by Sarah Noffke
“Ren, you tripped him?” Trey says, throwing down the report on his orderly desk. His voice is even although I sense the impatience in him. It’s the effect I continuously have on the usually Zen Trey Underwood. I switch my gaze to the Buddha statue that rests on his intricately carved desk. This furniture in his office has always looked out of place inside the stainless steel Institute which has motorized doors and enough technology to launch the Earth out of the Galaxy.
“You asked me to implement a stall technique,” I say, looking directly at Trey. He wears his hair similar to mine, but his is full of silver and some remaining blond, whereas I hardly have any gray. I can’t boast since I gave Trey most of those silver hairs.
“I said to get his attention, like strike up a conversation,” he says.
“Trey, you know I don’t do conversation. It’s in my contract.”
Trey rests both his hands on the table as he pulls in a breath. “Well, you failed that mission,” he says, shaking his head.
“Tell me, when the fuck did I become some traffic warden?” I say.
“Ren—” Trey says, his voice calm, probably in an effort to disarm me.
“No, in the last three months you’ve given me shit cases. Saving little girls from busting their knees and helping blokes to get jobs inside of private corporations. I get that you’ve employed a lemur in my old position but this is getting ridiculous,” I say, spit flicking out of my mouth from my growing temper.
John Something-or-Another was given my old position as the Head Strategist when I asked for a demotion. Now he decides how interventions happen when we receive the news reports from the clairvoyants. He uses the resources at his disposal to prevent accidents or major tragedies, or to create huge wins for all of humankind. The jobs are tiny, creating small ripples, and also huge, creating major tsunamis. The Head Strategist has to have a holistic view to be successful. However, Mr. What’s-His-Face is a fucking idiot. He thinks a shiny degree means he can give me orders which are wrong and a huge waste of my abilities. And he does all this while pushing up his glasses on the bony ridge of his nose and making snorting sounds. I quit taking orders from him on my second case. Now I receive my reports from his boss who is also my old friend, Trey Underwood. Well, my only friend really. I also listen to his recommendations on how to proceed, but I rarely take the advice. That was the agreement or otherwise I’d quit, and Trey was as likely to allow that as to give the Lucidite Institute back over to its original owners, the U.S. Government.
“Ren, you may not see this, but the people you help are important. The work you’re doing matters. The guy you helped get that position in that corporation was a better option than the reality foretold. He’s going to instigate change. And the people you save are cared about by others,” Trey says. I’ve heard this speech before. It’s past getting boring. Now it’s downright irritating. Yeah, yeah, people matter. I recently reluctantly admitted this when a bomb in the Underground blew up a bunch of people. One of them was my only other friend, Jane. God likes to take out friends of mine though. It’s a wonder Trey’s heart is still beating. And I do get what he’s going on about, that a person matters to another and that should be reason enough to save them. But I want to save a bloody lot of them, not just some old grandmum who is past her expiration date.
I impatiently tap my perfectly manicured nails on the surface of the desk. “I get that I didn’t handle the Group X case like you wanted, but enough is enough. Stop punishing me with lousy cases,” I finally say.
“Ren, you had Antonio’s soldiers shoot him in the head. That was directly against my orders,” Trey says and now his mouth is tight. He’s almost angry with me.
I shrug, like we’re discussing paint swatches. “You told me to stop him from another terrorist attack.”
“And I also said to bring Antonio in. We needed to question him. We needed to see why he had so many resources and so much power. Why he was bent on so much destruction. Now we won’t ever know,” Trey says and suddenly he sounds tired. The guy works nonstop and worries incessantly. It shows in the lines on his face. Maybe I should tell him.
I sigh. “I cut off the head to the beast. What else do you want?”
Trey shakes his head. “I want to understand. The news reporters can’t see everything. What if Antonio was part of something bigger?”
