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“See you, Parker.”
The one named Parker winked at Schuyler and pressed her finger to Kingsley’s mouth. “Don’t be a stranger.” She giggled.
Schuyler rolled her eyes. “Is that it? Or are you hiding more in your harem?”
“Schuyler, darling, it’s none of your business what I do or who I do it with,” Kingsley declared as he went back to his room and shut the door behind him. “Good night,” he called from behind the door.
The next evening was the same, but this time there were four blondes and no brunettes, while the next night brought the entire Farnsworth modeling class—the new girls who had arrived in London for the season—to their abode. “Fashion week,” Oliver said wisely, as he left to partake of the glamorous festivities himself, holding up a sheath of glossy invitations. “You sure you don’t want to go see Stella? I have an extra ticket.”
“Since when do you care about fashion?” Schuyler demanded.
“Sky, what’s with that face? It’s not flattering,” he teased. “Don’t wait up.”
“You’ve been hanging out with Kingsley too much.”
Oliver didn’t deny it.
Later that night, Schuyler had been awoken once again by a loud bump, and when she walked out to the living room, Kingsley was playing Twister with two girls, the three of them wrapped around each other in a braided mess of legs and arms and laughter.
She went back to bed, having rejected their invitation to join in, but the next day, as Kingsley was about to go out for another wild night, she stopped him at the doorway. She’d finally had enough of the constant partying, the loud music in the middle of the night, and the condescending looks of pity from the parade of paramours, who seemed to believe that Schuyler was “pining” for Kingsley.
“Do you mind?” he said, reaching for the door.
Schuyler crossed her arms. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s something wrong?” Kingsley asked.
“Why are you acting this way?”
“What do you mean?”
“The late nights, the girls, the partying…I mean, you’ve always been…social, Kingsley, but lately you just seem…desperate. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they all look a lot like—”
“Don’t do it. Don’t say her name,” Kingsley warned.
“Fine,” Schuyler said. “I just…I worry about you. What’s going on?”
“There’s nothing to worry about. I’m just having a bit of fun. You spend time in the underworld, see if you don’t act the same.”
“Kingsley…”
“I told you, nothing’s wrong.”
“Right.”
“You know, Schuyler, she was right, you are a pain in the—”
“Martin!” Oliver warned, having walked out of his room to see what the commotion was all about.
Schuyler stepped aside, and Kingsley went out the door. When he shut it with a bang behind him, she turned to Oliver. “I’m right, you know. He’s not the same. What’s gotten into him? What do we do? We can’t let him just waste himself this way—he’s a Venator! The other teams are—”
“I’ll try to talk to him,” Oliver said. “Tell him to tone it down. Find out what’s bothering him.”
Oliver never got the chance to have his tête-à-tête. The next morning, when he and Schuyler walked into the dining room, Kingsley was already at the breakfast table, dressed and ready, reading the morning news on his screen.
“What’s with the early-bird act?” Schuyler asked, picking up an apple while Oliver appraised the day’s offerings of toad in the hole, kippers, and rashers of bacon.
“I’m, ah—leaving,” Kingsley replied, putting down the tablet.
