Song of the day: “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” by The Rolling Stones.
The day after Sailor cockblocked me, everybody seemed deliciously murder-able.
Da was a cunt, Cillian’s horns were extra pointy, and Syllie was holed up in his goddamn office, not doing anything suspicious or noteworthy. Knox was on payroll recording his ass pretty much twenty-four-seven and living in a van to make sure he caught every conversation the fucker had, and still, nothing.
I got hit on by two secretaries who forgot the memo that I was the office airhead or were sent by Da as a test. I turned them down in a less-than-polite fashion (“My cock is on dickation”).
I thought about texting Sailor—came close to doing it three times—but realized it would be selfish.
Anyway, she wasn’t completely wrong.
Our bitch of an arrangement had three months to run its course, and then she was going to beat it (and I would finally stop beating one out).
Obviously, I would be sad to see her go, but keeping her had never been an option. If I had to guess, the loss of Sailor would feel like the loss of a really good pizza some asshole sneezed on. It’d suck balls, but at least I’d have had a taste, and there were more restaurants to choose from.
Anyway.
Sailor wasn’t there when I came home that evening from another grueling night class. This time I did text her, just to make sure she was okay. She was. She texted back that she was returning to the archery club after spending time with Ash and the Sweet’N Low version of the Olsen twins. Sailor was spending a lot of time with Ash, which made me believe maybe I’d see her even after our arrangement was donezo.
Only for that to work, I’d have to pick up my mom’s calls and actually spend time with my family. That wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, though I’d promised Da to attend family social functions.
The following night, I crashed before Sailor made it home. Today, I’d left her a note with a coffee before I went to work, wishing her a good day, because apparently I was turning into someone’s sweet grandma.
The first thing I noticed at work was that Sylvester wasn’t there.
“Seen Syllie?” I stuck my head into Cillian’s office. He was sitting behind his desk, drowning in refinery blueprints. He was wearing a tailor-made Oxxford and had his hair slicked back neatly. He was punchable to a goddamn fault.
He looked up, his lips puckering in annoyance at my existence. I knew I cramped his style with my general loser-ness. It was like running the White House with David Hasselhoff as vice president.
“His wife is going through a minor medical procedure. He won’t be here today.”
“No shit. She okay?” I couldn’t hide my mirth, which sucked. But his absence meant I could snoop around his office. I hoped it wasn’t anything serious—just like, removing a mole or getting a boob job (if those were even a thing anymore. Everybody knew the world was all about ass-plants now).
“And what, pray tell, made you mistake me for someone who cares?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but he shooed me away with a flick of his wrist, his eyes still on the blueprints. “Never mind. Life’s too short to hear your answer.”
“Asshole,” I muttered, glowering at him.
“That, I am. And as one, I tend to shit over those who piss me off. Better step back, ceann beag.”
After those parting words, I bolted to Syllie’s office, drew the blinds to his glass walls, and started sifting through his drawers to find anything that could clue me in on his plans.
I was about to leave his office empty-handed when I noticed something on his desk, in plain sight—somewhere I hadn’t even thought to look. A piece of paper. I reversed, frowning at it. It was a list of names. Most of them I didn’t recognize, but one stood out, because it was the same chick who did PR for Sailor. Why would Syllie need PR? What scandal was he planning on extinguishing? He wasn’t running for political office, that was for damn sure. He was the kind of fuckface who only cared about making money. The public sector wouldn’t appeal to him. I took a picture of the names with my phone, making a mental note to Google them, and dashed out.
The minute I was out of his office, I collided with a dainty body.
“Hunter,” a delicate shriek whined.
“Mom?”
Ech.
She clutched her little Balenciaga purse to her chest, wearing a dress with a matching pattern. Jane Fitzpatrick had brought the looks into the union between her and Da, and I took after her in that department. She looked beautiful, and equally as pissy. Eyebrows pinched together, mouth flat.
