Call My Name

CHAPTER 5. Suspicious

Low whistling and the disturbingly loud sounds of footsteps pierced through the silence of the second floor corridor as three figures sauntered their way to where we sat eating our dinner.

One of them, the biggest, had a huge scar running down the side of his neck to the back of his collar, his eyes obscured with dark-tinted glasses. He looks to be twice the size of me.

But I bet he wouldn’t be able to beat me in a one-on-one fight. He looks slow.

“Sir Lenoir,” the man in black — okay, I’m gonna call them MIB now — on the farthest left called, tapping the shoulder of Sir Liver Spots. “The boss would like to talk to you, sir.”

The boss? I thought he owned his company? At least that’s what he told us. Could he be lying? Or is the boss his father or something close to that?

“Please excuse me for a moment, Mr. Salvatore,” he said and stood up, taking the phone from MIB number 2 with the funky haircut, and walked away, not even bothering to give me a glance.

He’s been intent on ignoring my presence the whole night. Well, thank goodness for that.

The other two MIBs followed him to the balcony but Soviet Chewbacca with the mutated neck of Hulk only stood there staring ahead of us. I’m not sure what his purpose here is exactly, but he’s probably just here to stop us from gossiping about his luxurious mountain goat of a boss.

“Pass me the salsa,” Alexei said, breaking the silence, and pointed at the bowl of habanero salsa on the far edge of the table.

How they’ve both agreed to have a mixture of Italian, Mexican, and French food on the table is still unknown to me. I must’ve dozed off listening to that Lenoir dude pronounce the French dishes.

“You like this stuff?” I asked, scrunching my nose up. “It’s like going to hell and licking the floor.”

“What are you talking about?” Alexei just said and dunked a piece of nacho half way through the bowl.

I watched in agony as he ate it like it’s just tomato sauce, my lips slowly twisting into a frown.

“Isn’t it spicy?” I asked, the pain etched on my face.

“It is.”

“Then why do you like eating it?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Okay, fair enough.

Ten more minutes later and the French dude walked in with a weird expression on his face. Whatever that took him long enough outside was probably something that made him upset.

The vein on his forehead looks like it’s about to blow up.

“I deeply apologize for that, monsieur. My boss has been very concerned about my coming into your country to meet you myself.”

Alexei only took a sip from his glass and nodded, not even bothering to look up at him as he sat down across the table from us.

“So, where were we again?”

Still in the restaurant, pauvre crétin.

See? I can speak French. That means pointless t**t. I heard that one from one of my previous client during an extraction. What can I say?

I’m a fast learner.

The car ride on the way back to the castle he calls house was unpleasantly silent. He was clearly deep in thought, his eyebrows closely knitted, his foot tapping continuously on the vinyl mat of his car.

“You wanna switch places? I can drive, you know? We might crash with the weight of the problem your eyebrows are carrying,” I joked, my eyes fixed intently on him.

He just turned to glance at me, and looked back out on the street where there were only a few cars left, his pale face stern.

I just chuckled and turned the other way.

“Well, if you look at that. He’s ignoring me again. What a really nice way to make peace, don’t you think?” I muttered loud enough for him to hear, but he didn’t even spare me a single nod for an answer and just continued looking out front.

“Great. He’s gone mute,” I murmured under my breath and he turned, glaring at me.

“I heard that,” he said sharply, his eyes narrowing to slits as he focused back out on the road.

“Well, at least we know you’re not deaf,” I quipped.

“You think you’re being funny, do you?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” I answered without even looking up at him and started playing with the bottle of Gatorade in my hand.

He just scoffed. “Yeb vas,” F**k off. I heard him say.

My eyebrows instantly furrowed with the unfamiliar words. “Did you just curse at me?”

Alexei blinked innocently. “What?”

“You said something in Italian—”

“Russian.”

“— and when you say something in a different language it’s always bound to be something between a curse and an insult,” I snapped, my intense gaze not leaving the side of his face, and he chuckled.

“You catch on fast,” Alexei said, impressed.

“I’m not as dumb as you look,” I sniped, and Alexei laughed.

Well, at least I got him to laugh.

After breakfast the following morning, I was out by the lake lodging under the shade of one of the beech trees. It was Saturday and Alexei doesn’t have to go to his office to do boring work stuff.

He can do it at home instead. What a drag.

Rooting around, groping for flat stones, I stood up and took aim at the lake. I managed to get four skips, and then three, but stopped midway from throwing the third stone when I saw Henry stalking my way.

“Sir Gideon.”

I nodded. “What’s up? Does his majesty need me to milk some cows or something for his breakfast?”

Henry chuckled. “No, sir. Master Alexei requests your immediate presence at his sleeping quarters.”

“Why do you always talk like that?”

“Because I’m British, sir.” He smiled.

“Yeah, but can you be any less formal?”

“No, I don’t think it’s appropriate, sir.”

I just shrugged, throwing the last stone in the lake, and followed him inside.

Alexei, his back turned against me, was standing in front of the huge glass window and was looking out into the garden. I chuckled, sure that he was now looking at my reflection on the french glass, and plopped down on his bed.

“Drama queen,” I muttered, and he shot me a nasty look.

“I just have a question,” he said, and I nodded.

“Fire away, Goldilocks.”

He ignored the nickname and paced around the room.

God, even the way he paces reminds me of a royal prince.

“Don’t you think there’s something odd about Nicoló Lenoir?”

I laughed so loud it made him stop his pacing. “Everything about that guy screams odd, Al. The way he talks—”

“A fake accent.”

“—the way he moves—”

“Constrained and swift, as though in constant training.”

“—hell, even the way he eats.”

“Fast-paced. A former soldier.”

Excuse me? He said the what now?

“A former soldier?” I asked, confusion evident in the tone of my voice. “I knew that. But the question is, how the hell would you?”

He just gave me a blank look and resumed his pacing again.

I haven’t seen him in only a matter of five years but here I am already so lost as to how I never knew this much about him. Sure, I heard a lot through the news and magazine and stuff but most of them are highly manipulated and were probably paid by the company so I don’t really rely on them that much.

But this? Okay, my imagination is starting to get wild at this.

“Don’t think too much. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Oh, wow. “Thank you for the insult.”

“You’re welcome,” he deadpanned, his face suggesting that he couldn’t care less. “But, seriously, don’t think too much into it.”

“Are you a psycho or something?”

“I believe it’s called a psychic.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“I’m not. You’re just way too obvious. You’re about as subtle as a brick.”

My eyebrows instantly furrowed and I frowned. “Don’t call me a prick.”

“And you need a hearing aide.”

He’s probably just getting back at me for all the smart-ass insults and quips last night. If I know any better, I’d think he thought about this all night. He looks like someone who would make a plan for this kind of trivial thing.

“Oh, and by the way, we’re going to Paris tomorrow.”

“What? Why?”

“My mom has a fashion show I need to attend. She's gonna disown me if I don’t.”

“Well, can’t you risk it?” I asked, scratching my cheek.

“Pack your bags.”