Ezekiel’s confusion deepens, and Jasper tilts his head like a confused German shepherd. His green hat flops to the same side.
“But you brought him here?” Ezekiel says slowly.
“We should go,” I say, pushing back from my chair. It’s like me fleeing Wench all over again. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Clarissa called and I panicked.”
“Morgan,” Jasper says, causing me to stop short as I back away from Ezekiel’s desk. “Trust me. Let me help.”
Trust him? Trusthim? Why did I even bring Jasper here? Never mind the lapse in judgement. This scenario is impossible. Beyond comprehension. I should be at home reviewing slides. I should be double-checking the suit I plan to wear for our presentation doesn’t have a stain on the lapel. I should be asleep without worrying that a supervillain is about to sublimate my guts. Instead, the safest option has become bringing a fucking henchman for Walter Wolfe right into my home territory.
“Morgan,” Jasper says again.
I take a deep breath. All of me feels cold. My fingers twitch, and I have to plaster my palms to my sides. I can feel the chill against my thighs, even through the material. I hold Jasper’s gaze. If my mother were here, she’d pin him down and demand to know what his intentions are. All I can do is silently beg him not to betray me the same way he did back in the hall with Clarissa.
But you know what? Fuck it. A kind of numb calm slips over me. What’s the worst that can happen? He ruins the work I have dedicated myself to every day for the last two years and sells us out to his boss, who will then no doubt use it to hold the world hostage under threat of some kind of mega bomb. Ezekiel and I will shoulder the blame for building it in the first place, and we’ll have to flee to a rapidly sinking island. That doesn’t sound so bad. Better than sixty-three consecutive deaths.
Except it won’t happen, because the second my worst fears come true, I’ll fling myself off the top of Ziro Tower so we have to start all over again. If Jasper betrays me, I’ll be sure to stab him as soon as he walks in the door at Wench, and then I’ll get on with my life. I shudder at the thought of dying intentionally. So far my deaths—at least the ones I remember—have always beenmore or less accidental. But they don’t have to be. I’m in charge. As grim as it is, I hold all the cards here.
I relax and nod at Jasper. He goes back to work with Ezekiel. They call down to the IT department and Ezekiel passes the phone to Jasper, who starts rattling off strings of questions and commands I don’t understand in the slightest. His competence in this situation doesn’t help my anxiety... and my attraction. I want so badly to brand him a criminal. Maybe a loser. But he knows what he’s doing here and it’s unsettling. Also a little sexy—okay, a lot sexy. Competence has always been my catnip. But if I can’t trust him, I can’t be attracted to him. There’s no gray area that would allow that.
Eventually, Ezekiel comes to stand beside me as Jasper taps away at the keyboard.
“Who exactly is this guy?” he asks.
I glance up at him. “It’s a long story.”
Finally, Jasper leans back in the chair, arms over his head, looking for all the world like he’s the CEO of Ziro Labs instead of Ezekiel, and says, “Done.”
“Done?” Ezekiel rushes back to him.
“They’re closed out, anyway. You’ll have to wait for your team to confirm what information they got, but at the very least they won’t get back in tonight.”
Ezekiel breathes a huge sigh of relief, shaking Jasper’s hand vigorously. “Thank you. Thank you so much... er... I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”
Jasper tips an imaginary brim on his hat. “Jasper Jackson, at your service.”
“If you need henching...” I mutter under my breath. I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Walter Wolfe to burst through the door and say the machine is his now, or for Jasper to cackle and say he can’t believe we fell into his trap. But none of it happens.
“What did you say?” Ezekiel asks me.
“Nothing,” I answer quickly, but I don’t miss the way Jasper throws a wink in my direction.
Ezekiel, of course, is oblivious. He doesn’t concern himself with anything so mundane as his stepson flirting with a mysteriously charming and proficient computer genius who arrived uninvited in his office. Instead, he says, “I don’t know if Morgan told you what we’re trying to do here, but there are people who don’t want to see us succeed. As long as there’s oil, there’s money to be made from it. If any of them can get their hands on our patents and figure out how to turn a profit on it?—”
“Ezekiel,” I say, because I know how passionate he can get when he starts talking about the Ziro Machine. “Jasper doesn’t need the whole mission statement.”
“He deserves something.” Ezekiel’s grin is broad. Standing together, he and Jasper couldn’t be more different. Ezekiel in his suit looks like the kind of man who stands at the head of boardrooms and promises investors the world for a mere drop of their blood. Jasper, in his toque and flannel, looks like the kind of guy who asks if you need assistance picking out a Christmas tree. But he stands next to Ezekiel like an equal, and I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something about him.
“Actually,” I say, “we need help.”
“That sounds serious. Does it require a drink?” He goes to the bar cart he keeps near the window. I always tease him about how we’re supposed to be an altruistic nonprofit, not a swanky law firm, but he insists hospitality is doubly important since we can’t offer investors and shareholders an exponential return on their money.
“Does it ever,” I say with a sigh.
“That’s not good.” He laughs as he pours whisky into three tumblers, passing me one and Jasper another. I spent so many nights like this back in the early days of the Ziroproject. Ezekiel and I would sit here sipping on whisky and talking about what would happen if our plans were successful. It was exciting. Invigorating, following the months and months of silent sadness at Ziro Hall after Mother died. Now, though, there’s no excitement. I’m so tired. I sink onto the leather sofa while Ezekiel takes the club chair across from me. Jasper pauses for an instant before he settles next to me, sitting at the edge of the cushion. I glance at him, hoping he’ll speak first, but he tips his glass to me in a silent cheers. At the final second, so there’s no confusion, he says, “I’ll let you handle this one,” then takes a drink.
Oh boy. I toss my whisky back, swallowing the fumes. I exhale slowly, running my palms over my thighs. Jasper nudges his knee with mine, and Ezekiel laughs softly to himself.
“Come on. Spit it out,” he says.
