Page 93 of Oddly Fine

“So—I have daddy issues, and you’re still a weeping orphan,” Beckett summarised after comparing the files.

“Weeping orphan?” Hayes asked, more amused than annoyed, as he decided to play it up.

“We’ve all got baggage, Nancy, is all I’m saying,” Beckett commented and closed his file, confident that he had all the details down pat.

“When have I ever wept about being an orphan,” Hayes asked, struggling to keep a straight face.

“No use getting fussy about it—” Beckett said, dancing around the question.

Hayes scoffed. “I’m not! I’m—”

“Are you boys ready?” Matthew interrupted Hayes as he came strolling into the room dressed as the MC at the White House of Sluts. His white dress shirt had been left open to expose his chest halfway to his waist. His three-piece, pin-striped, charcoal suit accentuated his olive complexion perfectly. His hair was slicked back in a way that should have made him look like a cheap Lothario, but he’d cleverly allowed a few strands in the front to remain loose and curling against his forehead—making him look sophisticated rather than cheap. Beckett fucking hated the sight of him.

“Dolce & Gabbana?” Hayes knew all the high end designers and the latest fashions, and that was not a knock off suit.

Matthew shrugged carelessly. “I am Italian—” he declared with a smirk. “And a little eccentric,” he admitted, placing special emphasis on eccentric, as if it had been directed at him at some point as an insult rather than praise.

Silently, Matthew grabbed the files off the counter, walked over to the paper shredder next to his desk and shredded the files. He turned back to them with a broad smile.

“Ready to dance, gentlemen?”

“For the record—I see a shit show in our future,” Beckett said, before sighing and cracking his neck to one side and then the other.

“I’ll take the lead—you watch our six,” he told Hayes.

To get into character, Beckett pressed a finger to his ear, pretending to activate a communications device and said, “Figaro is on the move.” Leading the way out of the condo, he scanned thoroughly for potential threats.

“Who’s he talking to?” Matthew asked as he looked at Beckett like he was crazy.

“His demons,” Hayes replied with a chuckle. “He has so many—he actually employs them.”

And Beckett chuckled at that, because fuck yeah, no one got to live in his head rent free—you wanted room and board? You worked for it. As the hippies in the early 70s used to say, “Gas, grass or ass—nobody rides for free!”

Chapter 16

“I thought your business was mostly based out of New York, so why is your meeting in Montreal?” Hayes asked, as they drove down quiet streets. It was early in the evening, but the area they drove through had very little traffic, since it was the weekend. They’d gotten a ride in a large black SUV and had piled into the back with Matthew. It felt—legitimate, and for the first time since they’d accepted the job, Hayes genuinely felt like hired security. It was an odd feeling—this constant state of surveillance. He’d gotten fairly used to it as a SEAL but hadn’t worn this particular hat in a long time. It felt like dressing in work clothes that he hadn’t worn in years. Not necessarily comfortable—but they still fit.

“New York has become a little crowded—so after my father passed, we decided to relocate, and Canada offered interesting real estate opportunities. My brothers and my sister took over the New York business, while my uncle and I moved here to set up shop.”

“Why Montreal? Why not go with Toronto, since it’s so much bigger?” Hayes asked, genuinely curious.

“Montreal has a large Italian community already—it was easier,” he replied, and Hayes had the distinct impression he was getting served the family-friendly version. Fine by him.

“Besides—French-Canadians possess a certain je ne sais quoi that makes life fun,” he smirked at him, and nodded towards Beckett. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m not French-Canadian,” Beckett said, rolling his eyes. “I just know the cuss words.” He’d become increasingly edgy as the day had progressed. While he’d assured Hayes he wanted to do this job—he was having a hard time settling into the role. He was clearly restless, like his skin itched from having to play bodyguard to a guy who he really wanted to punch into next week, but knew he shouldn’t. At least not until this shit show was done and dusted. He shifted restlessly in his seat and growled.

“Really? That’s funny, because your brother identifies as French-Canadian.”

Hayes noticed that Matthew’s voice held a note of fondness whenever he talked about Franklin.

“’Cause he likes to make himself sound interesting—he’s about as French as he is straight,” Beckett said drolly, then gave Matthew a sly look. “So—I would say he’s not in the least French, given his apparent taste for Prada-clad cock.”

Matthew snorted and looked out the window, neither offended nor upset by Beckett’s thinly-veiled insults. If anything, he sounded—amused.

“Perhaps we should focus on what’s to come,” Hayes proposed, trying to diffuse the rising tension. “You said only one of us will be allowed to be with you during the meeting.”

Matthew nodded in agreement.