There was a beat of silence filled in by a remixed version of a classic Christmas song complete with electronic beats and YouTube sound bites. It was utterly ridiculous, and the longer it went on without either of them progressing this conversation, Holden was convinced he was wasting his time. But then Six’s unreadable mien cracked as he lifted his muscular shoulders in a shrug.
“I’ll text it to you. There’s a main line, but it doesn’t guarantee you’ll get in contact with anyone.”
“That literally makes no sense. Why would there be a main line if it doesn’t lead to anyone?”
“Someone picks up, but that doesn’t mean they’ll help you. That’s not how the Farm works.”
“So how does it work?” When Six just stared at him with those fathomless black eyes, Holden waved an impatient hand. “Just give me the number.”
He watched Six text him the number, nodded in thanks, and stepped out onto the marginally quieter patio. Someone had decorated it with Christmas lights and mistletoe. The absurd song was still penetrating the door and there was enough noise on the street to provide a real distraction, but he tried to shut it out as he waited for someone to pick up. Given it was a Friday evening, it wasn’t the ideal time. But he’d always thought the place operated 24/7. Or at least that had always been his impression as a child.
“Good evening.”
Holden started, having given up on someone answering. “Oh, hello. I know it’s late, but I was hoping you could tell me how to contact a Community member who resides on the property.”
“Is it a new admit? If so—”
“No, no. She’s not a new psy. It’s— I’m Holden Payne. I was hoping to get in touch with my mother.” Silence greeted the declaration, and he cleared his throat. “My mother, Jessica Payne, has resided at the Farm for the past decade. My understanding is she was helping with the day-to-day operations management.” The silence persisted. “I’m sorry, who am I speaking to?”
“Please hold, Mr. Payne.”
“Wha—”
There was a click before he could finish his sentence. The line went silent for so long that he feared he’d been hung up on, but the phone still showed him as being connected. Even so, the wait dragged until he wound up sitting in one of the uncomfortable wicker chairs as two more horrific holiday songs played in their entirety. By the time the line clicked again, Holden had nearly given up with a vow to call back the following morning. Either that, or drive up to the goddamn place himself.
“Hello?”
Holden shot to his feet. “Mother! How are you?”
“Hello, Holden. I’m well.”
I’m well? That was oddly . . . formal.
“It’s been months since we last spoke. I’m hoping you’re more than well. Ecstatic. Extremely busy. Involved in a whirlwind romance with a tortured young psychic from a biker gang.”
“Nonsense, Holden. It’s wrong to suggest I would betray your father.”
Holden’s jaw dropped. “I’m sorry. Who are you and what have you done with Jessie Payne? You know, the lady who birthed me and gave me my sense of humor and sarcasm?”
“It’s fine to have a sense of humor and sarcasm,” she said in the same vacantly . . . calm voice. Like a telemarketer. Or the DJ on an easy-listening station. “But I’ve come to realize sarcasm is often used as a tool to defend myself when I feel insecure. A tool that makes others uncomfortable. And jokes are a weapon to break tension, but they serve only to make people nervous. Your joke about infidelity made me very nervous, Holden.”
“Mother. What the fuck?”
“You shouldn’t swear,” she said. “People may misunderstand and believe your father raised you without respect. I wish you would think before speaking.”
This was surreal. More than surreal. It was completely incomprehensible even as a nightmare. There had never been a point in Holden’s life when he’d expected his mother, the crass young psychic from Shirley, Long Island, to be lecturing him on Stepford manners and appearances. She’d been the one to initiate the infidelity jokes back when he was a preteen. Back when they’d come to realize they were both involved in a loveless relationship with Richard Payne, whose primary concern had always been with the Community.
“I’m going to pretend you don’t sound like a pod person,” he said slowly, “and get right to the meat of why I called.”
“To wish me happy holidays,” she said like a very warm robot on a mission to make apple pie. “How lovely.”
“No. Not so lovely. I’m calling to ask if you’ve heard anything on that end about the fallout from the Beck situation. It seems like the board has people investigating everyone who spent time around her, and I’m starting to worry—”
“Holden . . .”
She sounded so strange. First mellow like one of those guitarists who sat in Union Square all day, and now strained.
“What’s wrong?”
“Holden.”
