Not that he could tell any of this to Leo or Dameon. One of Sydney’s lessons sprang unbidden into his mind.

  Sometimes people just want validation. Give a little to them, and you’ll be surprised how much of a conversation you can steer.

  So he said, “Fine. It’s a girl. But not because I like her.”

  Leo leaned closer and grinned. “Yes you do.”

  “I do not. She’s annoying as hell.”

  “Like my mama always says—don’t lie to me about the truth.”

  “Wait.” Dameon paused as he was flipping their strips of steak on the grill. He pointed the tongs at Winter. “Didn’t you just hire a few new security folks? One of them is a girl our age.”

  “I saw her the other day, having a lunch meeting with Claire.” Leo’s eyes went wide, then back to Winter. “It’s her, isn’t it? She’s cute.”

  Dameon whistled, his eyes lingering thoughtfully on Winter. “Bodyguard romances are rough.”

  Winter threw his hands up. “It’s not, because there’s no romance. I just hate having her around.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s…” Winter struggled for a descriptor. “Too observant.”

  Dameon lifted an eyebrow. “She stares at you too much?”

  “She makes me feel like I always have something stuck in my teeth.”

  “So … she’s just good at her job?”

  Leo smiled sidelong at Dameon. “I think it’s because she didn’t take one look at him and melt. Threw him off his game.”

  “No one melts when I look at them,” Winter scoffed, annoyed at the rising flush in his cheeks as he grabbed the tongs and dropped finished strips of steak onto his friends’ plates.

  “It’s like Mexico City all over again,” Leo went on. “You remember last year, when we were there? Winter woke up late after our concert.”

  “I never wake up late,” Winter replied. He wrapped a small piece of steak in a thin slice of pickled radish and popped it in his mouth, savoring the burst of flavors.

  “You were late, though,” Leo insisted. “That’s why I remember that morning. Because you were late to practice, and because I found that weird.”

  “I wasn’t that late. Our set just ran over the night before,” Winter answered. “You don’t remember?”

  “Four encores,” Leo said. “I remember.”

  “We were up till five at the hotel. Max ran tlacoyos upstairs for us from that stand at the corner down the road.” He snapped his fingers twice, as if trying to remember the street names.

  “Tonalá and Campeche,” Dameon recalled serenely from Winter’s other side as he doled out more cooked meat onto each of their plates.

  “And then you didn’t go back to your room,” Leo added with a sly grin.

  “I did,” Winter said.

  “No you didn’t,” Leo pressed. He peered at him through his mess of thick curls. “Because they dropped off a sleep mask for you to my room by accident and I walked it over to your room, and you weren’t there.”

  “I was probably passed out,” he said.

  “Not the way I was pounding on your door, you weren’t.” Leo pointed a finger at Winter. “You went off to that girl’s place,” he said. “Mercedes. Our opening act. Five in the morning, and you left the hotel on your own, came back in a cab. I knew you were still seeing her back then. Every time you’re in Mexico City, isn’t that right?”

  “I didn’t go to her place,” Winter said with a glare. A pause. Then he muttered, “I didn’t want people finding out where she lived.”

  Leo clapped his hands in delight, like a little brother who’d just solved a mystery. “Rented a private estate somewhere with her, then.”

  “How is any of this like what happened in Mexico City?” Winter protested.

  “Because you couldn’t stand Mercedes either during practice. You two were practically screaming at each other. And then that turned into you both shoving your tongues down each other’s throats.”

  Dameon laughed a little, but his eyes were still following Winter, studying him in that quiet way of his. Winter tried to ignore it, but he could feel the heat on the back of his neck. Dameon always had that way about him; it’d been part of the reason they’d gotten so close so quickly. He could sense all the small disturbances in Winter’s mood—when he’d had a bad conversation with his mother, when he didn’t get enough rest on tour, when he wasn’t up for a press junket day. It both unsettled and comforted him, made him want to confess his secrets.

  Winter knew Dameon could sense something off about him now, too. But when he spoke, he just went along with Leo’s train of thought.

  “Damn, boy,” Dameon said. “You had it bad for her. Can’t blame you.” He nudged Winter, making him spill a bit of the soju he was sipping. “Just like in New Orleans. Who was that girl you brought to my mama’s barbecue?”

  “Aleksa,” Winter said, putting his glass down and wiping his shirt.

  Dameon snapped his fingers. “Aleksa,” he said. “Hottest human I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “Really?” Winter nudged Dameon back, hard, in the ribs. “What about that guy who came with us to Italy?”

  “Jinhai? I guess.” Dameon lifted an eyebrow at him. “Almost as pretty as you.”

  Winter rolled his eyes at the way his friend skirted around their past in front of Leo. He could still remember the first night he visited Dameon in his hotel room. It was on their second tour together, when the pressure on Winter was keeping him up at all hours. Before Dameon opened his door on that sleepless night, Winter had only meant to have a heart-to-heart with him, had been looking for a kindred soul—or, at least, a sleeping pill. Instead, he’d taken one look at Dameon still dressed in a crumpled, half-buttoned collared shirt and ripped jeans, his dreads tied casually up, his expression unsurprised as if he’d been expecting Winter to show up all along … well, in the end, they had ended up in bed together. They’d carried on every night for several weeks before ending it, both too stressed out by the weight of a secret relationship interfering with their work. Since then, they’d settled into friendship, the kind you could only have with someone who knew you like no one else.

