Chapter 4
FOUR
THORNE
Golden retriever on steroids.
Those are the words I’d use to describe Chance Spencer. A golden retriever on steroids.
He’s standing in front of me, smiling like we’re long-lost besties or some shit.
I eye him, taking him in. He’s around my six three height, give or take an inch, nicely built and smells like money. I should probably hate him on principle.
“Hey, I know you, right?” he says. Before I can answer or indicate that I want fucking company, he sits down across from me, slinging his bag into the seat beside him.
I look left and right very obviously, my eyes landing on all the empty seats that are nowhere near me, but he doesn’t take the hint. He simply smiles and leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “It’s wild seeing you at this airport. Do you live in Florida?”
I curse Bensotti in my head. Had that fucker not called me for the last-minute case, I would have already been in New York, not having random rich kids talking to me like I’m a charity case or some shit.
Sighing since it looks like I won’t be able to ignore him, I say, “No. Layover.” I stuff my earbuds in my ears, hoping that’ll give him a clue that I don’t want to talk.
Nope.
“From where?” he asks, voice dripping with curiosity. “Somewhere on the west coast like me? Kinda wild they’d divert us here instead of…I don’t know, Atlanta or some shit. Where you comin’ from?”
I’m not answering that. I can’t. Especially since I live in New York but flew to California for a kill. I live a few minutes outside of campus, so flying anywhere unless I’m on vacation is weird.
I keep my mouth shut and look down at my phone, scrolling through news articles about the guy I killed last night.
The cops showed up about an hour after the cleaners left, not initially taking Bensotti’s tip seriously. I guess one of those stupid voice changers he used didn’t lend to his credibility.
But when they got there and saw the carnage, it was a maelstrom of activity. Being that there were flashing red and blue lights in the wealthiest parts of California, reporters showed up in no time.
Right after the first news van arrived, police officers were shown escorting three frazzled and bruised women from the home wrapped in those police blankets they always seem to have on hand.
It didn’t take long for news cycles to have the background of the man I killed, as well as what was found in his home.
His employers—as well as his known associates—have already spoken out against him and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.
Some of the people that distanced themselves have nothing to do with his crimes and don’t know the kind of man he was.
But others…others are on our list and no matter how far they try to run, we’ll get to them, too.
A smile tips up my lips as I look over the blood stained photo I took of the murder scene.
Some people like to take trophies after a kill. I like to add my personal work to my camera roll in a twice encrypted folder.
They’re beautiful, the swathes of red dotting the pristine white walls. I don’t always get to make a mess, but when I do, I make it fucking epic.
“Your name is Branch, right?” Chance asks and I raise my eyes to his slowly.
Of course he doesn’t know my name. We don’t run in the same circles. Hell, no one but Knox runs in my circle and he’s just like me. He’s not a student, but a tattoo artist in the college town of Meadowbrook. He fits that aesthetic and I’ve known him since I was a teenager.
Him not knowing my name shifts something inside me, but I cover it quickly and say, “Thorne.”
Chance snaps and nods with a grin. “Right, Thorne. Sorry about that, man. I’m usually good with names.”
I grunt and exit out of my kill folder, not wanting to risk anyone looking at my trophies over my shoulder or some shit.
“Excited for your last year?” Golden asks, and I look up again, taking him in.
He really is golden, with his blond hair falling in waves around his face, flashing light brown eyes, and a bright smile. The personification of happiness if I’ve ever seen it.
I pull in a deep breath, his cologne tickling my nose. He smells rich, just like most of the students at Meadowbrook.
I got in on a scholarship, some hard knocks thing Bensotti had me apply for so I could get a higher education.
If it were up to me, I’d kill full time, but he said I need some cover, so I’m not looking like a fucking degenerate.
He already gives me shit about the way I look—piercings everywhere, tattoos from my chest down to my hands, and a knack for wearing mostly black and combat boots.
“Ya look like a serial killer,” he said to me last year when I went to visit him. “People will ask questions.”
I’m older than most at Meadowbrook, after being gone for two years training to be a hired gun for B. At twenty-four, I’m behind my peers, but not in intellect. Just in…other dealings.
“It’s not my last year,” I say dryly.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” he says, looking like he actually means it. What’s this guy’s deal? Does he make it a habit of talking to random people?
I’ve never spoken to him a single time since I’ve been at Meadowbrook. I know who he is; who doesn’t? Unlike most schools where basketball and football are the sports that draw in the crowds, it’s swimming at Meadowbrook.
The school has won some kind of collegiate championship for swimming since its inception, so most donors make sure the swim team never lacks funding.
“Whatever.” I stuff my earbuds in my ears, effectively cutting off our conversation.
I cross my arms over my chest and lean back in my seat, the soft guitar riffs filling my ears.
Even though my eyes are closed, I can feel Golden’s on me. I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but he can look his fill. Any other time, I’d have a lot to say about someone staring at me, especially when I don’t know their motives, but Golden is a fucking puppy dog—harmless.
Besides that, he has too much to lose, what with him being a star athlete and his father being some kind of tech billionaire out of Silicon Valley. Those people don’t risk their lives or futures to hurt people. So, I’m safe with Golden eating me up with his gaze.
While I wait for our flight to leave—a flight they already said was running behind for cleaning—I think about what comes next for me.
Bensotti said I’ll probably have a few months until he calls on me again.
It’s fine, though the money I saved up won’t last forever.
For the past two years, I’ve been staying in the dorms, but after almost killing my last roommate because the fucker was allergic to taking showers, I knew I couldn’t share a space with anyone again.
Although apartment prices around campus are lower than they would be if I stayed in the city, it still isn’t cheap. I need work to afford my standard of living.
I could sell my art to tattoo studios or work as a commissioned artist for fan art and merch and shit, but that doesn’t bring in the big bucks. The silent individuals that back Bensotti, and those he employs, are who pay the bills.
Maybe I’ll ask B to give me some work on the side. We’re hunting down a trafficking ring exclusively, but he sometimes has jobs for us that pay well. As a cop, he can—
A hard tap on my leg startles me and I don’t even think; I just react. I grab the hand that touched me and twist, bringing Golden down to one knee.
“Fuck, man. I’m sorry,” he practically whimpers, though not in a bitching sort of way. He sounds as surprised as I am.
I let him go and sit back in my chair, not even realizing I moved. “Don’t touch me like that,” I warn, brushing my hands down my pants.
That should scare him off, but he simply smiles and shakes his head. “My fault. I should have just called out to you.”
Does Golden have a death wish?
“I was getting your attention because look who else is here.” He points behind me and I turn around to see a slight man with wavy red hair that touches his shoulders, a cluster of freckles dotting his nose and cheeks, and an almost nervous air about him.
Professor Bridge.
Is this a fucking Meadowbrook reunion?
“Maybe he’ll wanna come sit with us,” Chance says excitedly. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
As soon as Golden gets up, I grab my bag and head in the other direction. Our flight will start boarding in about twenty minutes. In the meantime, I’ll get a moment to myself, where I can fucking chill without feeling the eyes of a rich kid roaming my face.