Mr. Grayson, reminder for your phone conference at 2:30 PM.

  Mr. Grayson, Mr. Cyrus and your brother have been asking for you.

  Mr. Grayson, you missed your lunch meeting and the phone conference after and I can’t get a hold of Miles. Are you alright? Beginning to worry.

  Mr. Grayson, I know you don’t like it when I keep calling, but please pick up.

  Mr. Grayson, a sign that you’re alive would be enough too.

  “Who’s that?” Sienna asks with a used condom between the prongs of her grabber. “Your secret affair? Because I should know about that if I am to fix your image.”

  Alive

  I answer real quick, put the phone away, and open the bag. “Classy,” I say as we both look at the condom. “Who would do something like that?”

  “I don’t know.” Sienna drops it in the bag, and her big eyes shift from the condom to me. “Certainly not us,” she says and, in that moment, I can see right through her. I can see how her memory unfolds, how the runway stretches out and the planes lift off. She’s back at the airport, back in that bathroom. And so am I. For a moment, I am not only standing in front of her, I am pressed against her, pinning her against that cold wall while her fingers dig deep into my back. I can feel the pain again, a good pain, an exhilarating pain. I re-live how it feels to be inside her, how it feels to taste and touch her. And —fuck— do I crave to feel it again, to feel her. Despite the cold, I am burning up.

  And then I can sense that other pain again, the one in my butt, the one from the taser, and the cut above my eye.

  We both swallow hard. Sienna nods once, says something under her breath that sounds a lot like ‘Brother Tucker’, and then she walks off again. She’s not skipping anymore. Her mood has changed in an instant. She’s not merry, not happy, and for a second, I don’t know how I feel about that.

  Then I remember that is the whole point of us being here. Making her pull a face like this is why I hired her in the first place.

  Both of us walk onto the pier, me following behind her. At the very end, a guy in his early twenties, dressed in a yellow track suit, is squatting down while smoking and looking over the water. Sienna picks up a plastic bag that’s stuck among the reeds. When we approach, the guy gets to his feet and looks over his shoulder.

  “What the fuck are you supposed to be?” he asks rather rudely.

  Sienna looks down at herself. “Cinderella? Generic fairytale royalty?” Then she pokes holes into the air with her grabber. “But this would probably make me Trashinella.” She ruffles her own hair. “Litterinella? Yeah, the name needs work.”

  Looks like her mood is lifting again.

  “Ah,” the guy says and rolls his eyes. Then he walks back towards land and, while doing so, flicks his cigarette into the pond.

  “Hey!” Sienna spins around like a hound who just discovered a littering fox. She’s fuming. Of course, the fume is just her breath that’s visible because of the cold, but it is very fitting nonetheless. “You can’t do that. What about the ducks? And the frogs!”

  “Mind your own fucking business, Bitchinella,” the guy says and spits right onto the ground in front of her.

  Sienna pouts. It’s barely noticeable, but I know she does.

  A split second later, I make an executive decision to drop my trash bag and grab Mr. (Cigarette) Butt by his neck instead. I make him trip over my leg and force him to the ground. His head is dangling off the side of the pier while my body pins the rest onto the wooden planks. He can’t move. I lean down and whisper in his ear, “Trust me, it’s easier for you this way. Whatever she would have done to you would have been a lot worse.”

  The guy is so taken by surprise he can’t utter a single word.

  “Now,” I say, “see that trash floating under the pier?”

  He nods with a slightly scared, slightly pained expression, so I take most of my weight off him again.

  “Grab what you can and throw it in her bag.”

  Reluctantly, he does as commanded, quickly grabs what he can and eventually gets back to his knees. His track suit has changed color from yellow to green-brownish. I help him back up and wait for him to place the garbage into the bag that Sienna is holding open.

  “And what do we say for polluting our local park?” I ask.

  He looks my way, then quickly to the ground. “Sorry.”

  “And about her dress?”

  The guy hesitates a second.

  I take a step closer.

  “It’s very pretty,” he mumbles.