  Now he could feel Dameon still studying him, trying to figure out his mood. “You keep in touch with him?” he asked, as if trying to change the subject. “It’s been years.”

  “Nah.” Dameon shook his head. “It’s too bad. My mama liked him.”

  “You know why you two aren’t in long-term relationships?” Leo said, unaware of the secrets being passed back and forth between them.

  “Because we’re never in the same city for longer than a month?” Dameon suggested.

  “No, because you don’t know how to cook.”

  “You’re not in a long-term relationship, either,” Winter said.

  Leo ignored him blithely. “You can’t even make toast.”

  Winter jabbed a defensive finger at Leo. “That was only because I didn’t have a toaster and I was making it in a pan.”

  “You did set off the entire hotel’s fire alarms,” Dameon admitted.

  Leo shook his head. “All my tías would be disappointed in you both.”

  Winter smiled winsomely at him. “Your aunts absolutely love that we don’t know how to cook for ourselves.”

  “More than they love me, that’s for sure,” Leo retorted, although there was a small grin on his lips, too, knowing that wasn’t true. Winter had seen for himself how Leo’s family fussed over him, and the suitcases of gifts he’d bring home for them in turn.

  “I’m going to teach you both how to cook a good stew on our next tour,” Leo went on, eliciting groans from the other two as if this conversation had happened before. “No, listen—trust me. My mama always said, you learn how to make a good pozole, you’ll get anyone to commit.”

  As Leo and Dameon fell into an argument about pozole, Winter allowed himself a slow breath. At least their brief interest in Sydney’s relationship with him had been sidetracked; at least Dameon had finally spared him and turned his curious eyes away. And at least Sydney wasn’t here tonight—she wouldn’t start guarding Winter until tomorrow, when they left for London. But it bothered him how easily Leo had been able to read him, how Dameon had known immediately that something was different, even if he couldn’t guess exactly why.

  It didn’t seem to matter that Sydney wasn’t physically here. He couldn’t get her out of his head, her piercing gaze or the frown that lingered on her lips, the sharpness of her tongue or the slight thrill of fear he felt every time he was near her.

  How had a girl like her stumbled into an agency like Panacea, anyway?

  Winter’s eyes instinctively found Claire, who was already looking in his direction from the adjacent table. She tilted her head questioningly at him, then mouthed, You can head out.

  He gave her a weary nod, grateful she could read his mind. Briefly, he recalled the incident when he’d been stabbed. He’d been so keen on getting out of the mob and into his waiting car that he didn’t even feel the ache in his side. Claire had been the one to point out the blood soaking his shirt inside the car. He could still hear her horrified gasp, could remember collapsing weakly into her arms as he bled all over her hands.

  No, he could remember pleading with her. Not the hospital. Not because he didn’t want them to treat him—but because he was afraid of the possibility that it would be all over the news and yet his mother still wouldn’t bother reading about it, that she wouldn’t show up to visit him there.

  His eyes turned to the windows, toward the streets shrouded in night. For a moment, the sounds around him felt muted, and the images of those he knew—Leo and Dameon arguing, Claire discussing strategy with her team—felt far away, a safe space he somehow couldn’t reach.

  By this time tomorrow, he would be in London. From then on, he would be out in the darkness of the field, unable to confide in anyone except a girl who seemed to want nothing to do with him. He wasn’t even sure he would return.

  Sydney’s words from his training week echoed in his mind.

  It’s a lonely job, but you won’t realize just how lonely it is until you start.

  He could already feel it. And somehow, it was familiar.

  MISSION LOG

  AGENT B: “Just be happy they’re cooperating with each other.”

  AGENT A: “I am happy.”

  AGENT B: “Oh. A scowl is a confusing way to signal that.”

  AGENT A: “I’m just concerned.”

  AGENT B: “About them getting along?”

  AGENT A: “About the Orange Alert.”

  AGENT B: “We get an Orange Alert every year over something or other. The cafeteria staffer has already been arrested and interrogated. Nothing was taken from our servers.”

  AGENT A: “Look, I’m not saying to cancel every mission over an Orange Alert.”

  AGENT B: “You’re worried about .”

  AGENT A: “I know we’ve sent her into bad situations before. But it’s one thing to tail , and another to do it after a security breach at headquarters.”

  AGENT B: “Shall I pull them?”

  AGENT A: “No. This is just me fretting to you.”

  AGENT B: “I was going to call in London, tell them to keep a closer eye on our pair once they arrive. Don’t worry. We’ll get a full brief on the breach tonight.”

  AGENT A: “Good. Thank you.”

  AGENT B: “Are you all right?”

  AGENT A: “Fine.”

  AGENT B: “I know that look, and I say this with love. She’s not your daughter.”

  AGENT A: “Believe me, I’ve never been more relieved about anything in my life.”

