“What’s that?” Ransom asked, already bending down to pick it up.
“Some leaflet I was about to throw in the recycling can.”
He smoothed the white paper—who knew? Maybe Ransom was one of the suckers who could be convinced to join a sauna Zumba class?—but when I noticed the color drain from his face, I realized this was no ordinary leaflet.
“We have to go.Now.” Ransom grabbed my hand, tugging me to the car.
It scared me. I’d never seen him express emotions other than boredom or anger. I climbed into the passenger’s seat of my car. He drove us up the road, back to my house, glancing at the rearview mirror. A lot. Like he was expecting to see someone.
“What was in the leaflet? An ad for penis enlargement? Are you all geared up to book a consultation meeting?” Naturally, I thought this would be a good time to break the ice with a terrible joke.
Ransom did not look amused. Hedid, however, look like he was going to break the steering wheel, the way he held it in a chokehold.
Finally, he spoke.
“Your parents hired me to monitor your whereabouts and to ensure your safety. This was their chief goal. However, there is a side goal, and that is to bring you to relative independence and teach you the value of money. They would also like to see you taking more responsibility over your life, and find a profession that requires more commitment than posting pictures on TikTok.”
“Instagram,” I corrected him. “IwishI could break into TikTok.”
“Whatever.” He slid the vehicle into my garage.
“So, basically, you’re my parole officer.”
He killed the engine, got out of the car, rounded it, and opened the door for me. I had a feeling it was a safety measure, not a statement of gallantry.
“Correct.”
Ransom turned, making his way to the house, the crumpled leaflet still in his hand.
“And what happens if I fail?” I trailed behind him, fascinated. He seemed to have had a very long conversation with my parents, something I couldn’t say for myself in the last three years.
I was experiencing a moment of epiphany. Or maybe—God forbid—self-awareness. What if my family had been avoiding me in a bid to make me do better? Should I try? I mean, Heradidinvite me to her rehearsal. And paid for everything. I should be trying, too, shouldn’t I?
“Not my problem, not my fight. I guess they’ll find another, less expensive way to make your life miserable until they bend you into shape.”
“They don’t seriously expect me to work, do they? An actual real job, I mean.”
“Is your blood too blue for manual work?” His pointed expression was a punctuation mark.
“No,” I weighed my words carefully, “but I’m useless. I’m not good at anything.” I couldn’t believe I’d let these words get out of my mouth. I was usually so private about my shortcomings.
“Most people aren’t,” he said. “Averageness is humanity’s greatest common ground. You’ll find your way.”
“Great pep talk, dude. You should be a motivational speaker.”
“What, and neglect my new aspiration to become a politician?” he quipped.
When we got back inside, he double-locked all the doors, checked the windows, and splayed an impressive (and terrifying) collection of guns on my counter, which he began to clean.
Without lifting his eyes from the guns, he said, “Pack up, Princess. We’re going to be in Texas for a while.”
Calm. Stay calm. You’re The Robot. The impenetrable every VIP would love to have. You’re…
Fuuuuuuuuuck.
And a few more times for the people in the back—fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.
When I accepted the Hallie Thorne gig, I imagined the most challenging aspect would be putting up with her mind-numbing chatter. Now, less than a week into the post, I’d received a letter from the Bratva informing me that they knew my whereabouts and did not appreciate my presence in SoCal again.