  That’s more like it.

  I fumble in my pockets and find a $100 bill that I slap against his chest. “For your troubles and the dry cleaners,” I explain and suddenly look into surprisingly happy eyes. “Now go away.”

  The guy turns around and runs off. He’s quite good at taking commands and running.

  “Next Friday we’re cleaning up Duck Quack Park. You’re welcome to join,” I shout after him as his pants sag down to his knees. When I turn around, Sienna is inspecting me wearily.

  “That was kind of hot,” she says, twists the plastic bag and swings it against my chest for me to catch. “You’re like the bully who bullies the bullies. The bully-bully.”

  “I’m not a bully.”

  “You just beat someone up because he was mean to me.” She smirks.

  Despite only sporting a fancy dress shirt, I heat up again. “First of all, I didn’t beat anyone up. Secondly, I did it because he threw trash into the pond.” I swing the bag over my shoulder. It’s more than half full. “And just a little because he was rude,” I add quietly.

  It’s slowly getting dark and I should probably just drop her off at home, but my gut tells me we’re not done yet. I should use the weekend to force her to spend time with me before we only get to see each other at the office where there will be other people around. People who might get the wrong idea if I lock her into my office with me.

  I retrieve my phone and dial my brother Roman’s number. He picks up on the first ring and immediately asks if I can’t make it tonight. I explain that I am not calling to cancel, but instead wanted to see if it’s okay if I bring someone along. To my surprise, he almost sounds elated at the inquiry, which is usually an emotion reserved for awful food and whimsical socks.

  “Who are we meeting?” Sienna asks when I hang up.

  “My brother, Roman. We have dinner every Friday. You’re coming along.”

  She looks at me, then at her stomach. She forewent meatloaf in favor of staring at me angrily. “First of all, it’s Saturday. Second of all, I am kind of surprised you have two brothers. Not a twin, right? Because you seem like the kind of person who, given the chance, would absorb their sibling in utero. Thirdly, I guess I could eat.” She turns my way, then gives me a pat on my back. “I bet your brother is the one who got all the likability.”

  For a moment I am glad she doesn’t ask why I am meeting him today instead of yesterday. “Yes, he is indeed very likeable, but don’t worry, I’ll try to even that out by being extra grumpy.”

  “Clark,” someone shouts behind us as we’re about to exit the park. “Leaving already?”

  We turn around and discover a polar bear waving at us with his grabber. I raise my hand in greeting and answer, “Yeah, sorry, Charlie. We’ve got plans, but let’s catch up next time, alright?”

  “Sure thing, Clark. See you then!”

  We throw the trash and grabber into the trunk and enter the car where Miles is already waiting, reading one of his smut books. He’s still wearing the trucker hat he claims counts as a costume.

  Sienna buckles in and the car takes off. “Why did that guy call you Clark?” she asks eventually.

  “It’s my nom de plume… nom de costume, if you will. When I first started the Litterati⁠—”

  “Wait, you started this thing?”

  “Hm,” I grumble and let my hand glide over the stubble on my face. “With my ex. I wanted to do something useful for the people in my community and the environment. You know, more than just donating money. But I didn’t want anyone to recognize me, so I came up with the costume idea. This way I can stay incognito and it’s great for publicity. A bunch of weirdos in costumes cleaning a park attracts a lot of attention, which means we attract more people, which means cleaner parks, while I can maintain my anonymity. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of us. We’re basically local celebrities.”

  Sienna is quiet for a moment. I wonder what she might be thinking about, but before I can ask, she snaps out of her thoughts. “I don’t really do social media outside of work. Except for Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, and, of course, Second Chances. Though the 70-year-old divorcees and widowers are rarely ever my type.” She clumsily takes off my jacket while still buckled in and hands it back to me. “You know, that would be a valuable story. You could clean up the parks and your image.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “You enjoy being Clark too much?”

  I do enjoy being Clark. Anonymity has a lot of advantages, but it’s not just that. “I don’t have to get credit for everything I do. Sometimes doing something good is pay enough.”

