“I do.” I bite my lip, still waiting for some kind of fall out. “You’re not upset?”
“Of course not, why would I be?” Laughing, she says, “Milk those guys for every credit they’re worth.”
I grimace at the particular word choice, but… “Not everyone is as open minded about that, which is why I’d like to keep it between us.”
“Of course.” She smiles and then it falters, and her eyes go round. “Oh! No wonder you looked like that after Agan’s little outburst. He’s such an asshole. I do not know whyanyonelikes him.”
I pitch my voice in a mocking tone. “Oh, it’s because his uncle is so important, obviously.”
She snorts and the waiter asks her if she’s okay as he brings our food. Assuring him that she’s fine, we wait until we’re alone again to laugh because, even though it’s not actually funny, we both have the giggles. Mine are no doubt from the lightness I feel being able to actuallytalkto her about this now.
She asks about the logistics and I tell her almost everything.
I don’t tell her that myfavoriteclient is an Opodean… or that I first took him on in that ridiculous, misguided fantasy.
I do tell her about the women I work with and Phantom’s policies to keep us safe.
“Good. If they weren’t looking out for you, I would go down there and make certain of it.”
I’m not sure who I think would win in a fight between the two of them. When I tell her that, we both laugh again.
The lightness of my confession carries me all the way home and when I’m alone again, I pull my comm out… one new message.
I hope your day was better than mine.
I tap out my reply while I wriggle out of my pants.
I think I’d need more information before I’m able to judge.
Someone—
The message appears for a second and then vanishes before I can read it.
[System message: privacy settings breached]
I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound good… and I don’t have a bot in my apartment to ask. Tossing my pants over the back of my desk chair, I sit on my bed and wait.
Sorry, I forgot that my parameters are set to stop me from talking about work.
That’s okay. If you don’t like your job, we definitely don’t need to talk about it.
I almost joke that not everyone can have as nice of playmates as I do… but I don’t think he wants to be reminded I have other clients.
I do like my job.
It is simply not something I’m supposed to talk about.
For more than just my own privacy.
That could mean anything, and I am not about to ask if he works with medical records at the station medical facilities, or is in some kind of personnel department. Whathedoes, doesn’t matter. Instead, I ask,
What are you up to tonight?
I don’t plan on going out again and I don’t need to get anything done—my apartment is the size of a postage stamp—so, I finish getting undressed and snuggle down in bed.
Work.
That’s no good. You’ve been working *all day.*