Antonio was a half man, half gorilla who ran a terrorist organization called Group X. Trey wants to understand the motivation behind a bunch of people who spread anarchy and hate, but that’s a worthless effort. Some people are just bent on destruction. And Antonio was better at it than most. His attacks overwhelmed the news reporters. Nothing else came in during the time that he reigned.
“Do you see mass bombings happening around the world, Trey? No? Are there sniper attacks going off in every major tourist attraction in the U.S.? No? Well, then I think I did my job. I got rid of the baddie. You’re fucking welcome,” I say, lacing my arms in front of my chest and sitting back casually. “Now take me off probation and give me a real case, one where I can use my damn abilities.”
Trey blinks at me slowly. He’s deliberating. Something shifts on his face but he knows I see it and that’s why he drops his eyes to the desk. “The Group X case isn’t why you’ve been getting level one assignments.”
I narrow my eyes at him, flare my nostrils. “What?” I say in one long growl.
“Ren, your physical exams have been showing a growing concern.”
Each month, everyone employed at the Institute goes through a quick exam. Blood is withdrawn. Vitals checked. I’ve been doing it for almost two decades. It’s never been a concern for me. “Why wasn’t I made aware of this?” I say, sitting forward.
“I figured I could make changes to your workload, and then along with your new relationship status, we’d see natural changes,” he says.
Yes, this is the “Trey Underwood” method. He employs a Head Strategist, but he’s really the wizard behind the curtain. I’ve always known he was “taking care” of all of us, ensuring we had what we needed to flourish and perform. “So you’ve been withholding important medical results from me?” I say.
“I’ve been keeping them, trying to help you plan a solution,” he says.
“I can’t find a fucking solution if I don’t know there’s a problem, Trey!” I yell, feeling my voice plug my throat, seeking to burst it.
“That’s just the reason I didn’t tell you about this. I knew you’d either be too flippant about it or too stressed. And I’ve been trying to naturally ease your tension, hence the reason for the level one assignments,” Trey says, looking suddenly more weighted.
I slam my hand on the desk and tap my fingers, but now with a menace behind the movement. Each tap is a part of a Morse code of threats and by the look Trey is giving my hand, he knows it. “Tell me what’s going on,” I say.
Trey holds up his palms in surrender, his eyes meeting mine. “Well, since the decreased workload and your social status haven’t fixed the problem, I’m obligated to share this now.”
I don’t respond with words, but rather just growl. He almost smiles.
“Ren, you have, and have had for a few months now, stage two hypertension.”
Air rushes out of me as I slap my hand against my knee and release a loud laugh. “Oh, you old son-of-a-bitch, I thought I had something serious.”
Trey blinks at me impassively. “Ren, that is serious. Did you hear me? You have stage two—”
“Yeah, I think I’ll add it to my resume. It makes me sound smarter. And I’ll be updating my nonexistent resume now, since I’m quitting. There’s no way I’m working for someone who withholds my medical information from me. I’m subtly referring to you, Trey…or would you rather I call you God?”
He tilts his head and gives me that “why can’t you ever be serious” look. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to create extra stress,” he begins. “Your medical tests had just come back with
the spike in your blood pressure. I was going to make recommendations, but then Dahlia reentered your life and you took a job as an agent. I thought it would naturally take care of itself.”
“But it didn’t…” I say, tucking my chin and regarding him under my red eyebrows.
“No,” Trey says at once. “It’s gotten worse based on your last evaluation.” His eyes are on a folder, which no doubt has all of my exams in it since I started at the Lucidite Institute some nineteen years ago.
“So that’s the reason for the bullshit cases,” I say, throwing my hands in the air, piecing together why I’ve been dealing with pesky assignments for three months.
“Ren, this is a big deal. You’re strong as a Dream Traveler, but stress can kill anyone at any age. And you have to know that I can’t risk losing you,” Trey says, that always sincere look in his eyes. It’s quite endearing.
“Is this when you tell me you have a secret crush on me and you’ve sent an agent to take Dahlia out, so we can be together…finally?”
