“It’s a long flight, asshole,” he said. “How about you don’t bust my balls, okay?”
I took pity on him. “Ugh. Fine. This is going to be one boring trip,” I joked.
Dan got up, presumably to use the bathroom, and just as he returned, my phone chimed with a text.
“Oh, great,” he said from behind me. “What’s it going to be this time? We gotta grind up vitamins and rub them all over the cheese?”
He leaned an arm on my headrest and bent down, eager to see Quinn’s next edict.
I opened the text.
“Ahhgghh!” we both yelled, rearing back.
It wasn’t an edict and it wasn’t from Quinn.
It was a dick.
Full frame of cock, balls, and pubes.
I jerked the phone away and laid it screen-side down on the seat. Fuck my life. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, the sting of mortification slapping me across the face. Dan, if you wanted to get technical, was my boss. A boss. We joked and had an informal relationship, but dick pics in his face was a bit too informal, if you asked me.
I wouldn’t put it past some of my friends and acquaintances to send dick pics, but they wouldn’t be sending them to me. Likely, I was simply an accidental recipient. Friend or not, accident or not, I was going to tear them up just for the embarrassment. It was beside the point that the cock in question was impressively large. I didn’t appreciate it in this circumstance.
As I lifted the phone, careful not to flash the sausage at Dan, he said, “Well that will teach me not to read over anyone’s shoulder again, eh?”
I glanced at the sender information. It wasn’t a saved contact and a number I didn’t recognize. I did also give the picture a thorough examination, you know, in case I recognized it. I didn’t.
“It’s a wrong number,” I said, heat increasing in my face. “I don’t know this person.”
Dan, facing forward, avoiding eye contact, shook his head. “Hey, you don’t have to explain anything.”
“I’m serious,” I insisted. I got the feeling he didn’t believe me, and I wanted him to know I didn’t want or encourage random dicks popping up at four PM on a workday.
“Yeah, no, I know,” he said, turning toward me. “What I mean is, it doesn’t matter. That’s your b—” He halted mid-sentence, his face split into a joyful, radiantly happy smile. “Hold up. Are you blushing?” he asked. “Ho-ly shit, you are.”
I closed my eyes.
“Oooh!” he hooted. “This is the best day of my life.”
Deciding to ignore his chuckling, I tapped out a reply to Mr. Pushy Penis.
ME: You have the wrong number and you need to groom. Tidy that shit up.
“You know what this is, Steven?”
“Hmm?” I asked absently, my phone chiming with a reply.
“You thought you were being funny before, bustin’ my balls…”
I opened the message.
UNKNOWN: We’re going to be friends, Steven. Don’t block my number again.
King. My ears buzzed and it was a wonder I heard Dan’s words.
“…but you just got slapped by Karma.”
Chapter Twelve
*DKM*
Wednesday, I arrived at the gym after my shift for leg day. In the summer, I preferred to do my cardio outside as much as possible, but I had to utilize the gym when I needed to lift. Just as I started step-ups, my phone chimed with a text.
STEVEN: Hey, DKM. I can’t sleep and feel like a chat. Want to talk?
I hurriedly typed my reply.
ME: Sure. Give me 5 minutes?
In the lobby, I approached the desk attendant. “Hi, I need to make a call for an emergency consultation, is there any chance you have an empty room I could use?”
The guy was at the desk regularly and I knew he’d seen me in my scrubs before, so I figured I could possibly get away with my lie.
“Sure,” he agreed easily. “The daycare room is closed tonight because Lena is out sick. I’ll unlock it for you.”
“Thank you.”
He led me into the daycare room and flipped on the light. “Take as long as you need, Doc.”
I smiled, not in the least repentant for my lie. I found the only chair in the room that was made for an adult and sat down.
ME: I can talk. Should I call you?
My phone rang almost immediately, and my heart kicked up in anticipation.
“Hello?”
“DKM, did I bug you at work? What time is it there?” Steven asked. He sounded subdued, tired.
