“Shit, I’m sorry.” Lincoln scurried over to help, only to cause the optical turnstile to flash red and emit a high-pitched intruder wail. This just kept getting worse, and he couldn’t figure out how to make it better. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he said, face burning with embarrassment.
His humiliation was met with an attractive laugh and equally attractive face. The man couldn’t be more than thirty despite his gray hair. “You stay over there,” he said, directing Lincoln back behind the security pylon.
Hands raised, Lincoln stood and reversed two steps, out of the angry Cylon pylon’s range.
The stranger’s blue eyes darted to Lincoln’s left hand. “Of course,” he muttered as he gathered his phone and scattered files.
“‘Of course’ what?”
The man stood, passed through the security gate without incident, and plopped the messy stack of folders on the reception desk. “Two new-to-town hot guys show up the same week and of course you’re married to each other.” He flicked his own bare left ring finger. “Other one had a ring to match.”
Lincoln lowered his hands and glanced at the silver band on his ring finger. He’d thought it simple last night, but he supposed the braided design wasn’t a typical band. Why had Carter picked something so intricate for their cover? Why not a plain band? Maybe this was just what the Bureau had available? He ran his thumb over the band. No, he didn’t think so.
“So, you’re the other Mr. Polk?” the stranger said, snapping Lincoln out of his thoughts.
And snapping him into his cover. “I am.” He extended his hand. “Lincoln Polk.”
“Jeremiah Kline,” the man said, returning the handshake. “And please forgive my rudeness. Little Kline is just disappointed. Doubly so.”
“Little Kline?”
Jeremiah pointed down, at his cock.
Lincoln half choked, half chuckled.
“Sorry, inappropriate, I know.” He shrugged, not seeming sorry at all. “I have no filter.”
Lincoln cleared his throat and laughed. He’d seen his fair share of characters at Quantico, but this town was like the kooky-sitcom gift that kept on giving. Its current present, a suspender-wearing student hipster. “Good to know.”
“I really am glad you’re here,” Jeremiah said. “I’ve been trying to manage the archives since Harry passed, but I’m just a grad student. I know some about being an archivist but not enough to manage a collection this size. It’s overwhelming.”
A pang of guilt snaked through Lincoln. He’d likely be gone in a week, maybe two, and Big Kline would return to being overwhelmed.
“Oh shit,” Jeremiah said. “What’s that expression for? Are you going to quit already?” He folded his hands as if in prayer. “Please don’t.”
“Just sorry I couldn’t get here earlier,” Lincoln replied, hoping Jeremiah bought it. “It’s probably a lot.”
“A lot a lot.” He tilted his head toward the hallway he’d appeared from. “Let me show you.”
Lincoln followed him back through the pylons, which erupted in anger again. So much for tailgating.
“Fuck, I hate these things,” Jeremiah said. “Let me get you a badge.” He circled behind the reception desk, punched in numbers on a beeping keypad, and opened a below-counter safe or drawer that Lincoln couldn’t see from where he stood. Jeremiah tossed a badge over the desk to Lincoln.
Lincoln slid his bag around from where it had drifted back to his side and clipped the badge to his belt. “Do I need the badge to get into the main part of the library too?” There was another set of turnstiles on the other side of the reception desk.
“Yeah, though I have those turned off until the students come back. I can do that for those. Not these.”
Lincoln passed through without incident finally.
Take that, you fucking Cylons.
“And these go to? The archives?”
Jeremiah, arms full of files again, directed him around the corner to the elevators. He juggled the stack so he could point at the buttons. “Up to the offices, down to the archives.”
“Dungeon?”
“Dungeon,” he said with a grin. “Shall we?”