He blows out a breath. Another look that says, “for once be serious.”
“It’s not going to work between you and me. I’ve never liked blonds, you know,” I say, with a wicked smirk.
“This is when I tell you that you have to try some anger management, Ren,” Trey says, not giving me the scowl I deserve. Maybe if I make one more homosexual statement he’ll grimace a bit. “Your problem isn’t diet. Your tests prove that. It’s stress. You allow the world to get to you and it’s going to take a toll on your heart.”
“Can I really help it that the world is full of a bunch of wankers who have nothing better to do than intersect my path all bloody day long?” I say.
“Ren, how you respond to people will dictate your overall health,” he says.
“Oh dear God, are you asking me to be nice? Because we made a deal, all those years ago. You told me I didn’t have to be—”
“Ren…” Trey says, cutting me off. “I’m telling you that if you want anything more than a level one case then you better get yourself in check. I’m not signing off on anything until your blood pressure is normal.”
Even in this moment I can feel my blood pounding in my veins. It has been like this for months, waking me out of my dream travels. I thought it was all the sex, but apparently it’s all the incredibly stupid people, slowly giving me congestive heart failure. I’ve spent all these years saving the human race and this is the thanks I get.
“What I think you need is to employ a few strategies,” Trey continues. He’s in his element now. “Save some needy soul” mode, except I’ve never liked the idea of being saved. I’ve said that before, and it’s still true. “I’m confident if you try a few things it will have the right results,” he says.
“Which are?” I say, sensing this is going to involve some Zen bullshit.
“Well, medicine would be the first place to start. I should have had you on it when the problem first arose, but like I said, I was hoping it would go away naturally,” Trey says.
“Meds?” I say, rolling the word around on my tongue. I guess I could take a pill every day. Makes me feel old, but I am in my mid-forties, so maybe I am.
“Yes, and then may I also suggest you try yoga,” Trey says.
“And, Trey, may I suggest that you fuck yourself,” I say. “The only way I’m doing down dog is if I’m giving it to Dahlia.”
Trey actually rolls his eyes at this, but gives no other indication of frustration. “Well, if you won’t adopt a stress release technique then I’m going to order that you see the Institute’s therapist. I think that talking about your stresses would help.”
“A shrink?” I say. “You want me to spout my problems to some bloke with credentials? Are you insured against such things, because the last guy I saw in a therapy session is now in a padded cell.”
I can tell Trey wants to shake his head at me. Instead he says, “Dr. Raydon is one of the best. I trust he can help you find ways to combat your anger, which is what this is really about. You have an anger management problem.”
“Anger management problem?” I pull forward at lightning speed, slam my fist on the desk, and narrow my eyes at Trey. “Fuck you! My only problem is that I have nothing better to do than hang out in this hell hole with you.”
A smile cracks on Trey’s thin lips first. I’m grateful when it surfaces because I’m having trouble keeping my own smirk hidden. Trey then bursts into an easy laugh. He’s the only man besides my old buddy Jimmy who I ever laughed with. I still miss that bloody bastard every single day.
Chapter Three
My nostrils pinch when I enter the house. This is followed by three consecutive sneezes. Damn the stupid air fresheners in this place. On the way through the corridor to the study I sneeze five more times. The door squeaks when I open it to find the only piece of furniture in this mansion that doesn’t make me feel like a pretentious American.
“Come here, lovely,” I say to the worn plaid armchair. It doesn’t move so I walk until I’m close enough to throw myself down into it. This chair is the only thing Dahlia allowed me to move into her house. She said my stuff was too masculine. God-fucking-forbid I have manly tastes. At least I’m not allergic to my stuff. Her drapes and furniture are swathed in floral scents like she’s trying to convince herself she’s a pixie living in a bloody garden. She’s actually a pop star living in Santa Monica. I rub my hands over the frayed fabric on the arm of the chair. “You’re the only one who gets me,” I say to the furniture.
