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I sit there blinking for a minute, dripping bubbles off my bent elbow, my mouth open, my head feeling a little light.
When I get my bearings, I start shrieking. I don’t even mean to. It’s what my body does instinctively. Make noise. Make music.
I pull myself out of the tub and dry my hand and then the phone. Still naked, bubble-soaked and laughing, I flop down on my bed and dial Jamie.
She answers, “Hey, you.”
With no prior notice, my mouth opens and a squeal peals out.
BARRETT
“Well…let’s see. Where is it? Hmm.”
The woman’s cheeks flush slightly as she rifles through her massive, purple purse. She makes a clucking sound to fill the silence, even though it isn’t—silent. A cool breeze drifts through the forest, tousling the pine needles, clicking fallen leaves together in a gentle autumn song that she can’t hear because her heart is likely pounding in her ears.
I fold my arms. “No rush.” My tone is easy but my stance says otherwise. Intentional. It’s automatic. And dickish, I realize as I watch her struggle with her monster purse. Controlling people begins with putting them off balance, that first step on the road to making them beholden to you. I don’t need to do that, though, do I? Not now that I’ve gotten what I wanted.
I unfold my arms and pull my phone out of my pants pocket. I tilt my head down and look at the screen, holding my right eye open for a long second while the phone’s OS reads and registers my retina. The screen flares from black to blue a millisecond later.
I’m hoping to pass for just a normal guy and take the pressure off my jittery realtor, but as I hold the phone in front of me, I realize I’m not sure what it is that normal guys are doing when I see them fucking with their phones. I need to get a normal phone. Onto which I can download something normal. Angry Birds? Breck played that sometimes.
The memory bumps the shard of pain embedded in my chest up somewhere between my sternum and my throat.
I use my imposter iPhone to take some pictures of Ms. Pryce’s gray, high-heeled boots. The phone is still and silent. Unlike an actual iPhone, it can hold millions of images. It gives no indication that it’s taking them. If left alone for enough hours, the phone will activate its own camera and begin sending images to headquarters. Of course, there’s no emergency right now. But taking pictures of my realtor while she assumes I’m playing games alleviates my strange anxiety.
Anxiety is what it is, I’ve realized: the weird feeling in my stomach and the elevated pulse. For the last couple of months, I thought it must be normal. Something I’d just failed to notice while I risked my life in war zones. Now I’m not so sure.
“Ugh.” She exhales, puffing out her cheeks. “I need to organize this crazy thing.”
“Take your time. I’m checking work email,” I lie.
I spent the early morning turning up the charm for one Ms. Mallorie Pryce, a 29-year-old divorcee with C-cup tits, a little too much lipstick, and the kind of bright white smile you only see in first-world countries. She wears her blonde hair in a pretty bun. As she fumbles with her megapurse, a strand escapes and hangs down by her face. With a half-curled hand, she pushes it away. Her tension feels corporeal between us, despite the beauty of the wooded clearing where we stand under a gray sky.
Finally, she exhales loudly and pulls a key ring from her bag.
“Here we go.” She gives me a smile that panders with its stiff width and apologetic eyes. “There you are, Mr. Drake.” She holds the key ring out, its trio of keys dangling. I slide my phone into my pocket and take it, wrapping it in my fist.
“Thank you, Mallorie. I appreciate this.”
“Hey, no problem.” She holds out her arms, over-emphasizing her agreeability. Because, even as I’m trying to act “normal,” I’m making her uncomfortable. Not enough so that she consciously notices. (In fact, she thinks she likes me; I know because I listened to the phone call she made from her car this morning as she left the showing). Rather, just enough so she’s more pliant than she’d be with someone else. Just enough to make her want to bend the rules for me.
“When I asked Mr. Haywood, he didn’t have a problem with it,” she continues. “His bank expedited the transfer of the cash so it’s all in his account now, safe and sound.” She winks. “He didn’t plan to go into the house again, so why couldn’t you go ahead and get the key?”
Her tone is soft and understanding, as if she’s advocating for me. When I don’t return her friendly smile quite fast enough, hers falters, her plump lips pinching nervously. She smiles again to cover her anxiety.
“The closing should be sometime in the next four to six weeks. Until then, he doesn’t want to deal with rent. He’s happy knowing the sale went through, with no harm to the bear place next door. You know that was an issue,” she says with one eyebrow arched.
I nod.
“Don’t worry about her, though.” She lowers her voice, as if the woman next door can hear her across the 340 yards between our properties. “The bears are in a very secure enclosure, like I told you earlier. With your background, I’m sure you could handle yourself either way.” She winks again and gives a fake laugh.
I smile, hoping to project a tranquil, slightly grateful expression that will prompt her to get going.
“You know, Gwenna White…she keeps to herself.” She glances over her shoulder, at the trees. “She got hurt sometime back. No one really knows the details, but she has a limp, and…some, well, facial…differences. When she smiles…”
I feel the smile slip off my own face.
“Very pretty woman, though. And very nice.” Again, the soothing tone. Slightly patronizing, really, not that I give two fucks.