“I’m at the gym, so it’s fine. I think it’s like a quarter to six,” I checked my watch. 5:48. “What time is it there?” I asked.
“I don’t even know. Late. After midnight. I can’t sleep, my rhythm is off.” He yawned quietly. “Friday is going to suck. Just when I’m accustomed to German time, I’ll have to go back to normal. It’s the only thing I hate about traveling.”
I wanted him to tell me more about his work, so I asked, “Do you have to travel often?”
“A bit. We have a lot of business in the Midwest, but many of our newer clients are overseas, so I get to travel mostly when we’re courting new or prospective clients.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m the numbers guy,” he said, offhandedly. I got the feeling he didn’t really want to talk about it, but I was interested, so I pressed on.
“What does that mean, ‘the numbers guy?’ Are you an accountant or something?”
“I’m VP of Financial Operations.” He paused but seemed to sense I was poised to ask more questions, so he added, “With the exception of my title, I’m legally required to keep my trap shut about my specific duties and company services. I can only tell you what information is available on our website.” There was a hint of apology in his voice, as if he didn’t want me to be insulted that he couldn’t elaborate. I wasn’t bothered by it in the least. I was bound by confidentiality laws every day, so I understood.
“Okay, so what’s the website say? What’s the company?”
“Cipher Systems. We do surveillance, physical and cybersecurity for corporations. In rare cases, we’ll do personal detail, but that’s not what we specialize in. You won’t find that on the website, but it’s something you already know, after all.”
“I do?” I asked confused. I didn’t know anything about his job and couldn’t understand how he figured I did. “You’re talking about bodyguards, right?”
“Um, yeah,” he answered hesitantly. “Like Nico, for example. He’s one of our few clients with personal detail.”
“Nico,” I said flatly. I knew about Nico’s need for a security detail and didn’t enjoy thinking about it. A thought struck me. “Wait. Was that guy with Elizabeth one of yours?”
“I had to open my big mouth,” he muttered softly. Then, louder, he said, “Yes, sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I know it’s probably unpleasant for you to think about. Elizabeth told me what happened with you and the Fancy Stalker.”
I grimaced. Fancy Stalker was Elizabeth’s flippant, cutesy name for the woman who’d attacked her, and I hated it.
“Well done, though,” Steven continued. “You saved the day.”
Without thinking, I emitted a disgusted scoff. I’d once been flippant about the reality of the situation, too. I’d arrogantly thought the presence of a bodyguard was somehow a power play by Nico in response to me. The timing had been convenient, after all. He’d shown up at the hospital, sized me up, then practically pissed on Elizabeth’s leg right there in the CRU. Before I knew it, she had a bodyguard.
Total. Power. Play.
I hadn’t imagined Elizabeth was in any real danger. The media had been a problem. Mostly I thought it was complete bullshit that she was allowing his baggage to infiltrate her life. At the time, she was a resident in a large, downtown hospital. She didn’t have time for bodyguards and paparazzi. The way I saw it, Nico was a detriment to her, professionally. I was sure he, in the long run, would b
e no competition for me.
But I’d been mistaken. The fan that had been causing a ruckus, ended up being an unhinged stalker. The threat had been real, and Nico never needed a power play because Elizabeth hadn’t really wanted me. At least, she hadn’t wanted me in any way that mattered.
Even after she left me at the start of our first date to chase down Nico, I stupidly thought I could talk some sense into her.
I sought her out, intent on telling her what a huge mistake she was making. When I found her in the doctor’s lounge, I had been startled and horrified to find myself facing down the barrel of a handgun.
Normally, I have a very good grasp on time and space during stressful situations. I would go so far as to say my focus was heightened in emergencies. I could be presented with a screaming, flailing gunshot victim, aware of their loved one hovering near, blood-soaked and weeping. Within moments, I could decide what needed to be done. Blood draws, scans, IVs, or surgery. I made rapid-fire plans that saved lives. I did it every day. In the ER, I was a rock.
