He was wrong. Reagan heard every word. It’s why, when she first walked into the town house, she was so impressed. Young street guys like Zion usually panic and run. A few wet their pants. Zion, a charismatic Dominican kid with a shaved head and trendy chin stubble, invited her inside, offering some sparkling water and a charming lopsided grin.
On his coffee table was a stack of Simon Sinek business books. Zion was a pro, quickly trying to make a deal: “Maybe there’s something I can help you with.” There wasn’t. But how could she not admire ambition like that? Reagan was a professional, first and foremost. She took pride in her work. Whatever the job, do it best. Like her father taught her.
“Reagan, step the hell back! It wasn’t me!” Zion shouted with another swing of the vodka bottle as he backed up toward the kitchen. “Ask anyone! I wasn’t there, Reagan!” he insisted, thinking he was smart to call her by her first name. Keep it personal.
If he were really smart, he’d have known that the only reason Reagan used her real name was because she had no intention of Zion ever speaking to anyone again.
“I heard you met Mr. Vess when you were twelve,” Reagan said, moving slowly, unafraid, her hands shifting in her pockets, like she was knitting with invisible needles.
On the dining room table, she spotted a butter-colored wooden bowl that was the exact same shade of yellow as an old 1960 guitar—a Les Paul Special—that she’d tried to bid on a few months back. According to the auction house, it supposedly belonged to reggae legend Peter Tosh. His name was engraved on the truss cover. A solid 8 out of 10. She shouldn’t have let it get away.
“Reagan, I swear on my mother’s life, I would never—！”
“They told me you used to play on one of Mr. Vess’s youth basketball teams. That’s real history,” Reagan pointed out, still thinking about the guitar. “So you can imagine how upset he was to find out you were the one who—”
“It wasn’t me! For the ninety-fifth time!” Zion screamed, spit flying, his fuse fully lit. He started to turn toward the kitchen.
“Zion, if you run . . .”
Too late. He was gone, the vodka bottle still in hand as he bolted through the kitchen, heading for the back door.
Reagan rolled her eyes.
Zion tore open the door and darted outside . . .
. . . where he collided with the chest of the massive man in a black windbreaker who was waiting for him.
The man held up a plastic Walmart bag that he’d fished out of Zion’s trash. In the bag was a receipt and a box for a latex Oscar the Grouch mask.
“Today’s show is sponsored by the letter M—for moron,” Reagan said as her partner shoved Zion inside. “I see you met Seabass. Sebastian, meet Zion.”
Zion looked up, noticing Sebastian’s sad blue eyes and heart-shaped face. He was . . . vast was the only word to describe him, his chest wide like an iceberg. Up top, he had bright red—
Zion froze. She and he . . . they both . . . red hair. Now it made sense.
Professionally, they were called the Reds.
Reagan was an auburn redhead with alabaster skin; Sebastian was freckled and ruddy, pure Irish.
According to some, they were husband and wife. Others said brother and sister. Neither was true, though the rumors only intensified when people noticed that Sebastian didn’t speak.
Some said he was mute. Others that it was from a Humvee accident in Yemen—he was an Army Ranger, and a shard of metal sliced into his throat. The most absurd theory was also the most popular: that he’d done it to himself in some sacred vow of silence.
The truth was, Seabass was simply quiet, a natural observer who preferred letting his thoughts marinate. Besides, Reagan talked enough for both of them. All the other rumors were nonsense—or as Reagan called it, marketing. It was the same with their name: The Reds. Short. Catchy. Easy to remember. Even in a business like theirs, marketing mattered. As for why they worked as a team, why does anyone work as a team? They were better together, at it for so long now, they moved as one.