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Holy shit.
I stop short after turning a corner. No way. It can’t be. And yet, I truly think it is. I’ve stared at this man’s face in photos so many times, I know his features as well as my own.
It’s Greg Smith aka Angus Wellborn aka The Asshole. He’s here.
I’ve been searching high and low for this fucker for quite some time now. And suddenly, here he is, mere feet away, standing in line for the expert rock wall. And the best part? The gift from Steve Jobs? He’s wearing wireless earbuds. Which means hacking him via Bluetooth will be like taking candy from a baby.
As my heart rate skyrockets, I look around for Hannah, praying she’s nowhere nearby, and thankfully, she’s nowhere to be found. Is it pure coincidence this fucker is here today, or did he somehow know Hannah would be here and came to stalk or harass her? To my knowledge, she didn’t post on social media about her plans for today. And I swept her devices the day after I landed in Seattle, as always, to make sure she hadn’t been hacked or otherwise compromised by this fucker or anyone else—and she was clean.
I take a deep breath. Calm down, Peter. Seattle is a huge city, filled with millions of people, and this asshole’s got a history of living here. Plus, this is a well-publicized party that’s probably right up his alley, given that he fancies himself a fitness enthusiast. Indeed, all logical signs point to this being nothing but a coincidence. Either way, though, I definitely need to take care of business, pronto, and then quickly get Hannah the fuck out of here before she runs into him or vice versa.
I amble toward the guy casually, while nonchalantly swiping into my phone. Quickly, I pull up a Bluetooth scanner that’s loaded onto my phone for opportunities exactly like this one, and then stop about three feet behind my target.
“You like working here?” he asks a pretty staffer in a bright blue “C&C” T-shirt.
“So far, so good,” she says. “We’ve only had training for the past month, but our bosses are super cool, and the entire staff already feels like one big family.”
“Awesome,” the fucker says. “I just applied. Hopefully, I’ll be joining the family soon.”
“Oh my gosh, good luck!” the staffer says.
“I’ve been a personal trainer for years, but recently become obsessed with climbing.”
“It’s addicting, isn’t it?”
The Asshole nods. “This would be my dream job.”
“What’s your name? I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Thanks so much. Sean Goodman.”
“I’m Lena,” she replies. “And you’re up, Sean.” She motions to the towering wall. “Show me what you’ve got.”
As “Sean” gets strapped into a harness, my scanner locks in. Fuck. It’s connected me to three nearby phones, all of them with Bluetooth currently activated, and none of them bearing an identifier that would definitively tell me which one to choose. I swiftly breach all three devices, figuring I’ll sift through my options later and figure out which is his, and then quickly shove my phone into my pocket.
Boom. I got you, motherfucker.
As much as I’d love to stand here and glory in my victory, there’s no time for that. I need to find Hannah and get her the fuck out of here.
I head toward the dance floor and, luckily, find Hannah whooping it up with Sarah. Unless my girlfriend is giving an Oscar-worthy performance, she hasn’t seen The Asshole yet, thank God, and I’m determined to keep it that way.
When I reach Hannah on the dance floor, I tap her shoulder, lean in to be heard above the live music, and tell her I need to leave immediately. “Explosive diarrhea,” I say. “I just came from the bathroom. I’m a ticking time bomb.”
“Oh no. You poor thing. I was wondering where you disappeared off to. Do we have time to say goodbye to—"
“No, no time. I might blow again any minute.”
“Oh dear. I’ll tell Sarah to say our goodbyes to everyone.” She taps Sarah on the shoulder and says something into her ear that makes Sarah grimace and then blow me a kiss. I hold my stomach and make a “yeesh” face, and Sarah gestures as if to say, “Go, go, gooo!” before blowing me another kiss.
As Hannah and I head toward the nearest exit, I tap out a text to Josh, telling him to scrap any application he receives from “Sean Goodman” and to put him on their never-hire list. For good measure, I forward a snapshot of the guy, too. “I’ll explain later,” I write.
We’ve made it. We’re outside in the chilly air, heading straight for Hannah’s car.
“Hang in there, sweetie,” Hannah says, patting my arm. “If you need to stop on the way to my place, let me know.”
“I think I’ll make it there. Sorry to make us leave.”
