“She’s my PA now. Sweet.” I stopped at my desk and flipped through files without purpose just to look busy. “Well, it’s settled, then. Anything else?”
“Yes. It’s on Friday. I’m cooking. And I have another question.”
“Of course you do.”
I was turning into Cillian, and I hated it. Being a cunt did not come easily to me.
“What did I ever do to make you hate me?” She looked up at me, and I could see in my periphery that her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Fuck. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have—in the office or at all. I didn’t look up from the file I was browsing through.
“Nothing. I think it’s safe to say you did absolutely nothing for me,” I said, amending, “I mean, to me.”
I closed the file with a thud, sparing her the look she’d been begging for.
The idea of having Sailor watch firsthand how little my family thought of me was infuriating, but inevitable. She already kind of had, at the charity bullshit, but she hadn’t been sitting with us, so it wasn’t like she’d experienced it from the front row. I shouldn’t care, anyway. As established, we were nothing to each other.
“I wish you knew the whole story.” She sniffed, looking down.
“I wish I cared.”
HHH: Thanks for the ambush dinner.
Sailor: Anytime.
HHH: ? Not going.
Sailor: ?Not optional I’m afraid. My parents are going to be there. Sam, too.
HHH: Sounds like an intervention.
Sailor: Nope. You’ve got your sh*t together.
HHH: I can’t believe I went down on a chick who doesn’t spell the word shit.
Sailor: Hunter!
HHH: What? It’s like one step away from a nun. I feel like this is bucket-list-worthy. Can I strike off nun?
Sailor: I’m agnostic.
HHH: I’ll show you the light.
Sailor: You’ve already shown me plenty of things. None of them godly.
HHH: Not according to your moans.
No answer. Of course I had to take it one step too far. This was when I usually gave up on a chick, chalking it up as too much work. But with Sailor, her defiance turned me on.
HHH: Am I going to see you today?
Sailor: I’m watching tapes after practice until late. Then I have a photoshoot for a sports mag.
HHH: *Crosses off fingering a celebrity, too.*
HHH: I’ll wait. What 2 DoorDash?
Sailor: Do they deliver manners?
HHH: Sushi with a side of my superior sense of humor it is.
Sailor: Try to make sure the delivery person keeps their clothes on this time.
HHH: No promises.
That night, Sailor and I had sushi while listening to Syllie’s tapes and trying to decode some of his conversations. It felt like buddy studying for a test together or some shit. I kept punctuating my speech with my chopsticks and asking her: “And what about that?” “Did you hear what he just said?” “Does that sound suspicious?”
We came to some conclusions, though not exactly groundbreaking shit. Syllie definitely hated Cillian with Shakespearean fucking passion. He hated Da, too, but tried to remain professional when talking shit about him. He didn’t talk about me at all, something neither I nor Sailor pointed out for the sake of my ego, which currently was unsalvageably destroyed.
RIP, pride. Can you miss something you’ve never had?
“I think,” Sailor said as she packed up the empty containers, getting ready to throw them into the recycling bin, “he is definitely hiding something. And if you want something bad enough—more than the person you’re up against—you always get it. So, yeah, you can nail him.”
I’d rather nail you. “Are you speaking from experience?” I asked. I wanted to know why she always looked one step away from dismembering Lana Alder. Not that Sailor needed much to get riled up, but her hatred toward the hot archer seemed personal, intimate. I knew my roommate, and she didn’t blacklist people unless they were major-league cunts.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Guess I’ll find out soon.”
“I’ve seen her in action.” I slam-dunked an empty can of LaCroix straight into the recycling. We both knew who I was talking about. “She’s not a natural-born archer. She ain’t you.”
“Talent is just one ingredient. It doesn’t make for a perfectly executed dish. There are other factors to consider.” She kept herself busy tidying the coffee table.
“You have the recipe, too.” I took the trash from her, disposing of it myself.
“Then why is she winning?” she asked softly behind me. “Because right now, it looks like she does. What does she have that I don’t?”
“Fame.” My back was still to her as I continued moving about.
“And beauty,” she finished.
I wanted to say that no, Lana Alder didn’t hold a candle to her mysterious, punch-to-the-balls beauty. That Sailor had discipline and passion and morals, and you couldn’t beat those with a toothy, white smile.
I knew, because I was a Lana, and the dudes with the talent always left me eating dust when it came to the finish line.