  “How uncharacteristically noble of you.” Sienna hums with an expression of acknowledgment. “By the way, before I forget, you really shouldn’t violate rule #3. Just gets you in trouble in the long run.” She leans back in her seat and crosses her legs. “I should know.”

  “Rule #3?” I ask as we slowly approach our destination.

  “Never get caught. When you do something like what you did on the pier, do it secretly. Otherwise, you might get in trouble for doing the right thing… Clark.”

  I’m almost a little disappointed that I am ‘Clark’ and not ‘Babe’ anymore. But also, is she implying that stealing my pants was justified? The right thing to do? She really is the worst. “Thanks for the tip,” I say, pretending to not be annoyed by her and her messed up moral compass. “What are the other rules?”

  “Oh, it’s simple: Rule #1: harm no one, unless they actually deserve it. Rule #2: the punishment must fit the crime, though eyeballing is acceptable, and, well, you already know number three.”

  “What would you have done to the guy on the pier?” I ask. “I know you were already plotting something.”

  Sienna shrugs. “Hard to say. I probably would have tried to hide the used condom in his pocket. Or I somehow would have made him spend a day with you.” She chuckles to herself.

  Yeah, you just enjoy yourself… for now. We’ll see who’s laughing when you have to listen to me sing along to my favorite ‘80s songs in the car.

  “We’re here,” Miles says as he pulls the car over.

  16

  SIENNA

  It’s not surprising that Mr. Grumpyson has a dark secret.

  Alright, maybe it’s not a dark secret, but it is surprising that he has a secret like this: that he cleans local parks. And with a secret identity on top.

  There’s really no point in contemplating if that makes him less of a poorly programmed robot and more of a human being though. I am only here for one reason, and that is to save Robyn. Well, and to protect the rest of Haven, I suppose. And to be able to pay rent, of course. So I am only here for three reasons. It’s as simple as that. Whether I have to battle sentient machines or evil hominids doesn’t matter. I already almost made it through the first day with him. Now I just have to survive this dinner and six more days. Totally doable. Well, and then another week for another $5000, but I’ll take it one day at a time.

  I look over at Ryker. He is totally doable too, and I’m painfully aware I shouldn’t even entertain thoughts like that. I also wonder if his ex was just at the park with us. Was she the scantily dressed unicorn that made eyes at him? Luckily, a moment later, the car comes to a full stop. I could use a distraction right about now. We get out and I try to take off my costume before Ryker stops me.

  “Leave it on. It’s not a terribly formal dinner.” He slides back into his coat again.

  I get the feeling he might be lying though. The building in front of us not only looks formal, it looks like it was designed by a team of eccentric architects who just discovered a new, exotic building material called fancium. I have never seen anything like it. The entrance is guarded by a team of extravagantly dressed bouncers who could double as bodyguards for the King of England, or maybe even Elton John. There are chandeliers the size of small planets, and a red carpet so plush, you could take a nap on it. At the end of the lobby, a door opens with a gong which was probably recorded by some famous monk specifically for this purpose. When we step inside, we find ourselves in a restaurant that looks like it was plucked straight out of a fairy tale in which a mad hatter not only designs hats but also furniture. The chairs are upholstered in the softest of leather that I wouldn’t be surprised if it was sourced from unicorn hides. There’s also what appears to be literal trash adorning the walls. Probably to give you the feeling of dining in the middle of a contemporary art gallery.

  To my surprise, the restaurant is empty except for a server who greets us without a word and then guides us to our table. A young man gets up when he sees us coming. He shakes my hand, bows a little, says that it’s nice to meet me, and sits down again without even acknowledging my Prince Not That Charming.

  I think I like him already.

  The brother, I mean.

  “Who are you, and what have you done with Roman Grayson?” Ryker asks as we sit down next to each other.

  So this is Roman. He is younger than Ryker, maybe in his early to mid-twenties, and has the kind of face that makes you want to pinch his cheeks and tousle his hair, even though he is a grown man and not a lost puppy.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his eyes fixed on the cutlery before him.