But that afternoon in the doctor’s lounge, space and time warped and slowed, skipped, and sped. What transpired in less than a minute, felt like an hour of panicked deliberation accompanied by strange gaps.
Elizabeth’s quick action allowed me to gain possession of the gun but being disarmed hadn’t been a deterrent for the woman. She continued her attack on Elizabeth despite my warning and my warning shot into the corner of the lounge. Seeing her rear back to punch Elizabeth in the face spurred me to make the decision to shoot her.
Pain will stop her.
I aimed for her knee, pulled the trigger and felt the kickback. I watched in horror as she pitched to the side from the force of the bullet striking her in the abdomen. Again, time crawled as I saw her fall to her knees.
I missed her knee.
She slumped and collapsed to her side.
I may have killed her.
Elizabeth recovered with amazing speed, tearing off her lab coat and pressing it against the woman’s wound.
Why did I shoot her? I probably should have pistol-whipped her or something.
I looked down at my hand and tested the weight of the revolver. So small. So terrible.
People were in the room with us after that. Elizabeth’s guard, nurses, and physicians—they took control of the situation. I could see the wound in the woman’s side, hear her crying.
At minimum, I perforated her colon.
And I had. The woman was rushed to surgery where a portion of her damaged intestine was removed, and a colostomy was performed.
Her name was Menayda Kazlauskas and my actions meant she was defecating into a bag for the rest of her life.
I didn’t like thinking about Menayda because I didn’t enjoy the self-recrimination I felt. My reflexes and responses hadn’t been working efficiently. I’d made a fear-based, impaired judgment, took action, and caused irreparable harm. It didn’t matter that I saved the day, or managed, despite my ineptitude, to not kill the woman. I knew I’d meant to shoot her leg and missed. I knew that if I’d been thinking clearly, I would have found another way to stop her.
But none of this was Steven’s fault. It wasn’t even Elizabeth or Nico’s. I just couldn’t allow myself to feel good about the outcome. Nor did I want the conversation to move from Steven to me, so I cleared my throat and asked, “Do you like your job?”
He hummed with evident disapproval at my blatant evasion. There was a moment of silence where I wondered if he’d change the subject, wondering if we were at a standoff where neither of us wanted to talk about ourselves. Luckily for me, he capitulated.
“I do. I make a lot more money than I did working for the insurance company, benefits are better, and I get to travel. I’m kept reasonably challenged, which is a very good thing for me. I work alongside a few supremely intelligent, amazing people who I respect. But, the coolest thing about it, honestly, is that in this company, I was able to discover what I’m best at, then given the encouragement and trust to do it the way I saw fit.” His voice dipped low when he said, “It’s like a family. I don’t know where I’d be without it.”
“I’m impressed,” I replied. “Sounds like you have a lot of responsibility.”
Steven laughed, ending his moment of seriousness. “It’s not impressive. I make bottom lines bigger and I do it well. But it’s not like I go into work and save lives or improve the quality of life for dozens of people every single day.”
Realizing he was referring to my work, I felt a burst of pride. Steven liked to be sarcastic sometimes, but he seemed sincere and not at all stingy with his compliments. He made me feel like how I felt mattered to him.
There was a lull in conversation while I wool-gathered, and I realized that if I wanted to keep Steven from hanging up, I needed to open my mouth and say something. So, I did.
“You’re nice.” I shook my head at my own lameness. Ken, you are an idiot.
He let out a huff of a laugh and said, “I have my moments.” Before I could say anything else, he announced, “I did have an actual reason to call you besides insomnia.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I promised Dan—he’s one of my bosses—that I’d dog-sit for him on Saturday. He’s probably going to be working late and I don’t know that I’ll make it to jazz.”
My heart sank. “Dog sitting?” It sounded like a thin excuse and I suspected he just wanted to cancel.
“He’s my neighbor and sometimes I watch Wally if he has to work long hours,” he explained. It was on the tip of my tongue to just say, cool, whatever, bye and end the conversation, but Steven surprised me by asking, “Do you want to hang out with us?”
