"It's lucrative," Wells conceded.
I looked around the sad, fluorescent lit space. "You could use lucrative."
"True enough. As far as the investors need to know, this is the early-stage development of a novel bioactive peptide with broad regenerative potential." Wells raised a brow. "Which is technically true."
"Sure," I chuckled wryly. "As long as you deliver, friend, then you'll have plenty of extra funds for your more benevolent projects."
Wells almost looked offended, watching me as I crossed the room and peered at the paraphernalia on the counter. "Of course, I'll deliver. Melittin's cytolytic properties are dangerous—pure venom destroys cells. But if we can control the delivery, modulate the dosage, and stabilize it for targeted application, it doesn't just break things down." He tapped a sheet of paper to his right. "It signals repair. We’ve seen early indications that it stimulates neurogenesis in damaged cells. That same mechanism, applied peripherally?—"
"I believe you," I assured him, holding up my hands in surrender. "My man. I believe you. This is above my pay grade."
Wells leveled a look over his glasses. "You were at the top of our residency. Why do you pretend to be vapid?"
Well, that was a horrifyingly direct question. "I am vapid. No pretense required," I replied dismissively. Vapid was shallow, and the shallower my relationships, the safer life was. "I'll need you to write down an explanation of your research that won't go over the investors' heads," I said, absently picking up a printout of a graph from an HPLC machine I couldn't hope to read if I tried. "My mother can handle the rest."
Wells looked unconvinced but straightened with a sigh. "I appreciate you doing this. I tried to finance it on my own, but it's more than I could handle."
Financing biomedical research was beyond anything one man could handle, even with Wells' family money backing him. There were investors that would be interested in a cure for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, of course, but Wells was adamant that he wouldn't sell life-saving medicine to the highest bidder. Not when his own sister's life was on the line. But anti-wrinkle cream from bee venom? That was a pharmaceutical investor's dream product. We could ensure his essential research was funded by the vanity of the masses.
I copied Wells, leaning against the counter next to him and glancing over at his faraway, speculative expression. Behind the nerdy glasses and tidy hair, Nash Wells had a passionate, bleeding heart in that stacked chest of his. His sister had been diagnosed with early-onset ALS at the age of twenty-seven, and Wells had launched himself into research immediately. She was thirty-two now. No matter where Wells was with his research, it wouldn't be close enough. And I didn't know how much time she had left. "How is Margot?"
Wells tapped his heel on the toes of the other navy-blue sneaker. "Back in hospital."
"BiPAP?" I asked with a sinking heart. They were out of time; the problem was, Wells hadn't acknowledged that.
He nodded. "For now. She's improving, though."
"Improving" was relative. The escalation of ALS symptoms, especially a case as aggressive as Margot's, was harrowing for loved ones to watch. There was no cure, and any improvements she made would be small blips on her downward trend. I cleared my throat. "That's good news."
The intern who'd been writing labels joined us hesitantly, her bright red ponytail swishing as she pulled off her lanyard. "I'm headed out, Dr. Wells."
"Thanks Dr. Seymour. Oh, this is Dr. Frost."
Wells gestured to me, and I shook the intern's hand. "Nice to meet you."
"He's helping with funding," Wells said with a nauseating wink that made the intern blush.
"Oh, good," she stammered, her pale face going fully red.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Wells wasn't a player, he was just obtusely nice to everyone. The poor young research intern didn't stand a chance. "I won't stay too long," I said, standing straight again. "I'll just take your proposal and data, and we'll make sure it doesn't get put in front of the wrong eyes."
"See that it doesn't," Wells said seriously, his brown eyes darkening. I knew he wasn't worried about someone stealing his research and completing it first, he just didn't want some company profiting off of it. I'd be taking a hard copy of his progress with me and then guarding it with my life… apparently.
We went into the smaller lab space, which was vacant now, too. The lab took on an after-hours feeling as the lights from the waiting room on the other side of the door shut off. Wells took a folder off the top of a pile and handed it to me. I took it, flipping through it idly. "We'll need to go over what you want me to present, but we can do that tomorrow."
"Sure," Wells said, his accent dipping deeper as he rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. "I can take a night off for a friend. Dinner?"
A night off. How many hours did this madman work, anyway? "Dinner is good. Please tell me you don't do taco trucks."
Wells gave me a withering glare. "Do I look like I enjoy taco trucks?"
I scanned his well-pressed lab coat, wrinkle-free white button-down, and boring, belted slacks. "Not a bit. Thank God."
"I do know a decent Greek place just down the?—"
Bang.
We both straightened, exchanging confused looks. "That sounded like it came from the waiting room," Wells frowned.
