Page 89 of Jonesing for a Spy

Well, that’s a fuck no. Hmmm… Professional speak.

That doesn’t currently fit my goals.

That’s what I thought. Don’t push me. I’ll embed you in the northern Canadian tundra for a two-year recon project. Take the leave. Pretend it’s a gift.

I hear what he’s not saying. I fucked up in his eyes, and he could punish me. Leave is the lesser of the evils he could offer.

Roger that.

I return to the book I’m fake reading and flip the page after making a show of moving my eyes. There’s only one other person in here, but nevertheless, I’m here to be seen.

Mikey’s gonna kill me. And he’s so nice I hate to do this to him. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him though.

Sooooo, Strider and I are giving it a go. I wanted you to have his number.

{Strider Anderson’s contact info}

How the hell am I supposed to tell Charlie? Maybe I won’t. How long do you think it would take him to notice? He’s busy. He’ll never know.

Zipper—Mikey

Congrats, baby sister. May I never again be in the situation like what happened at your house.

You’re gonna want to call first in the future.

Ew. Ugh. Is there brain bleach for thoughts about your sister? Send help.

One day, when you meet a girl you really like…

…

The bubbles dancing are just to screw with him. I crack myself up.

La la la la. Eyes closed. No. Nuh-uh. Not from you. Gag.

I didn’t realize flankers could be so delicate. Do the Red Wolves know?

Don’t make me text your man with all your embarrassing stories.

You wouldn’t!

I have photos too.

Mikey!

He doesn’t respond. And I know what he’s done. I manipulated this play. And I don’t feel an ounce of guilt.

Strider

Dad and I are at lunch, trying to get away from the office after meeting with our attorneys on an emergency basis. Last week for O’Neill. This week for what feels more like a shakedown than an audit.

It’s an awkward silent meal, aside from the constant buzzing of my phone I fight to ignore. Both of us are deep in our thoughts when Chief Clasky moseys into the diner. Our sandwiches are left half-eaten as he scrapes out a chair and falls into a seat at our table.

“Jim.” He extends a hand to Dad before offering the same to me. “Strider.”

We return the gesture, and he places his order as we wait in awkward, screaming silence. When the server has returned with his drink and our refills, he drops his voice so it can’t be heard past our table. “We have no word on O’Neill. I can’t get any information and I’m risking my job if I keep trying.”

Dad stops his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Gene, we’d never expect that.” His gaze swings to me, before returning to his friend. “Don’t push it. You’ve done everything you can do, and we appreciate it.”