“At your place?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “We could watch a movie—your choice, obviously, since my movie was last week.”
“I chose the movie last time,” I reminded.
“Pffft. Would you have picked that movie if I hadn’t made you think it would be awesome?”
“Not in a million years,” I said happily.
Steven hooted a laugh. “At least you’re honest. I love that about you.” My smile grew so large, my cheeks and jaw started aching. “So, see? That’s what I mean,” he continued. “I’ll make it up to you by letting you pick. You like Chinese? We’ll order in.”
“Sounds great.”
“It’s a plan, then. Look, I’m going to let you get back to sculpting that bod of yours and I’m going to try to catch some sleep. I’ll talk to you later.”
We said our goodbyes. I hopped out of the chair, did a victory fist-thrust and said, “Fuck yeah!”
The obscenity was loud and felt a bit criminal spoken amongst all the child daycare paraphernalia, but I didn’t care because Steven had just given me the green light.
Dog-sitting, my ass.
Chapter Thirteen
*Steven*
Late Saturday afternoon, Wally and I took a walk around Millennium Park to get a little air and exercise before Ken arrived.
When we returned to the residence, Lawrence, the concierge caught my eye and gestured to me. As I approached his desk he said, “Mr. Thompson, I have the mail that’s been accumulating since your trip.”
I accepted the small stack, issuing him a smile. “Thanks, Larry. I wanted to let you know that I’ll be having a guest in an hour or so. His name is Ken. You can just send him up, okay?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Thompson.”
I started to take a step when Wally whined, attention on Lawrence.
“Oh, Wally! I have something for you, too.” He slapped his forehead and walked out from behind the counter. Wally wagged his tail and started dancing in anticipation for the treat he knew the concierge would give him.
“You’re a good boy, you are,” Lawrence said, kneeling. “How’s about a shake?”
Wally dutifully sat down and offered a paw to the man.
He laughed heartily, enjoying the routine he had with the dog. One treat and several pats and praises later, we made
our way toward the elevator.
My cell rang, Ernesto was calling. Not wanting to trap anyone in the elevator with me while I carried on a conversation, I backed away from the elevator doors and answered the phone.
“So?” I asked without preamble. “How was it?”
I hadn’t heard from Ernesto since the day he and Paulie left for their honeymoon in Arizona. Ernesto was a photographer who worked primarily in fashion. Fashion photography paid well, but Ern’s heart was in nature photography. Their Arizona honeymoon had come about because Paulie was able to give Ern the wedding gift of permits for them to hike the North Coyote Buttes in Vermilion Cliffs National Monument. These permits were hard to come by, but Ernesto had always wanted to photograph the beautiful waves in the Navajo sandstone.
“Oh! Steven, it was breathtaking,” he gushed. “As soon as I saw the waves, I began to weep. Paulie, he too, was so overcome with the majesty of the land, he cried as well.”
I smiled, imagining Paulie, who was, despite being a fashion model on display in magazines and on billboards in all manner of undress, not given to revealing his emotions openly for anyone to see.
“Wow,” I said. “I can’t wait to see the pictures. If Paulie’s crying in front of your guide, then it had to be spectacular.”
“Yes, yes,” he agreed dismissively. “But I wanted to tell you about something. We need to plan a night out because we went to see Paulie’s abuelita yesterday and, you know, she is just a sweetheart, always trying to be so…” He paused. “She just tries to show him that she’s supportive of us. Anyway, she says to Paulie, ‘Come meet my new neighbor he’s a gay, just like you!’”
I laughed, “A gay, huh?”
“Paulie said, ‘Nonna, we don’t have to meet every gay person you come across.’ But she said, ‘No, you will love him! So fun! So interesting!’ And like the good grandsons we are, we went next door and met him.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, suspicion developing.
“He’s forty-one, single, kind of cute. He’s got salt and pepper hair.”
Sticking to the Script: Cipher Office Book #2 Page 8
