Chapter 6 Maverick
MAVERICK
The bump and screech of rubber on asphalt jolts me out of my favorite dream, the one where Boone consoles me with his tongue on my asshole while telling me what a good boy I am.
Pathetic. It's been weeks since I've needed my comfort fantasy, but now there may or may not be a warrant for my arrest in Geneva.
That depends, I suppose, on how litigious certain people are feeling.
Which reminds me.
I pull up my Notes app and dictate a reminder to send a thank-you gift to Professor Davi.
My Brazilian jiu-jitsu instructor is the kind of tyrant who would never dream of letting me buy my way out of the hard work, which came in handy today when I used his devastating arm-bar technique on the hot, new photographer my manager said I absolutely had to work with.
He has a fresh perspective, she gushed. A real artist’s eye.
It sounded like fun, and the designer was a friend of a friend, so I thought…why not?
I’ll tell you why not. That asswipe photographer—with a fifty-thousand-dollar lens, mind you—didn’t have a handle on basic lighting techniques, let alone a fresh perspective.
To be crystal clear, I can work around someone who’s shit at their job, but I draw the line at a coked-up perv who gets handsy with the underage models.
That’s a big fuck no in my book.
I walked in on him advancing on a terrified girl like a fucking octopus, and within seconds, I had his crumpled body pinned to the floor and wheezing for a sip of oxygen through a bruised larynx.
Fuck, was that really just this morning? At least my eyeliner’s still in place.
The designer fired me on the spot—his collection was bullshit anyway—and there was no way I was leaving Kayla in their clutches.
She didn’t say much, just took my hand and murmured one-word answers as I booked us flights home. We flew together to Cincinnati, and I sat with her as she talked to her parents about what happened.
Before leaving Switzerland, I called my most influential friends to ensure Kayla wasn’t blackballed.
Given the mess they’d already made of the photographer and designer on social media by the time we reached Cincy, I’d say they went above and beyond.
I promised Kayla and her parents that a better designer and a better photographer would be calling her within the week.
My only problem right now is Holmes, whom I’m barely talking to.
The twin ESP thing is real, though, and Holmes has been blowing up my phone since the second I put that motherfucking “photographer” on the ground.
To be fair, my brother did warn me that taking a last-minute booking with a designer I barely knew—and a photographer I didn’t know at all—was a bad idea.
And sure, he was right. I’m not about to hand him that win, though, because he forgets that the ESP thing cuts both ways.
For instance, I now know how much he was lying when he said he and Honoré were never in any danger.
They’re still treating us like newbs, Mav.
Yeah right. From the overheard—fine, eavesdropped—conversations and the fucking palpitations I’ve picked up on lately, I call bullshit.
Right before I got roped into this stupid Switzerland side quest, I found out that H and H sometimes help Uncle Jake and his so-called WhiteHat crew babysit that nightmarish Hell_AI app.
I’m pretty damn sure they’re chasing something way more dangerous than some basement dweller’s shady crypto market.
That’s what’s got me twisted up. My gut’s telling me Hedy only divulged the tip of the iceberg, and whatever’s underneath is big.
Like, really fucking big.
What else are y’all hiding from me?
Which is why I keep trying to join that WhiteHat group. The mods have rejected every attempt so far, but I’m pretty fucking persistent when I want to be.
My phone goes off, and it’s Holmes. Again. Ugh.
I undo my seat belt and step into the already crowded aisle. I’m wearing nerdy glasses and have a chunky knit beanie pulled low over my curls. I look like an academic. Maybe even an artist.
Two things no one has ever confused me for.
As I contort to retrieve my bag from the overhead bin, the shambling line in this cramped metal tube reminds me why I rarely fly commercial anymore.
Aside from the logistical nightmare that comes from being made, commercial travel is a sensory assault—people touching me, horrifying bathroom chemicals, multiple conversations that rise and cascade around me until I feel like I’m gonna come out of my skin.
Worse, I left my earplugs in Switzerland, so I can’t block out any of it.
Good money says the assholes in charge of airline travel are a bunch of sadists. It’s like they’ve figured out the precise level of misery at which people will actually stop traveling and then ride that line for all it’s worth.
Okay, trust fund baby.
I’m world-famous, born to billionaire fathers who would reprimand me for such a spoiled sentiment. Of course, if they find out I took this flight without additional security, or at least one of my cousins, they’ll rip me a new one.
I swear, I can’t with them.
Honestly, the more I think about my childhood, the more everything is starting to make sense.
We were raised in the Texas Hill Country, and our fathers made sure we had a healthy fear and understanding of both weapons and self-defense strategies.
While Holmes can disassemble a rifle in the time it takes me to sight a target, I can pick a lock in under ten seconds, and nobody is better than I am at convincing the Wildlings to get into mischief.
My fathers have never been as proud of that last one as they could be.
My text notification goes off again, but this time, it’s from one of my buddies from school.
Tay: Dude! It’s the last weekend before graduation! You should come party with my friends and me!
Me: You know I’m not allowed on the UT campus
That may or may not have to do with my mischief-making abilities.
Tay: That’s bullshit, and you know it. Besides, we’re staying out of the ridiculous heat and getting plastered at my condo.
Tay: Can you believe it hit 101 today? Go home Austin, you're drunk.
Hrn. Taylor’s condo is off campus, just, so I should be in the clear.
I grin, then start typing.
Me: I’ll be there.
“So,” Taylor says as she lets me in, “since the temps have dropped, we’re actually thinking of hitting up the fountain tonight.”
I scan the crowd in her condo, recognizing some of her classmates, along with the guy I blew a month ago.
“The fountain?” I grimace, shaking my head. “I’m telling you, campus police have my face on a dartboard. They’ve never forgiven the Bevo incident.”
“Oh, come on, they’re not gonna be hard asses the last weekend of the school year.” She smirks. “Besides, didn’t your uncle sculpt those bronze statues on the mall behind the fountain? Surely that should count for something.”
“Less than you think,” I retort.
I went to the dedication ceremony for those very statues, and the look on the university president’s face was…oof.
He didn’t have me dragged from the dais, but it was a near thing.
Tay sends me a disbelieving look.
“It’s not just that,” I insist, gesturing to the blowjob guy. “I got up close and personal with Pierce at your Kappa Kappa Whatever party, and he’s been a stage-four clinger ever since.”
She glances over her shoulder, grimacing. “He brought the booze, so…priorities.”
I laugh. “Eh. Who hasn’t had an awkward post-nut moment?”
“This is why I love you.”
Rolling my eyes, I gesture to my very expensive, beautifully tailored shorts and matching button-up. “You know Lucien sewed these himself.”
“Yeah, and you wipe your ass with hundred dollar bills, so I’m not that concerned about it,” she says, laughing at me. “Besides, I’m pretty sure we’re getting down to our skivvies.”
Ah jeez.
Whatever. After the day I’ve had, why the fuck wouldn’t I be on board with a little fun?
“Alrighta,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Let’s go to the fountain, bay-bee.”