pax. Mr. Mysterious, remember? All those good times in court ten years ago? It’s Nolan.”

“Don’t patronize me, Romantic. I know who the fuck you are. What I don’t know is why the fuck you’re calling me on this phone and who the fuck gave you permission to do so.”

“Match, asshole. I got your number from Match.”

“What do you want, Nolan?”

“I… don’t know. I mean… I don’t know. Something feels off, man. I met this girl—”

“Wait. You’re calling me about a girl? I don’t give out my secret love advice.”

I decide to ignore him. I think there’s a ninety-nine percent chance he’s fucking with me anyway. So I just move on. “Something is wrong, man. I can feel it. It’s the past, Pax. I just know someone is on to us.”

“Hm,” he says. “Where are you?”

“Del Mar house.”

“I’ll be there in three hours. I’ve got blood on my hands at the moment. So I’m gonna need a shower.”

The call ends and I just stare at the screen. He could be serious about the blood. Or not. It’s hard to tell with him. He’s my last resort though. Perfect is off on vacation somewhere and Corporate is working some job, I guess. Match lives in Colorado, so he’s too far away. Mysterious is the only one close enough to talk to in person. He’s up in LA doing… whatever the fuck he does. I really have no idea what he does. But I do know he’ll help if he can. He won’t leave me hanging.

Because something is wrong.

It’s not just Ivy and the fact that no one knows how she got invited to my resort. How her folder with that fake résumé got delivered to my desk. How our motherfucking jet was scheduled to pick her up. But that’s most of it.

The other part is her father. And normally I’d chalk that up to coincidence—she did come from Brown, and her father is some do-gooder pastor who heads up a private school that probably sends all its graduates to Ivy League universities. So it’s not that unusual that he’d be on their board at some point in his career.

But the last girl—that last girl in San Diego I fucked about six months back—that’s where all the coincidences fall apart. I remember something she said once. I just can’t recall what it was. I only remember the feeling it gave me. It shook me up for some reason.

We were drunk, sitting out on the sand in front of the Pacific Beach bike path, eating tacos we got from the little Mexican place across from the club a few blocks down. It was like two in the morning and the beach was almost empty.

And she said… fuck. What did she say? I can’t recall. I just remember having this feeling. This feeling of warning bells, and red flags, and lighted signs flashing danger, danger, danger—stop talking.