Mr. Mysterious: A Mister Standalone (The Mister Series Book 4) (2 page)

“What?” I ask, scanning the road, hoping none of my neighbors across that cow field can hear what’s happening over here. “Why?”

“Tell him,” Pax bellows again. “Telllllllll h
iiiiiiii
m.”

“No,” Five says, checking his fingernails. “I’m not telling him shit. I’m not telling anyone anything. You wanted this to happen tonight, so here we are. You tell him.”

Pax smiles, his glassy eyes gleaming in the starlight. “I’m fucking Cindy Shrike.”

I shake my head a little, trying to wrap my brain around his words. “What?”

“Have been”—Pax laughs, taking a sip of his drink—“for eight weeks now.”

“What the fuck?” I look at Five. “You knew about this?”

“He showed up at my house tonight. Said he needed to borrow my helicopter. But he was drunk on those stupid Kentucky Derby drinks.”

I stare hard at the drink in Pax’s hand. He downs the entire thing, then slams it on the porch railing so hard, I think he might break the glass.

“I’m gonna need another,” Pax says, pushing past me to open the front door. “Where’s that ball and chain, Perfect? She here? Because she’s not gonna like this, my friend. Not one bit.”

And then he lets himself in my house. Scout, who is caught up in his blustering, follows eagerly after.

“Is Ellie home?” Five asks. “Because if she tells Arial what’s happening—”

“She’s not here,” I say. “Is he fucking serious? Who the hell fucks a guy’s baby sister?”

“He refuses to tell me the story,” Five says. “He said you’re the only one who will understand.”

“Me? I thought he was an asshole before he messed with Oliver’s sister. Now? Fuck that. Oliver is not going to like this.”

“Oliver is going to flip his fucking lid.”

Then I remember who I’m talking to. Oliver and Five go way back. I don’t know the whole story, but I know they grew up together.

“Oliver is going to show up at Pax’s house—wherever the fuck
that
might be—with a goddamned shotgun. Oliver’s father will be there too. And since you’ve never met Spencer Shrike, I’ll just tell you right now, you do not fuck with that guy. He comes off all sweet and charming, but don’t let him fool you. Mr. Shrike knows his way around a gun.” Five looks at me from the corner of his eye. “And a murder charge.”

I let out a breath. I think I was holding it. “What the fuck does that mean?” Jesus Christ.

“It’s not important. But you get the idea of where this is heading?”

I nod and we look at each other for a few seconds. “So… why are you guys
here
?”

Five shrugs. “He says you’re the only one we can tell. Nolan and Weston kind of hate Pax, in case you haven't noticed.”

Oh, I’ve noticed. “Why tell anybody?” I ask. “Why doesn’t he just shut the fuck up about it? Chalk it up to a bad mistake and move on?”

“Well,” Five says, heading for the open front door to my home, “he says he loves her and he’s not giving her up. So… we need to deal with this. And you, Mr. Perfect, are the perfect man for the job.”

“What
job
?”

“Telling Oliver, of course. It’s all you, buddy. That’s what happens when you’re the calm, level-headed one on the team. You get to break all the bad news. So let’s go. He said he’d tell us the entire story from start to finish.” Five looks at his watch. “And we’ve only got a couple hours before people notice I’m gone and start asking questions.”

“What people?” I ask, following him in. But Five doesn’t answer. And I’m not sure if it’s because he’s hiding things—which he is. No one really knows anything about Five. Except Oliver. And Pax, probably. More than me, anyway—or if it’s because Paxton Vance is commanding Five’s attention as he pours ice cubes on top of a dish towel in my kitchen and starts hammering it with a can of soup.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask, walking over. Five is leaning against the bar, looking bored. Scout is doing that little wiggle leap she does when she can’t contain her energy for one more second.

“Crushed ice,” Pax says, as if that explains everything. “You want a margarita?” he asks us. “Or a mint julep?”

“Since when do you drink that kind of shit?” I ask, pushing him away from the counter and grabbing the soup can from his hand. “You’re gonna crack my fucking granite, asshole. Stop pounding.” I look over at Five, confused. “Can people get drunk off mint juleps?” It’s such a ridiculous drink, right? The only people who drink these things are old ladies on Derby Day.

“Exhibit A,” Five says, motioning to Pax. Who has left the kitchen and is rummaging around at the bar in the adjoining room.

He finds what he’s looking for—a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of tequila—and returns to the kitchen, pulling mint leaves out of his pockets.

“Cindy,” Pax says, rubbing a hand through his wild dark hair. “Cinderella likes these two drinks. They’re
our
drinks.”

Our drinks
? I mouth the words to Five, who stands up straight and takes his coat off, draping it over a barstool at the kitchen island.

“She’s so goddamned perfect, Perfect. You’d love her.”

“You cannot date Oliver’s sister,” I say, snapping out of it. “No. No. This is not happening. If you even looked at my sister—”

“You don’t have a sister,” Five says.

“Camille counts,” I say, defensive. “I’d fucking kill him if he even
looked
at Camille. You need to break this off, Pax. Like now. You can’t date a guy’s sister. It’s like the number one Bro Rule. How’d you like it if Oliver was dating your sister?”

“He doesn’t have a sister,” Five says.

“It’s fucking hypothetical,” I snap. Fucking Five. “Do you want me to handle this or not?”

Five opens his hands, as if to say,
Handle away
.

