Chapter Three
Sebastian Seaver putthe finishing touches on the final piece of code, and clicked compile. God, it had been a long morning… or maybeafternoon?
He checked the date and time at the bottom of the computer screen as he reached for the Styrofoam coffee cup on his desk and found itempty.
Andhuh, maybe that wasn’t a huge surprise, considering somehow he’d been in this room for more than twenty-four hours.Jesus.
As he shifted, every part of his body ached - his neck from holding still too long, his wrists from typing, his back from sitting in the crappy chair that hadn’t had lumbar support since sometime in the last millennium. Even his leg ached, a pain he knew from experience was caused by compulsively tapping his foot to the Motörhead drumbeat coming from his speakers. But all of that faded in the giddy rush that rose up from his belly as the machinefinished.
It fuckingworked.
He took a second to call up his email, ignoring the thousands of unread messages, and tapped off a quick memo to TJ, his VP of Development.Solved the “impossible” issue with the Pentex software. Someone owes me lunch for a week.He smirked to himself as he hit Send, imagining her face as she readit.
And, frankly, he was pretty fucking excited about winning lunches, he couldn’t lie. At least this way he’d be sure to get fed once a day. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on Drew bringing him dinneruntil…
Well. Until he’d stepped back from all the drama he’d caused withDrew.
He rolled his chair back from the desk, dumping the empty cup into the trash because he wasn’t atotalslob, and forced himself to a standing position, ignoring the way his joints popped as he moved. He’d sat down a thirty-year-old man, and stood up ancient, the Rip van Winkle of Seaver Tech. Even his fucking head got in on the act, protesting the sudden lack of blue light as he stepped away from the monitor by providing a thumping counterpoint toAce ofSpades.
Unlike his shiny, rarely-used office on the top floor, there was no natural light down here in his lab, and no decoration at all besides a really ugly canvas of a shipwreck that his mom had painted once upon a time. His father had chosen this basement hideout because it removed him from all the outdoor distractions - migrating geese and sunlight glinting off buildings, ships in the Harbor and snow hissing against the insulated windows. Bas liked it because it saved him from noticing how fucking long every day lasted… and from being disturbed by well-meaning individuals who didn’t understand the beauty of focusing on a task for as long as it took to finishit.
He shuffled his way over to the mini fridge on the far side of the room - a setup he’d designed purposely, so he’d be forced to move occasionally, and stuck his hand inside the carton ofsoda.
Empty.Goddamnit.
The only beverage left was bottled water with vitamins and electrolytes. He made a face even as he twisted the cap. It was like mixing vegetables into baked goods - completely unfair to all parties involved. Probably something Drew, or Cam, or Margaret, his assistant, had brought down for him. But it was either this or tap water from the small bathroom attached to hisoffice.
He kicked the door closed and briefly considered going out for supplies. His candy stash was depleted, and he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. The project he’d been killing himself over was technically done, and it might be a novelty to actually experience sunlight for awhile…
But as quickly as the idea came, he dismissed it. Now that his project was done, his real work could begin, and that was way more alluring than weak wintersunlight.
He chugged the water in seconds and tossed the empty bottle into the recycling bin, then dropped to the floor by force of habit and executed a series of pushups, hearing his father’s voice ring in hishead.
Your mind is only as strong as your body, Bas. Letting yourself get weak in one area means weakness in allareas.
Too bad dear old dad hadn’t dropped anyreallyimportant knowledge while he was doing the Obi-Wan bullshit, like how to deal with the knowledge that your father was a criminal who’d taken a loan from some Russian mobsters to start his business. Or how to keep your shit together when said mobsters threatened your friends and family. Or how to deal with your messed-up brain when you kissed your drunk best friend right on the goddamn mouth, and he whispered words that both scared the shit out of you and made your dick harder than it had ever beenbefore.
Thosewould have been some quality Dad-lessons, rightthere.
Instead, Levi Seaver had left his eldest son pushups and an undergroundlair.
Bas levered himself up, his heart pumping hard, and took a second to stretch out his arms before walking back to thedesk.
He plunked into his seat and checked his email - more from force of habit than because he expected anything urgent. He purposely employed people who could handle almost every aspect of his job for him. He winced when he saw one fromMargaret.
Mr. Seaver… several emails, attached below… old friend of your father, Michael Paterkin… progressed to phone calls… please direct me on how you wish to proceed or I will escalate this to Mr. McMann.The woman who’d been his father’s assistant and now handled things for both Bas and Cam knew exactly how to motivate him to take action: threatening to tattle on him to Drew McMann. Drew had always been able to coerce or cajole Bas into doing the right thing, without ever having to speak a word. There was something about the force of those deep brown eyes that could break Bas out of his mentaldeadlock.
Until now, anyway, when those eyes had become the reason for thedeadlock.
Had he ever reallynoticedDrew’s eyes before Halloween? If he had, he couldn’t recall. Like so much about Drew, they were just an accepted, necessary part of his existence, like the air around him. Something he hadn’t noticed until it hadchanged.
Warm lips, cinnamon-spiced and yielding. The mad surge of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Drew’s leg against his, excitingly firm when it should have been soft and rounded. The prick of light stubble on a jaw that should have beensmooth.
Stopit!
Bas knew that his brain was wired a bit differently than most. That, if left unchecked, he tended to obsess about things nearly to the point of madness, to the point of distortion. It was then that he was often able to tap into something beyond himself - something instinctive and vital that gave him his very best ideas. It was also the point at which he stopped being a capable human and became almost self-destructive.
It wasn’t healthy, he’d been told time and again, by his mother and his brother and some lovely therapists. It was a risk he took when it came to his work because his alternative was… mediocrity. And that was absolutely notacceptable.