“You’ve been avoiding my calls,” she said. No Hi. No How are you doing? Straight to stating the fucking obvious.
You’ve been avoiding me, I wanted to counter. For thirteen years, to be exact. When Da wanted to send me away, you should’ve said no. When I got kicked out of Eton, you should’ve brought me back. You never fought for me, Mom. Why would I fight for you?
“Been busy.” I popped a cinnamon gum into my mouth, starting for my station outside Da’s office. Back to my doggy spot. “Need anything?”
Parenting classes?
Moral compass?
A fucking heart?
“Yes. Some time with my son.”
Ahhh, not that. She continued, undeterred, as she quickened her pace to catch up with me.
“Your father said we’d be seeing more of you, that it was a part of your deal. But every time I contact Sailor regarding making arrangements for dinner, she says you’re too busy, and you never answer your phone.”
Sailor had been cutting me some major slack in recent weeks. Truth was, I straight up dodged them. So far I’d managed to do pretty well. Between college, work, Sailor’s injury, and that pub brawl, my life had been a goodie bag of calamities.
“Shame, Mom. Well, anyway, we’ve seen each other today, which has been good. Great. That should tide us over until next month.”
“Actually, you’re coming this week.” Her high heels stubbed the marble floor angrily. I felt like an asshole for making her chase me, but not enough to stop.
“Explain.” I rounded the corner. She followed.
“I talked to Sailor. She said she’ll make you come, no matter what.”
That certainly wasn’t what she told me when I actually tried to come with her in my arms, I thought testily. Still, it annoyed me that my grip on Sailor was loosening. She really was taking a step back from that thing between us, hence the plans with my mom.
“She’s my PA now. Sweet.” I stopped at my desk and flipped through files without purpose just to look busy. “Well, it’s settled, then. Anything else?”
“Yes. It’s on Friday. I’m cooking. And I have another question.”
“Of course you do.”
I was turning into Cillian, and I hated it. Being a cunt did not come easily to me.
“What did I ever do to make you hate me?” She looked up at me, and I could see in my periphery that her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Fuck. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have—in the office or at all. I didn’t look up from the file I was browsing through.
“Nothing. I think it’s safe to say you did absolutely nothing for me,” I said, amending, “I mean, to me.”
I closed the file with a thud, sparing her the look she’d been begging for.
The idea of having Sailor watch firsthand how little my family thought of me was infuriating, but inevitable. She already kind of had, at the charity bullshit, but she hadn’t been sitting with us, so it wasn’t like she’d experienced it from the front row. I shouldn’t care, anyway. As established, we were nothing to each other.
“I wish you knew the whole story.” She sniffed, looking down.
“I wish I cared.”
HHH: Thanks for the ambush dinner.
Sailor: Anytime.
HHH: ← Not going.
Sailor: ↑Not optional I’m afraid. My parents are going to be there. Sam, too.
HHH: Sounds like an intervention.
Sailor: Nope. You’ve got your sh*t together.
HHH: I can’t believe I went down on a chick who doesn’t spell the word shit.
Sailor: Hunter!
HHH: What? It’s like one step away from a nun. I feel like this is bucket-list-worthy. Can I strike off nun?
Sailor: I’m agnostic.
HHH: I’ll show you the light.
Sailor: You’ve already shown me plenty of things. None of them godly.
HHH: Not according to your moans.
No answer. Of course I had to take it one step too far. This was when I usually gave up on a chick, chalking it up as too much work. But with Sailor, her defiance turned me on.
HHH: Am I going to see you today?
Sailor: I’m watching tapes after practice until late. Then I have a photoshoot for a sports mag.
HHH: *Crosses off fingering a celebrity, too.*
HHH: I’ll wait. What 2 DoorDash?
Sailor: Do they deliver manners?
HHH: Sushi with a side of my superior sense of humor it is.
Sailor: Try to make sure the delivery person keeps their clothes on this time.
HHH: No promises.