  10

  Monsters Look Like Gentlemen

  It never ceased to surprise Sydney how wildly different her pickups went for various missions. A year ago, she’d climbed into a jeep at four in the morning, disguised as cleaning crew, at a military base overlooking the dark tropical seas surrounding the Kwajalein Atoll in the Marshall Islands. Seven months ago, she’d hopped into the back of a rickshaw while arguing in French with the driver as they left the bank of the Congo River in Kinshasa, while a protest rippled around them between a luxury development’s security guards and the fishing village downstream.

  Today she was dressed in a black suit more expensive than her monthly rent, disembarking from a private jet at London Heathrow with a superstar named Winter Young; his manager, Claire; two of his backup dancers; and four other security guards.

  It was early evening, and the prelude to a storm was starting to drizzle across the tarmac. The edges of the sky were awash in tones of deep purple and blue. Attendants lined up at the bottom of the stairway, and as Winter emerged from the jet with his entourage, they took their items and shuttled them to a black sedan. Clean wet cloths were handed to them, along with refreshing spritzers and a set of luxury toiletries. There was even a shoe shiner at the sedan’s door, giving each of them a quick polish on their boots before they headed into the car.

  As they waited to enter, Sydney saw Winter tilt his head up to the sky and savor the feeling of rain sprinkling on his face. There was something endearing about the gesture that made her smile. A pair of aviators tinted the skin around his closed eyes a faint green. Under a draped peacoat, his collared shirt was rumpled as if he’d slept in it—the sleeves pushed haphazardly up to his elbows and exposing the geometric lines of his tattoos, his collar’s top buttons still undone—and his hair was the perfect level of mess. His trousers were clearly designer, tailored perfectly to end just above his ankles. He both looked like he’d literally rolled out of bed, and somehow also better than at any point over the past week, which she found truly insufferable after a ten-hour flight.

  He caught her expression. “What?”

  Her smile wavered. She snapped back to herself. “Nothing,” she said.

  They all piled in. Leo whistled appreciatively as they slid into the plush leather seats. “My aunties want me to bring back some chocolate for them,” he said to Claire. “Think we can make a detour?”

  Claire lifted an eyebrow at him. “Noted. Any special requests?”

  “Cadbury Twirls,” Leo said.

  “Anyone else?” Claire said as she tapped on her phone.

  “Yorkies,” Dameon answered.

  “Galaxy bars,” Winter added. “Kinder Buenos.”

  “Just Necco Wafers,” Sydney said. “If you can find them here.”

  They all looked her way.

  Dameon blinked at her. “Necco Wafers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re the only person I know who eats those,” Leo said. “Don’t they taste like chalk?”

  “I like them,” she replied.

  Winter shrugged. “Leave her alone,” he said, returning to his scribbles.

  She smiled a little at their reactions. As if to prove it, she pulled out a roll of Necco Wafer candies she usually kept in her pocket, then held it out.

  Everyone shook their heads politely.

  Sydney popped a wafer into her mouth, crunching idly. “More for me, I guess.”

  Leo and Dameon fell into a low conversation about something, while the other guards sat in silence and ignored her. Sydney ignored them in return as she fiddled with the waxy paper of the candy roll. Her eyes settled again on Winter, who was leaned back, left leg resting across his right knee, and lost in concentration as he scribbled on a well-worn notepad. Writing music, she assumed. She had to hand it to him, at least—the boy worked with an intensity that surprised her, had trained with her with the laser focus of someone used to throwing his entire being into his craft. Maybe he would even remember everything she’d taught him.

  She felt the familiar itch to steal something, and her gaze lingered on his notebook.

  His eyes flickered to her, as if he’d heard her thoughts. She looked quickly away, pushed down the urge, and bit down on another Necco Wafer.

  “We land,” Claire was saying now, looking at none of them as she scanned her phone, “we get picked up to head to the place Eli Morrison has set you up in, and then we head out for dinner at six.”

  Sydney analyzed Claire as the woman went on. As good as she was at talking, she could tell Claire wasn’t a natural speaker. Not an extrovert, either. She noticed it in the way the woman didn’t seem to know exactly what to do with her hands when talking to others, so instead she’d clutch her phone at all times as an unconscious comfort.

  Her gaze darted to the two backup dancers sitting with Winter. It was jarring to see such attractive boys all in a row. She knew the one to Winter’s left was named Leonardo Medina Santiago, handsome and cheery, the youngest of a family of four who—she’d learned while doing research on Winter’s crew—had given up an offer to attend Stanford University in order to pursue his dream of being on a stage, much to the anguish of his parents. She studied how his body twitched with restless energy, how he leaned in toward Winter. His confidence was genuine, the kind that came out of a solid family.

  The other was Dameon Carter, hazel-eyed, long and lean with dreadlocks, prettier than he was handsome, a Black boy from New Orleans who had five younger brothers—which might explain the endless amount of patience he seemed to have. Dameon lounged quietly on Winter’s other side, his eyes closed, content to listen as Leo rambled on. Whenever Winter laughed or answered, his eyes would slit open, as if pulled by his presence. There was some kind of past there between him and Winter, and a serenity about the boy that intrigued Sydney, particularly because he also still seemed to notice everything.