  Ryker looks over at me. “This is Roman, my brother, who hates nothing more than touching people or to be touched by other people.”

  “That’s not entirely true.” His brother shakes his head. “There have been times during which I have hated you more than that.”

  When I can’t hold back a giggle, he looks at me for a split second, then his eyes dart back down again.

  “For example, when you force me to eat at places like this.” Roman looks around and shudders visibly.

  Ryker chuckles along with me. “Well, I’m sorry, but you can’t eat fast food every day of the week.”

  “I should today,” Roman disagrees. “On Fridays one eats at Fry-day’s. It should be prohibited to eat anywhere else on Fridays. Fry-day!” He asserts passionately, and then barely audibly adds, “They make fries just the way I like them.”

  “Soggy. Their fries are soggy, and today is Saturday.”

  “That’s how you’re supposed to eat them. Crunchy fries are too loud and… crunchy. And today is only Saturday because you postponed ou⁠—”

  Ryker sighs like a worried parent and interrupts his brother with a quick gesture of his hand, then he motions my way. “Roman, this is Sienna. She works for me.”

  “Ha!” I say pointedly and adjust my seat a little. “I do not. He’s my client who hired me to fix his image. But it’s a pleasure to meet you, Roman.”

  His eyes grow bigger and shift from me to Ryker and back. “You should probably quit right now because that sounds like a lost cause.”

  Ryker gasps with surprise. “When did you become a stand-up comedian?” he asks, barely hiding a smile. Then he puts his hand on the back of my chair.

  Despite being fully clothed, I can almost feel the heat from his fingertips hovering over my skin.

  Roman draws his brows together. “I’m not standing up, I’m sitting,” he points out and shakes his head. “See what you’re dealing with, Sienna.”

  “Oh, believe me, I know. Maybe I can make him disappear and we could pretend that you’re Ryker, CEO of the Grayson Empire.”

  “That wouldn’t work.” Roman shakes his head once more. “Mama always says I’m the handsome one. She doesn’t say that about him, so people would likely notice.”

  I was right, I think to myself. His brother did get all the likability. And the humor too, apparently.

  The server, still not saying a single word, hands me a menu and waits for my order. I choose a grilled Portobello mushroom steak with truffle mash. Ryker adds three beers for the table and excuses himself to go to the bathroom. To my confusion, neither of them order any food.

  After a second of silence, Roman and I speak at the same time before he stops and lets me go first.

  “I just wanted to apologize. I didn’t really know I’d be interrupting intimate brother-on-brother bonding time when I agreed to come to dinner.”

  “Nonsense.” Roman adjusts the placement of the silverware. “I’ve known this fool for almost 25 years. He’s very clingy, so we’ve had more bonding time than necessary. We see each other almost every Friday, as you might have gathered. Unless he’s busy like yesterday. It’s possible that was just a ploy to keep me from my well-deserved fries though.”

  This is probably the first time that I am actually surprised by something I learn about Ryker Grayson. Well, apart from him caring about the environment. “He’s… clingy? Are you sure that word means what you think it means?”

  “I know. He’s not the type to be clingy at first glance.” Roman laughs. “It’s because I used to get bullied when I was younger, so he worries a lot. But it’s been ten years now and I’m doing just fine. I am on the spectrum, as the cool kids say these days, hence the bullying and extra cause for concern, I guess.” He looks up to see my reaction.

  “That’s why you avoid eye-contact,” I say carefully.

  “Oh, no, I avoid eye contact because my eyes are a mesmerizing shade of ocean with sprinkles of gold and I have to use my powers for—yeah, no, it’s the ‘tism,” Roman says, opens his puppy eyes wide and stares at me without blinking.

  We both break out into more laughter as the server brings the beers.

  “That’s also why the server isn’t talking and the light is dimmed,” Roman explains once they are gone again. “I can go to restaurants just fine and seem like I have a perfectly normal dinner, but it’s exhausting having to…”