“Oh, fuck you.”
He studies the length of the blade for a second, then returns to sharpening. “You know what Mr. White said inSpectre?”
“You still on a James Bond villains kick?”
“I am. I find them more insightful than Bond. I mean, what did he do but accidentally fuck enough girls and almost get them killed while they helped him?”
I huff. “That’s certainly one assessment. Anyway, what did Mr. White say?”
This time when he checks the knife, he smiles at what he sees and wipes the blade with an oiled cloth. “Don’t remember the exact words, but it was something like Bond was nothing more than a kite trying to keep its shit together while flapping in a hurricane.”
“I’m the kite?”
He shrugs. “Sure acting like one. But the moral I took away from it is that you need to be the hurricane, Wren. You think I ever let anything in this life throw me around?”
I shake my head. “Definitely not.”
He rests his hands on the wooden bench and lowers himself closer to the phone. “But I used to. I’d let every single thing that happened to me throw me around and often land me on my ass. But I’ve learned, and so will you. Be the hurricane, Wren. Never the kite.”
His words hit harder than I expect. I mean, I know Niro never sugarcoats anything. And he’s the first person I’ve spoken to in twenty-four hours who hasn’t tried to extract something from me. Or maybe it’s because, right now, he feels familiar in a world that’s anything but.
Even though I get the analogy, it doesn’t feel possible.
“I don’t feel like a hurricane,” I admit quietly. “I feel like a leaf blower could knock me on my ass.”
Niro snorts. “Hurricanes don’t show up polite. They build. As the air heats, the pressure drops, and the storm gathers.”
I pick at the corner of a furling sticker on my laptop. “You’re comparing my mental state to meteorology?”
“Yes, because I’m the only evil genius who knows how to fix you. Embrace the analogy. Air heats. Think of that as the temperature of the shit you gotta handle. Then, pressure drops. You got that? The pressure actually fucking drops. So, the world is getting hot, and the hurricane is like, vibing, feeling chill,because there’slesspressure. And by doing that, it gets stronger, more powerful. Hurricanes are misunderstood.”
Despite everything, a weak and watery laugh cracks in my throat. “You’re such a donkey.”
“A donkey who cares about you.” He points the oiled knife at the camera. “Look, I don’t know what the Colorado boys dragged you into. But I know you. You don’t scare easy. You sleeping?”
I shake my head. “Not since I woke up in the middle of the night yesterday.”
“Eating?”
“My stomach feels off.”
He sighs loudly. “You gotta do the basics. Even nerds need fuel. You want that big brain of yours firing on all those illegal cylinders? Then take care of the meat-and-bones suit that carries it around.”
The lump in my throat thickens. “It’s not that easy.”
“It never is. But you pull up your pants and crack on with it. And if anyone gives you any shit…”
“They didn’t.”
“Yeah, well. If they do, just remember…you’re a fucking hurricane.”
As if to emphasize his words, the script I was running suddenly hits.
And suddenly, I’m looking at about sixty percent of the club’s stolen money.
3
CATFISH