“You’re talking to yourself again,” Dahlia says, leaning into the entryway. By the looks of the fitted coat she’s wearing she just got home too. I never know when to expect her. I guess I could ask but I like being surprised.
“I’m not talking to myself. I’m talking to the chair,” I say, giving her a sly smile. She’s probably been working for twelve hours and still she looks fresh with her bright complexion and silky dark brown hair lying over one shoulder.
“Oh, well in that case, that’s not weird at all,” she says.
“Can we get that perfume out of the house?” I say, my eyes watering from a sneeze threatening to rip out of me again. I press it away and shake my head.
“No, we can’t. I told you, sneezing is good for you, Ren,” Dahlia says with an amused smile. “It keeps you humble.”
“Good thing you went into show business and not medical science,” I say. I’ve been living with Dahlia since that first night I came back to her after I abandoned her over eighteen years ago. Apparently I’m still in the dog house and that’s the reason she’s getting her way on every-bloody-thing.
“I’m starving. Follow me to the kitchen,” she says and then pivots at once and trots off.
I roll my eyes, but peel myself out of the chair and trudge after her. “Slaves held in work camps are starving. Crash victims who are stranded in deep snow are starving. I’m guessing you’re probably just slightly hungry. What’s it been, eight hours since you ate?”
“Nine,” Dahlia says as she pulls off her jacket and tosses it on a claw-footed chair in the corridor. She’s wearing that black dress. The one that’s too short, too tight, and too low cut.
“I thought I told you that wasn’t appropriate to wear outside the house,” I say, unable to keep the mischief out of my voice. “I’m pretty certain I forbade it.”
“And I believe I told you that you’re not my daddy,” Dahlia says and swings around, halting with her hands fixed on her narrow hips. She’s also suppressing a playful grin.
I don’t stop until I’m two inches from her and then I gaze down, giving her a chastising look. I don’t say a word. Dahlia is expecting a crafty retort, but I know what my eyes will do to her if I stay focused.
Right on schedule she softens a bit. Then Dahlia grabs my tie, tugging it slightly. “Oh, fine. If you think this dress is too provocative then I’ll save it just for you.”
I keep my eyes pinned down at her. Playfully s
he slaps me on the chest and pulls again at my tie, encouraging me down lower as she tucks her chin to the side. I allow it, not stopping until my lips are almost touching her cheek.
“I missed you, Ren,” Dahlia says, sliding her arms around my neck.
“I know, how could you not?” I say, kissing her jawline twice before finding her ear and gliding my nose across her lobe.
“Didn’t you miss me?” she says between indulgent breaths.
“Didn’t realize you were gone,” I say and run my mouth down her neck. Her perfume doesn’t make me sneeze. It does something else to me entirely. My hands are on Dahlia’s hips when she pushes me back, turns, and strides off for the kitchen, her steps a little impatient.
She pulls the double doors of the pantry back and stares into the massive closet with a curious look. “Are you hungry?” she says and disappears into the dark space. I wait until she resurfaces with a bag of pretzels.
“Not if you’re cooking,” I say, eyeing the bag like it’s rubbish.
When she opens the bag it makes a small “pop” sound. Then she sticks her nose into it, inhaling the smell of salt. “How was your day?” Dahlia says and pulls out a pretzel.
I yawn. “Fine. I saved an old bag from death, killed a guy who probably deserved it, oh, and I forgot to look at those samples you left out for me,” I say, in one long bored statement.
“What? Are you serious, Ren?” she says, dropping the pretzel back in the bag, a look of horror on her face.
“I know. I know. But you knew what kind of man I was when you took me in,” I say, ready for the explosion.
“A forgetful jerk who can’t do the simplest thing, that’s who you are,” she says, her scowl deepening. “I’ve been asking you to look at those flooring samples for a month. If you want a say in how this house looks then you’ve got to put in the effort.”
