Page 120 of Antihero

He gestured for Evan to scan his card at the wall sensor, and then Evan followed him up a stark white corridor. The kilt was ridiculous, with nail pockets, folds, and steampunk chains. It was easy to imagine the sales clerk in a Beverly Hills boutique making the sale, telling DeGrado this was the new look, that he’d be on fashion’s cutting edge.

A dome security camera gleamed on the ceiling, but Evan wasn’t concerned, given the facial-recognition-thwarting hidden pattern of his long-sleeved button-up.

“Want anything? Water, tea, Red Bull, kombucha, espresso? We got one of those machines makes lattes, all that, even the matcha stuff with all the antioxidants.”

“Tea would be great, thank you,” Evan said.

“Detour thisaway.” DeGrado rested a guiding hand on Evan’s shoulder, steered him into a self-serve kitchenette. A tic twitched his left eye. He had a slight overbite he compensated for musculoskeletally with a self-conscious jutting of his lower jaw. “Help yourself.”

Evan busied himself over the tea boxes, pretending to peruse the offerings as he freed a threaded catch inside his shirt cuff.

“How’s the Substack game? You figure out how to monetize your blog okay?”

“Yes,” Evan said, letting one of Joey’s RedLite flash drives slide from his sleeve onto the countertop beside the coffee stir sticks. “Positive sexuality is good business.”

“You know, I’m so happy you said that.” DeGrado came over to Evan, leaning on the counter. His pinkie was an inch from the discarded flash drive with its shiny RedLite logo. “People don’t always get what folks like you and me do. That it’s about freedom.”

Evan dropped a green-tea sachet into his mug and turned for the trash can, drawing DeGrado’s attention with him. “People who are scared of sexuality,” Evan said, “want to control it.”

“Ex-zactly! That’s exactly right.”

Evan dunked the tea bag a few times, standing over the trash can. He scratched his knee through the fabric of his blogger slacks, loosing another flash drive from the tiny pocket he’d sewn in next to his patella. The drive slithered down the front of his leg, easing into view atop the toe of his boot. As he flicked it off, he dropped the tea bag through the swing lid of the trash can, the noise covering the faint clattering of the flash drive onto the tile floor.

He spun around, blocking the drive with his heel, and gestured for the door.

DeGrado led the way out, checking a watch with a face like a hockey puck, inanely large and crowded with subdials. “I’m sorry but I only have about twenty minutes. Frankie’s jet already landed—”

“Frankie?”

“Our CEO. So we have to make sure, you know, everything’s locked down and squared away.”

Two middle-aged women in frumpy dresses passed, offering the boss a nervous grin. They were followed by an older man with a three-piece suit, a dense trimmed beard, and slicked-back hair dyed an unlikely mahogany. DeGrado aimed a finger gun at him: “Need those content-clearance docs for Asia by EOD, buddy. Don’t let me down!”

The man offered a rakish two-finger yes-sir tap of his forehead. DeGrado and Evan kept on. They passed a bathroom door with classic male and female symbols and also a pictogram of a male bending the female over. A rare aberration in the antiseptic corporate design. DeGrado followed Evan’s stare and chuckled. “If you can’t have a sense of humor at work, why bother working?”

“Agree,” Evan said. “Mind if I duck in a sec?”

“Of course. But a warning, brother. No glory holes in the stalls!”

He offered a fist bump in parting.

Evan went inside, set down his mug of tea by the sink, and then dug in his pocket for a few more flash drives. One he left on the counter by the soap dispenser. Another on the floor. A third on the toilet tank lid in the handicap stall.

He washed his hands thoroughly, dumped out the tea—because who ingested anything after it had entered a public bathroom—and exited.

DeGrado grinned big. “All set?”

“All set.”

He ushered Evan around a corner toward his office. “Are you gonna run photographs? With the piece?”

“No.”

“Okay.” DeGrado paused outside his door. “Because if you decide to I can have my press girl get you some headshots. If it’s helpful, ya know, to put a face to the name.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

DeGrado swung inside. The door was hefty, likely soundproofed for midday assignations, no doubt one of many job perks. In contrast to the generic office world they’d left, his suite was a stately pleasure dome. Brass-studded leather armchairs, a curved walnut desk on a raised platform, modern canvases with artless action-painting splashes.