That night, Sailor and I had sushi while listening to Syllie’s tapes and trying to decode some of his conversations. It felt like buddy studying for a test together or some shit. I kept punctuating my speech with my chopsticks and asking her: “And what about that?” “Did you hear what he just said?” “Does that sound suspicious?”
We came to some conclusions, though not exactly groundbreaking shit. Syllie definitely hated Cillian with Shakespearean fucking passion. He hated Da, too, but tried to remain professional when talking shit about him. He didn’t talk about me at all, something neither I nor Sailor pointed out for the sake of my ego, which currently was unsalvageably destroyed.
RIP, pride. Can you miss something you’ve never had?
“I think,” Sailor said as she packed up the empty containers, getting ready to throw them into the recycling bin, “he is definitely hiding something. And if you want something bad enough—more than the person you’re up against—you always get it. So, yeah, you can nail him.”
I’d rather nail you. “Are you speaking from experience?” I asked. I wanted to know why she always looked one step away from dismembering Lana Alder. Not that Sailor needed much to get riled up, but her hatred toward the hot archer seemed personal, intimate. I knew my roommate, and she didn’t blacklist people unless they were major-league cunts.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Guess I’ll find out soon.”
“I’ve seen her in action.” I slam-dunked an empty can of LaCroix straight into the recycling. We both knew who I was talking about. “She’s not a natural-born archer. She ain’t you.”
“Talent is just one ingredient. It doesn’t make for a perfectly executed dish. There are other factors to consider.” She kept herself busy tidying the coffee table.
“You have the recipe, too.” I took the trash from her, disposing of it myself.
“Then why is she winning?” she asked softly behind me. “Because right now, it looks like she does. What does she have that I don’t?”
“Fame.” My back was still to her as I continued moving about.
“And beauty,” she finished.
I wanted to say that no, Lana Alder didn’t hold a candle to her mysterious, punch-to-the-balls beauty. That Sailor had discipline and passion and morals, and you couldn’t beat those with a toothy, white smile.
I knew, because I was a Lana, and the dudes with the talent always left me eating dust when it came to the finish line.
Look at my friend Vaughn, who got an internship in England.
Or Knight, who was attending his college of choice and slaying the fuck out of life.
I wanted to say reality catches up with the myth. Always.
Instead, I walked back to her and kissed her temple. “Just fame,” I said.
She nodded, seeming to understand all I wasn’t saying. Sailor reciprocated by pressing her hand over my heart, stopping me from moving away.
“About Syllie,” she said. “What he said about you… I just want to share something my father once told me. He said if you love someone, and they love you, there’s no point taking offense in what they say or do to you, because they never mean you harm, anyway. And if you don’t love someone, if you don’t care about them, then there’s no point in taking offense in what they say or do to you, because you don’t care about them. Either way—”
“You don’t get offended,” I finished. It was a fair point; even I had to agree.
She smiled. “Yes. This Sylvester Lewis guy, you don’t care about him. Don’t make it personal, then. Just bring him down.”
We shared an awkward hug, during which I wondered when my limbs had turned so goddamn clumsy, and then I retired to my bedroom before I did something stupid.
I got an incoming text message before I’d even closed the door. Sailor?
Maybe she changed her mind.
Maybe it’s a booty call.
That temple kiss was a killer.
But no, it was Alice, my old flame. The chick my father may or may not have paid a fortune to keep her mouth shut. I never bothered to ask her if she jumped on the bandwagon, because the answer would hurt like a bitch. Still, I’d messed around with her not even weeks ago. What was fucking wrong with me?
Everything, you moron. That’s why you have a babysitter.
I opened the message. It was another thirst trap. This time a picture of her pink-lace-covered crotch with her hand shoved inside the panties. Real subtle. It was followed by an actual text.
Alice: Skype? ☺
I turned my phone to silent and crashed, dreaming of Sailor straddling my face and riding it.
When I woke up, all I had were nocturnal emission, a killer headache, and a thirst for Syllie’s blood.