“Pax,” I say, trying to be calm. “Look, man. You gotta just come to terms with this. You have to drop this idea of…” God, I can’t even say the words. What kind of guy dates his friend’s baby sister?

“I can’t,” Pax says, suddenly sober and serious. “I can’t. I fucking fell for her, man. I fucking fell for her. She’s my fucking soulmate. That’s it,” he says. “That’s the end of the discussion. I love her.”

“How could you possibly love her? How long have you been dating, for fuck’s sake?”

Paxton sneers at me. “You don’t understand,” he says. “And you, of all people,
should
.”

I deserve that. I fell in love with Ellie in the span of a week. Sure, it took us a while to get our shit together, but we basically had a few weeks of serious dating before I proposed.

And now look at us. House—farm, really—dog, planning a wedding.

Pax goes back to his drinks and while the blender is whirring and he’s dumping salt onto a small dish for his margarita, Five and I exchange looks.

We can’t afford to have this kind of discontent between the Misters right now
, Five’s look says.

I got this,
my look says back.

Then Pax is done making his drinks and he takes them both, one in each hand, and slumps down on the living room couch. Scout jumps up next to him, settling with her head on his lap like he’s got her full support and sympathy.

“Maybe I should start from the beginning?” Pax says, slurping once from his margarita, then next from his mint julep.

“Maybe you should,” I say, as Five and I follow him into the living room and take seats in opposite-facing chairs. “But you need to know, Pax, there is no way you can have this relationship right now. Not while all this shit is happening. Not when people are out to get us again. Because we need everyone to be cool. Your love life needs to take a back seat to Mister business.”

Pax sighs, like we might finally be getting through to him. Sighs like he just might walk out of here tonight and take my advice.

“One day,” he says. “You’re like… doing great.” He looks up at me with glassy eyes. They are bloodshot. Lids sagging like he’s been up forever. Like he forgot what sleep is and hasn’t rested in lifetimes. “You know who you are. What you’re doing. Where you’re going. And then a girl named Cinderella sends your whole world spinning. She’s got blonde hair, and blue eyes, and a body a nineteen-fifties starlet would kill for.”

He stops talking to smile at me. I smile back. I’ve never seen Pax like this.

“And she starts talking about motorcycles, and guns, and bands you have wanted to listen to again for a decade or more. She wears black leather whenever possible. On her feet, on her back, in her hair. She likes strawberry ice cream and books by Stephen King. Her fingers have silver rings on them. She likes anything with a feather on it. A hat, a hair clip, earrings. And she surfs, you guys. Like, for real. She surfs. And she fucking cooks. Tacos and spaghetti. Food I love now but never ate in the Limitless Farms dining room back in the bluegrass.”

Pax sighs and slumps even further down into the couch cushions.

“She’s like a happily ever after, you know? She’s like a till death do us part.”

I just stare at him. Blink.

“I get it,” Five says, picking some lint off his suit. “I get it, Pax. I do. The Shrike girls are pretty hard to ignore.”

“Yeah,” Pax agrees. “How the fuck am I going to ignore
this
?” He pounds a fist into his heart. “And she’s not going to fade away, you guys. She’s not a fade-away kind of girl. She’s going to fight. You have no idea how much fight that girl has. I mean, like I said, one day I was great. Just doing my thing. And then… and then this perfect fucking princess walked into my life.”

Chapter Two - Paxton - Eight Weeks Ago

Malibu Colony is a haven for somebodies. My house rents out for two hundred thousand dollars a month in the summer. But I didn’t rent it out this year. I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying the gate that keeps the world away a mile down the road. I’m enjoying the movie stars who jog on the sand when the tide is low. I’m enjoying the breeze, and the sunsets, and the salty mist that finds its way onto my face while I’m drinking a beer and watching the Rams play a pre-game.

This place is my castle. My home. My world.

And no one knows about it but me.

Not my father, who hasn’t bothered to call me in more than a decade. Not my friends, who have no idea what I’m doing nine days out of ten. Not even my mother, who only visits me in the Del Mar house because if she’s going to set foot in the state that birthed my bastard of a father, she wants to hear the horses run as she drinks on the terrace.

It’s big, and modern, and has six lounge chairs lined up in front of the glass terrace wall that separates me from the Pacific Ocean. It’s got a rooftop terrace with a fire pit. And a lap pool surrounded by tall palms that make music when the wind catches the long, slender fronds in just the right way.

There are solar lights along the polished concrete walkway that leads from the front of the lot on the street all the way back to the beach. And there are surfboards leaning up against the wall of the house next door. All I have to do is walk by, grab one, and slap that sucker down onto the foam.

And the light. Holy fucking shit, the light. You never know what color it will be. Maybe pink in the mornings, coming from the east—it shines in through the front bedrooms and lights up the whole upstairs. Or deep red, or orange, or yellow in the evenings when the world moves west towards the night.

It’s like a fucking fairy tale.

And the best thing of all is the constant roar of the monster outside. The power the ocean commands. It’s like a general barking orders twenty-four hours a day. Orders like,
Hear me. See me. Know me
.

I don’t take orders very well, but those kinds of orders I can handle.

Hear me. See me. Know me.

I can relate to that.

People know me as Mr. Mysterious. The tall one. The dark one. The scary one. But only one person on this earth understands Paxton Vance. And she is tucked away on the breeding farm she bred me on. She hears me. She sees me. She knows me.

My mother is the only woman I trust.

I have heard it all, seen it all, known it all when it comes to people.