Late is late. That’s what Mother always says.
We’re at the mini golf place by the clubs and balls, waiting for Kingsley to show up so we can start working. The air’s thick and gross, the sun’s just peeking out, and I’m already running on pure simmering irritation. What’s the point in meeting an hour before the gremlins and their parents arrive if by the time we start, they’ll already be here?
To think I could be back at home enjoying my life with a drink in one hand and a lady in my arms, a pleasant end to a long day of negotiating and closing deals, or shaking down a bastard who won’t cooperate with the Requiem. Instead, I’m trying to make a friend like we’re in the damn third grade.
We wait in silence until I check the time again. “Now it’s five minutes.”
“Rip, don’t start,” Thomas sighs, giving methatlook.
It doesn’t take much to set me off, but Kingsley has done an exceptional job of getting under my skin in the two days we’ve known each other, and he’s only making it worse. It’s one thing to speak as little as possible to me, but it’s another to waste my precious time.
“I’ll be damned if he thinks he can get away with showing up on his own convenience, as if we don’t have lives.”
“I don’t think that,” a voice declares from behind me.
I spin around. Kingsley, in his loose jeans and baggy T-shirt, stares at me with something just short of offense.
Shit. I wouldn’t have said that to his face. “I’m glad you showed.”
“I wasn’t going to bail.” His tone comes out forceful, and his hardened gaze lingers on me with a flicker of something I can’t quite decipher. “This is my job, just like it’s yours.”
I don’t take my eyes off him, and a tension so thick you could cut it with a knife lingers between us. Even with his shoulders down and empty eyes, hands jammed in his pockets, he’s still got that breath-taking charm everyone raves about.
There was this friend of Thomas’s a few years ago who was out to get us, and I didn’t like him from the start. One can imagine how much I gloated when it came out that he was the son of someone Mother had fucked over and was here for revenge. Reading people is a skill of mine.
But Kingsley? I can’t figure out a damn thing. Everything about him is contradictory. That’s probably why I felt so intrigued by him at the club.
Thomas clears his throat, drawing attention to himself. “Good morning, Kingsley. So, we have visions of what we want to film, but we will need your help. Next to Xavier and Mya, you’re the face of Beaumont Grand, and we can capitalize on that if we do it right.”
Spoken like a true social media enthusiast, my brother.
Kinglsey raises a brow. “By playing mini golf?”
“Precisely.”
Thomas goes into detail about Kingsley’s part. He’ll shoot a few shots and play like any other guest, then give Thomas’s rehearsed pitch about how exciting family putt-putt is and how this is the ultimate vacation destination. As my brother explains, Kingsley nods loosely, and I can’t tell if he’s truly listening.
As soon as Kingsley grabs his club and ball, he’s off to the first course, and Thomas and I are right there with him, cameras and scripts in tow to start filming. I tote the equipment with mychest raised and confidence in my gaze, hoping it makes me look like I’m a seasoned pro at this.
We do a few generic shots of Kingsley hitting the ball. He swings so lazily, like he’s not even trying, and it’s as if he’s being held at gunpoint with every shot, but somehow they still go in. He may not like putt-putt, but he isn’t so bad at it.
I hope the audience enjoys seeing Kingsley’s face enough that it won’t matter how much he looks like he’s counting the seconds.
Time drags on, and then suddenly the golf course is open and packed with people. We have to rush to get all the filming done in this one sitting, but luckily, we capture some nice shots with families in the background.
Once we get all the clips Thomas said we needed, we make our way to the exit to discuss the last few things we need. We’re near the exit when Thomas needs to take a leak, leaving me to wait with Kingsley.
This is my shot to break the ice and make up for being a twat earlier. I need to figure out how to break the brick wall Kingsley surrounds himself with sooner rather than later, otherwise I’ll be spending more time than needed in Louisiana.
But before I do, a child appears before me.
The little girl with blonde hair down her back points behind me. “Can you give me the blue one, please?”
I take a second to understand what she’s talking about. Oh, I’m standing in front of the rack of golf balls.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I quirk a smile. “Sure.”
I turn around and search for the blue ones. It should be a simple task—grab one of the dozens of blue golf balls and hand it to the little girl. But the two containers to the far right, meant to be blue, mesh together, making it nearly impossible to tell them apart. I have no clue which to pick.
