Prison life seemed uninspiring, and I heard the food there left a lot to be desired.
It also helped that as a CI agent, the money wasn’t half that of going private. A no-brainer.
Speaking of no brains, I had to get to that Hallie person’s house before she decided to document her trip to the gynecologist on TikTok. Since I’d been advised by McAfee that the brat had no less than four cars in her Hollywood Hills’ mansion’s six-car garage, and a driver, I cabbed it.
Glaring out the window with my duffel bag perched in my lap, I again marveled at how stunningly ugly Los Angeles was. Rundown buildings, grungy bodegas, littered streets, graffiti-filled bridges, and more shopping carts on the street than inside Costco.
To top all of this, the air was so polluted, that living in this shithole was akin to smoking two packs a day. You had to be seriously stupid to move here voluntarily.
Coincidentally, I had very few expectations for Hallie Thorne.
Though I’d never had a proper home, I did consider Chicago to be my sort of base. Chicago was where I worked, where I played, where I fucked, and where I lived in a maximum-security building, in a three-million-dollar penthouse.
Me, a boy who’d once had to eat scraps from the garbage can behind grocery stores.
“That’s you.” The cab driver killed the engine in front of a hideous mansion that looked like origami put together by a child with ten thumbs. An architectural phallic gesture if I ever saw one. A black square on top of a white square, which were the stories of the house, with numerous floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the “promising” inside:
Vintage wallpaper, tasteless art, and a huge, tacky chandelier.
I tipped the driver and slammed the passenger door behind me.
Since McAfee had warned me that the Thorne child was difficult and unruly, I didn’t bother milling around after hitting the doorbell twice. I took out my trip wire, tampered with the keyhole, and saw myself inside.
She had a state-of-the-art security system, but just as I suspected, she didn’t bother using it.
The house, like its renter, was a mess. An array of masquerade masks were strewn across the living room furniture, along with fabrics—gowns. Piles of unopened goodie bags and gift boxes, labels still intact. The TV was on. A Korean drama full of sulky, young people in school uniforms. A canvas print of the Thorne princess took up an entire wall in the living room. Sprawled over a windowsill in black and white, overlooking Manhattan’s skyline, wearing nothing but knee-high black socks, and a black birdcage veil over her eyes.
I looked away （she was seventeen, maybe eighteen）， ambling toward the bookshelves in the living room, in no hurry to meet my new client. You could tell a lot about a person from the books in their library.
The shelves were aggressively up-to-date with all the Oprah and Reese book club staples. I plucked one out and sifted through it. The pages were crisp, with the same ink and woody scent lingering from the bookstore. They still clung to one another, the stiffness of the spines revealing more than titles:
These were props. The little princess didn’t read a lick of the books she possessed.
After a quick inspection of the place, I leisurely ascended the stairway. No sign of the Thorne girl on the second floor either. The only hint of her was a trail of clothes leading from the hallway to the master bedroom.
The last item—a pink, lacy bra—was tossed by the double doors to the balcony. Where the girl I’d seen on the cover of that magazine lay on a lounger, naked as the day she was born, a towel flung over her face.
Is she allergic to clothes?
Not stopping to check out the goods, I made my way toward her. She was twenty-one, I’d learned on my flight here. As I suspected—a child, especially to my twenty-nine-year-old self. Not to mention, stealing a look was in bad taste. I was a professional—and didn’t need to creep on sleeping women. One kink was enough.
I stood directly above her, blocking the sun. Her skin prickled, turning into goosebumps as I provided her some shade and cool. Motionless, I waited to be acknowledged without touching her. As a general rule, I did not touch my clients.
I did not touch anybody, if I could help it.
Unless, of course, it was part of a well-plotted fantasy controlled for all variables.
She tossed the towel from her face, stretching her limbs.
“Keller? Did you bring me kombucha? I’m so dehydrated. I’m still mad…”
The last words died in her throat. Her eyes widened as she took me in for the first time.
An impersonal smirk touched my lips. “Hello, Hallie.”
In response, the little shit grabbed the closest thing to her from the floor—a San Pellegrino bottle—smashed it against the edge of the lounger and tried to stab the side of my thigh with it. She came a few inches shy of my knee when I caught her wrist easily, twisting it. Not enough to break it, but enough to indicate I wasn’t ruling the option out if she acted up.
“I’m not here to hurt you, but I will if you don’t let. Go.”
The broken bottle dropped on the floor. I kicked it to the other side of the balcony. She gasped, her big, blue eyes—innocent as a doe’s first glance at its mother—clung to my face desperately.
“I—I—I…” she stuttered. “Please. I…I’ll give you money. Jewelry. Anything you need.”
Anything that wouldn’t require her to answer to anyone. Typical brat, after all. Her parents must’ve warned her I wouldn’t put up with her antics.
“I don’t want anything you have to offer,” I said quietly. Understatement of the century.
“I’ll fight.” She tried to pull her wrist away, wiggling in her spot. “I’ll scream and I’ll bite you.”
Don’t threaten me with a good time.
I loosened my grip on her wrist. “Let’s pump the brakes a little. Do you—”
Hallie started screaming. Deafening, desperate wails for help. I had no choice but to shut her up by plastering my palm over her mouth. She tried to bite me as she kicked her legs frantically in the air, trying to break free. Jesus, if she was making a stink this big with me, how had she reacted with her father when he told her she was getting a new bodyguard?
Her nails dug into my hand, breaking the skin, until my blood trickled over her chin. I had to look away. It reminded me too much of my extracurricular activities.
“You can fight all you want. You’ll tire out before I do,” I said, my voice flat and bored. My muscles barely flexed as I pinned her to the lounger. “This is a done deal, Miss Thorne.”
Then she started crying.
The first out of many dramatic fits, no doubt. Did she want to get robbed and killed? Not all of my clients’ spawn wanted close protection, but none tried to actively attack me thus far.
She was lucky I had a hard-on for the Anthony Thorne connection or I’d have left her house right then and there.
Her tears raced down the back of my hand, disappearing into my blazer.
“Cut it out.” I avoided touching anything but her face and shoulders. Or looking anywhere but the neck up. “This is for your own good.”
Through the muffled sobs against my palm, I heard her hiccup, “Please don’t rape me.”
My blood turned cold. Bile hit the back of my throat.