I have to swallow a sudden thickness in my throat as my blood pounds southward. I don’t even know what she looks like, but she gets me going like no one I’ve ever known. What I wouldn’t give to ruin her, because I’m fairly certain she’d ruin me right back.
SpyderMan: I’m counting on it.
mermaidav: Well... On that note, I have to go… Unless you’ve got something for me?
SpyderMan: Not tonight. Tomorrow maybe.
SpyderMan: If you’re good
A little thrill shoots through me as I type it—a delicate dance around the boundaries of our online friendship.Make me,I want her to type back. Obviously, that’s not the nature of our relationship, but every once in a while I catch sight of another side of her that appeals to another side of me. So I push, hoping it’ll peek through.
mermaidav: If I’m good? I’m sorry, Sir, but you seem to have mistaken me for some other mermaid.
I throw my head back and laugh.
She logs off. Before I do the same so I can focus, I download our conversation and add it to the private folder buried deep in my personal drive. There, it joins every other conversation we’ve ever had and the bits and bobs I’ve saved from the jobs she’s done—pieces of code that are truly artistic or have private jokes baked in. Perhaps it’s a tad pathetic on my part, but when it’s very late and she’s not online to keep me company, sometimes I scroll through our old conversations in a poor attempt to relive the way she makes me feel.
My machine dings with the special sound I’ve programmed in to alert me to a very specific kind of message. An email from the General. That means the next batch of hits is in, and it’s something of a relief. The time between emails was longer than usual, making me antsy. The long-cold trails of our previous hits have become a dead end, so with a fresh batch of names, the odds of learning something about the identity of our mysterious handler are much higher.
I scan the short list of names—only three this time—and forward immediately to Mac and Dimitri, as per my promise. Jeremy Umberlee, Louis Whitcomb, and Madison Cooper.
Time to start my digging. I crack my knuckles, open a fresh can of energy and a new bag of crisps, and settle into search mode.
5
Wesley
Perhaps having someone to come home to changes one’s perspective more than I realized.
Tightening the straps of my backpack, I head down the hallway towards the kitchen. Yet again, Eleanor is nowhere to be seen, but I know she’s been here recently because Mac is sitting at the large glass-top table that occupies the entire right wall next to the windows, shoveling in some kind of casserole. Unfortunate that I keep missing her—it feels like it’s been weeks since we’ve shared a bottle of champagne over a superfluously gruesome Japanese horror film.
If I’m surprised to see Dimitri up, it’s only for about half a second. He’s never been one to sit idly, even with a gunshot wound to nurse, though if he rips a stitch there will be hell to pay when the actual nurse finds out. At least he’s using the knee scooter I ordered rush delivery, though it squeaks under the massive weight of his bulk as it moves. There also appears to be a bit of a learning curve.
Dimitri grabs both ends of the wide handlebar and attempts to maneuver around the large marble island to make room for me to get by, only to clip the wheel on the corner. He lets loose a stream of grumbling curses directed at the chair’s lack of agility.
I place my backpack gently on a stool, then make a beeline for the dish on the hob that smells like cheese and happiness. My stomach growls as I load up my plate, and I make a face at the green bits poking out. “Does she have to put the broccoliinside?”
“You know who made that request,” Mac laughs, eyes cutting towards our most health-conscious teammate.
“Fiber is good for you,” Dimitri remarks distractedly, jerking the handle and then wincing when the whole thing shifts him off balance and he has to tense his muscles to keep his feet.
“I’m not daft; I know it’s one of my five a day, and all that. Let’s skip the lecture on how to grow up big and strong, shall we?”
Dimitri makes a humming noise and raises a brow in my direction. “I do not know how it is that you maintain your muscle mass with your abysmal diet.”
“Good genes. The best, arguably.” That earns me a snort from Mac. “Why does someone who isn’t even going to eat it get a vote?”
“Speaking of this, where is what I requested?”
“Probably in the pot with the post-it on top that says ‘Steamed Veg for Dimitri,’” I suggest, crumpling the yellow square into a small ball and tossing it his way. It doesn’t have enough weight to get any real distance and falls onto the stretch of counter between us. I finish loading up my plate and slide onto one of the tall stools at the counter. Steam billows from the tidy pile, so I blow on it before taking a bite. It’s still too hot to eat, but I’m too hungry to be patient.
Mac all but growls as he shovels in a mouthful. “I don’t know why y’all can’t just let my girl do her thing, why everyone’s gotta request something special. Everything she makes is too good for you ungrateful assholes anyway.”
Dimitri sniffs. “It is no slight to her ability. I prefer to make my own dietary choices.”
“He just doesn’t like that she makes something special for you,” I point out to Dimitri, who nods knowingly.
Mac’s fork clangs against his plate as he tosses it with some force, and he glares at me. “Damn straight, I don’t. She’s working her ass off every day, building her business and getting her name out there, then she comes home and makes us all something amazing, but it’s not good enough for you, so she has to work even harder to think about your littledietary choicesand make you something different.”
