Well.
He didn’t stand a chance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Present Day
Sherman Oaks, California
Mission Day Two
Next week would’ve been their due date.
The alert came up on the calendar on Robin’s phone—like he would’ve somehow needed a reminder.
The combination of that notice plus Todd continuing to be a total mindfuck after he’d played the toxic character all day was almost too much.
Robin lay on his back on the cool tile floor of the living room, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling of the rental house, trying to exhale the last of Todd as he waited for Jules and Sam to return.
Jules had been sending him regular updates as he dealt with the car accident, but that had stopped about forty minutes ago with aFucking goddamnshit this might take longer than I’d hopedand now Robin didn’t want to bother him.
Although, it was highly probable that Jules had gotten the same reminder on his phone, sofucking goddamn shityeah.
He wanted to cry, but Todd the freaking psychopath didn’t, couldn’t, or maybe just plain wouldn’t.
Instead, Robin just lay on the floor and wished there was something more he could do to help. Or that he could find a portal to an alternative timeline.
At least the report that Jules had been furiously waiting for from the San Diego Troubleshooters office had finally landed in his email in-box. In one of his earlier texts, before thefucking goddamn shit,he’d asked Robin to print it out.
Sam apparently had a preference for hard-copies—although Robin knew that Jules really did, too. He could relate. He’d read plenty of scripts on his iPad or even his phone, but having a paper copy to dog-ear and scribble notes on, or even just to doodle in the margins was nice...
Or maybe they were all just getting old.
Like Lois, his sister Janey’s mother-in-law, who printed out and saved every email that Cosmo, her Navy SEAL son, ever sent her. Jane had spent hours explaining both the ease and environmental benefits of digital filing systems to Lois but nope.
Since printing out the coveted report from TS was something Robin could do to help, he’d dragged Todd’s stupid-bitch-ass upstairs to the little room Jules and Sam were using as a temporary office and fired up the printer. Pretty much all printers fucking hated him, but this eveningthisprinter seemed to know that Todd was in the room. Todd would have no issue with throwing the damn thing out the window onto the driveway below. Troubleshooting made simple. Is the printer in four million little pieces on the asphalt? If yes,click here to order a new one. If no, throw it out the window now.
But this evening, with remarkable ease, Robin had successfully printed out two copies of the rather hefty overview of producer Milton Devonshire, his wig-wearing son, and even the lawyer involved in this find-the-heir case—one Ernest Harper, who was part of the cliched Hollywood old boy’s club, right down to the copious time spent on the golf course and the three wives. Or ratherthird wife, because at least he’d married them one at a time.
And yeah. Robin hadn’t asked permission, he just sat down on the sofa and read the damn thing from start to finish.
Todd the asshole had no boundaries, but he couldn’t even really blame the still-lingering, stomach-churning, backed-up bits of the foul-mouthed character for his transgression. Because the truth was that he—Robin—wanted to read it. He wanted to help, and he was pretty damn good at this mystery solving shit. Jules and Sam had both often come to him through the years to get his viewpoint, or even to brainstorm.
But the real bottom-line was that he missed being a unified team—he and Jules. Able to say anything to each other, able to share every feeling, every thought—even inappropriate or embarrassing or foolish ones. Able to share every heartbeat, every breath, every hope, dream, fear, and doubt. Without needing to be careful.
These past few months they’d both become so fucking careful around each other. If I speak, will I hurt you? If I cry, will that triggeryourgrief, too? If I laugh, am I being insensitive? If I complain too much, am I the asshole?
Jules had gone really quiet in his grief—and that was weeks before he’d resigned from the Bureau.
The whole getting pregnant thing had been a loudly joyful community effort. Finding Penny, who’d been so wonderfullywilling to rent out her uterus for the tiny, growing cluster of cells that had sparked from one of Janey’s donated eggs and Jules’s extremely healthy sperm. Their child-to-be was going to be half Jules and the very best half of Robin, nurtured to life by Penny’s upbeat sparkle and warmth.
And yes.
Next week would’ve been their due date.
Fucking goddamn shit.
In another more perfect universe, they would’ve been a week away from meeting their baby. Penny would’ve temporarily moved into their house in Boston for the last month or so, where Jules would’ve still had his beloved and important career, where their government wouldn’t have drastically doubled down on being one that put pregnant people’s health at very real risk.
