I’m done waiting. I don’t know what tomorrow looks like yet, whether it’s a conversation or confrontation or me cornering Sting and refusing to move until he tells me what’s going on. The version of me that lies in bed and hopes Sting figures his shit out on his own timeline?
She’s done.
I close my eyes. Sleep doesn’t come for a long time, but when it does, my last thought isn’t about evidence or Dorothy or budget lines. It’s about the way Sting looked over his shoulder at me for that one second where I really saw him, conflicted, torn, and fighting himself.
The man I want is in there. And tomorrow, I’m going to get him out.
40
STING
I’ve beenan asshole all day.
Actually, being an occasional asshole is not that out of the ordinary for me, but being one all day is an exception.
It started at breakfast. Rogue made some crack about the hot water going out again, and I told him if he wanted reliable plumbing, he should have picked a place to live that wasn’t a dead mall. He looked at me for a second, rolled his eyes, and went back to his food.
Then there was a trade meeting with a supplier from the north corridor. The guy was ten minutes late and brought the wrong information, both fixable problems, both things I’d normally handle with a conversation and a correction. Instead, I was a dick and made him stand there while I recounted everything in front of him, making sure he understood that his count couldn’t be trusted. He left with the deal intact but his pride gutted. I knew it while I was doing it.
Then the kid in the supply room, young guy, late teens. I think his name is Cal. Maybe not. His inventory was off bytwelve units out of four hundred, a three percent error that meant absolutely nothing, and I took him apart over it with a full dressing down. He stood there with his clipboard and flinched. Actually flinched, like he thought I might hit him.
That’s when I told myself to chill the fuck out. I don’t make people flinch. That’s not who I am.
I’m hard, it’s true and I expect things done right. But I don’t bully people and I don’t take my shit out on kids just trying to do their jobs.
Except apparently today, I do.
I sent him off to fix the count. He walked away fast, the way you walk away from someone you don’t want to be near. I stood in the supply room alone thinking about being an asshole.
I’ve got a problem I can’t solve because this isn’t something I can fix.
The evidence, Vi’s papers, is what it is. I read it and have accepted it. Renner was clean. The Rot sits on stolen ground. Those are facts now, and I’m not a man who argues with facts. What’s done is done. I’m not going to sit around feeling sorry for myself about being proven wrong.
But accepting facts and knowing what to do with them are two different things. I’ve accepted that the ground under us is as tainted as the rest of Rothwell. Great. Now what? Do I tell Armen and Rogue? Do I tell Vi? Do I announce it to the whole Rot? And then what? We pack up and leave? We stay and pretend it doesn’t matter? We burn the papers and act like I never read them?
None of those options work.
And then there’s Vi.
Vi, who I’ve been avoiding for almost a week. Vi, who handed me the papers and walked away. Vi, who heard about my mother and said “Dorothy” like she knows the woman.
Vi, whose body I can’t stop thinking about. Who I can smell from twenty feet away in a corridor. Who walks past me, and every cell in my body turns toward her. I have to physically override the impulse to reach out, grab her, put my mouth on hers, and stop pretending I’m doing anything other than wanting her every minute of every day.
I’m losing my shit here.
I need to talk to her. I know that. It’s not complicated. Walk up to her. Open my mouth. Say the things.You were right. Your father was clean. I should have listened.That’s it. Three sentences. A child could do it.
I fucking can’t.
It’s not like I’m choosing not to. I get as far as imagining myself standing in front of her. Then my brain hits a wall and the words scatter, and I end up walking the other direction and being an asshole to someone who doesn’t deserve it.
That’s what today has been. Me bouncing off the conversation I need to have with Vi and taking the impact out on everyone else.
I’m walking the Rot, the afternoon light through the dirty skylights making everything look yellow and tired. A couple of Rotters pass me, going the other way and give me space. More space than usual. Word has gotten around.Sting’s in a mood. Stay clear.
Good. Fine.
Actually, it’s not fine. I don’t want to be the guy people avoid. That’s not the leader I set out to be. Armen doesn’t make people avoid him. Rogue sure as hell doesn’t. The three of us work because we’re different—Armen is steady, Rogue is warm, and I’m precise. Precise is useful. Mean is not. And I’ve been mean today and I know the difference.
