7. Tristan #2
I’m about to tell him I have no idea what he’s talking about when I realize the comment isn’t actually geared toward me.
Ren is doodling flowers along the edge of her planner. She only likes to use a Muji mechanical pencil. After weeks of spending time with her, I’ve seen her fill in almost every spare inch of the planner she keeps with her at all times.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ren replies childishly. Or maybe it’s morosely.
“Your jealousy is hardly in check.” Ben flips through the document and grabs his cup of black coffee. Knowing him, it’s not decaf despite the summer sun having already gone down.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She doesn’t look up from her scribbles.
I don’t know how the fuck I ended up here. Back at Fujimori's, when I used to avoid the place like the plague.
Before working with Ren, I kept my distance from this place. I wasn’t looking for more contracts after I finished working with the Irish. I had a list of names the Ghost needed to deal with.
Knowing Isolde hung out here made the decision to keep away from it even easier.
We’ve never really been friends. Not really.
We knew of one another. Worked around each other.
I can admit she’s a good shot and I’m a territorial bastard. I’m not happy with some woman-hating British asshole putting a hit out for her in New York City.
That’s the reason for the gnawing pit in my stomach. It’s got to be.
“He doesn’t like him either,” Ren pipes up, drawing me into the conversation. Anything to deflect.
Ben falls for it, glancing my way. “And why does Mr. Hot Bodyguard hate him?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’ve never once said I hate Hadrian Hallow.”
Ren snorts. “Right, you just continue to look at him like that.”
I’m sitting in the booth Ren prefers, my back to the kitchen. It gives me the perfect vantage to sit and watch Isolde eat dinner with Hadrian.
“You’re jealous,” Ben says, and I’m so distracted from thinking about this afternoon that my stomach lurches at his words. A second later, I realize he’s talking to his cousin again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ren mumbles, pressing the tip of her pencil harder against her planner.
“You want me to spell it out?” Ben asks. At the noncommittal noise his cousin makes, he does, in fact, spell it out. “You get a funny look on your face every time that guy comes around.”
“That guy,” Ren says, pausing her doodling, “is the son of the guy who just tried to fuck with my business. The Hallows are rich, arrogant bastards that have very few friends.”
That’s true and not true at the same time.
William Hallow, Hadrian’s father, does have friends.
The type of friends that come from high places.
Now, whether those friends actually like William and vice versa is up for debate.
William cares about his business. He only cares about you if you can help with that.
“Right, and he’s also best friends with your best friend.”
“Why did she turn my job offer down?”
She says this last part quietly, glancing my way.
I’d been the one who told her Isolde would make a good business partner. It was clear Ren needed more help, especially if she wanted to scale up.
I still stand by the opinion, but I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “You showed up at seven in the morning, thinking she’d throw some confetti around in response to an idea you sprung on her.”
Ren frowns, not liking this assessment.
“She needs time,” I say, preempting her nagging. “Your best friend keeps a chore chart on her fridge. You know she needs time to think through things.”
This silences Ren for a second before she asks, “Has she told you anything about. . .”
“No.” The one time I actually want Isolde to talk to me, she won’t.
Abe appears, refilling his boyfriend’s coffee mug. “You need some, Mr. Hot Bodyguard?”
“That nickname is not happening.”
“Mr. Grumpy Hot Bodyguard.” Abe fills my cup up with more coffee.
“He really likes you because he’s not lecturing you about caffeine intake,” Ren whispers to me.
“At least he means well. What exactly did you hate about my kale smoothies?” I ask, and she retreats back in her seat. “Was it the vegetables or protein I added?”
She’s grumbling about traitors when my phone lights up.
Ciaran O'Connell: Your client is the blonde triggerman.
The Japanese restaurant fades away.
Tristan: You get that from a contact in London?
Ciaran O’Connell: No fuck face. I picked up the phone and called my dad. It’s not hard to find your new client, considering she’s Ren Callahan’s best friend.
“Who’s that?” Ren asks.
“No one.” I shove my phone back into my pocket. Since when does Ciaran ever call his dad? I glance up and make accidental eye contact with Hadrian Hallow.
He keeps ahold of my gaze, and I watch his lips move as he continues to speak to Isolde. She’s hardly moved all night. If she’s good friends with him, then why are her muscles so tense? Her movements are robotic, stiff, and short as she eats.
After working out at Leon’s, Isolde changed back into her sweatpants, her scar hidden.
But the scar wasn’t out of sight, out of mind for me. All day, the pit in my stomach has gnawed at me.
I’ve never felt this sensation before. I’m not, as most people assume, some unfeeling asshole. I understand pricks of nerves. Guilt consumes me when I think of all the ways I’ve disappointed my father.
This particular sensation is different. Isolde is annoying.
She talks about random things. Even when she came across me as the Ghost, she’d try to strike up a conversation, never taking the hint.
But that’s Isolde. She’ll look at a guy wearing a neon vigilante mask, with a gun drawn and six motherfuckers dead on the ground, and start talking about guns.
Isolde plays with her food while Hadrian continues to speak. Surely, if they’re good friends, she wouldn’t look so fucking miserable.
Try me, I silently tell Hadrian. I’d love an excuse to punch his fucking face. And if he says one single thing to upset Isolde further, the odds aren’t on his side.