“Mother, I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I need information. I’m really starting to worry that the Comm is going to cover their asses by blaming me for the disappearances. Why take responsibility for not having checked out one of their inner circle when they could just say me and the other Evo staff are incompetent?” She didn’t answer, and he blew out a frustrated breath. “I just want to know what to expect. Are they trying to find out if we were in on it with her, which is ridiculous, or are they—”
“Holden!”
“Mother!” he said in the same tone. “What the hell is going on? You don’t sound like yourself.”
There was another silence, but this one was punctuated by the start and stop of words. Like she was trying to respond but something was preventing her from finishing a sentence.
“Holden,” she finally said, worn-out and defeated. “Please take care.”
The call ended.
The Farm was a sort of mystery to Holden. He knew its function, but he had no idea how it operated on a day-to-day basis.
As a kid, both his parents had taken him to the Farm during the holidays. They’d have a toy or food drive at the CW along with a large gathering before spending a few days upstate. Later, his father had transitioned it from a family property to a Community space. Even after that transition had begun, Holden mostly remembered it in a positive light.
Psys in need of intense therapy had stayed at the beautiful property, and Holden and his mother had gone there on weekends to check in on how things were running. Well, his mother had checked in while he helped in the kitchen or did another menial job to earn his keep while everyone else did more important things. He’d been enamored by the people who lived and worked on the Farm—people his parents had talked about almost as if they were saints for devoting their lives to others. And, for a time, Holden had wanted to do the same. Until he’d discovered he’d rather devote his life to running after boys.
Later, they’d visited Chase there. He’d always been such an enigma. Instead of running around happily like the other children growing up on the Farm, the children whose parents lived there, he was withdrawn with shifty eyes and a vacant stare.
After Chase moved to the city, Holden’s memories of the place became colored by the resentment of his adolescence, when he’d been remanded to the rambling property for realignment after doing something particularly embarrassing. In most cases, it had been something particularly gay. Fucking the wrong person’s son or getting caught with his pants down at the wrong event. His biggest offense had been at the annual member gala one year—a black-tie affair where members had gathered to discuss the year’s accomplishments and future goals. Seriously pointless since it always amounted to upper-tier psychics patting themselves on the backs about how far the Comm had come in only a couple of decades. So Holden had dipped out . . . with a friend. And they’d been caught jerking each other off in the coatroom.
His father’s henchmen had dragged him off kicking and screaming. He’d sulked the entire car ride up to the Farm, and had cursed e
very human to interact with him during the first few days of his stay. At the time, he’d seen it as an incarceration. After all, he’d been remanded to a room with locked doors in one of the three houses on the property while tutors and Comm counselors came to him in turn. He’d been a prisoner.
But had it really been as dramatic as that? Hadn’t they given him nutritious gourmet meals and a comfortable bed? Hadn’t the grounds been well-kept and beautiful? Or was that just what they’d fed into his head over the weeks and months he was there until he’d internalized it? It was hard to say, so his paranoid thoughts about the strange phone call with his mother were probably unfounded. And yet they persisted through the rest of the night.
He was supposed to be a judge for the costume contest, but all he could think about was his mother. Her voice had been alien and her personality not her own. No quick wit or the sharp tongue he’d inherited. The self-deprecating side of her that came out when she was depressed or anxious hadn’t even reared up. She’d just been a vessel repeating overprotective nonsense about his father and the Community. It made no sense unless she’d been brainwashed or unless . . . someone had been listening.
Holden’s attention strayed from the current contestant in the costume contest—a young man in glittery red leggings and a bow over his crotch—and found Six in the crowd. As usual, he lingered at the back like a sentinel. Blank, silent, and slightly menacing with his ripped muscles and tattoos. Several patrons had so far admitted being both frightened and attracted to him. Holden could relate. Although right now he wasn’t worried about Six’s lumbersexual qualities. He was more interested in what the man knew about the Farm.
Across the crowd, Six stopped glaring at a throuple trying to get out onto the patio and turned to meet Holden’s eyes. It was almost like he could sense the weight of Holden’s stare. He looked up to catch Holden watching him almost every single time. Eerie didn’t begin to describe it.
“Mr. Payne?”
Holden jerked out of his reverie and realized two hundred people were staring at him and waiting for him to judge a costume. He frowned, eyeballing the leggings again, and came to the quick conclusion that there was no way he’d be able to concentrate on the absurdity of this event. Not while his brain was going wild with conspiracy theories.
“Sorry, I need to make a phone call.” Holden ignored the look of disappointment on Elf Boy’s face. He was vaguely recognizable as a third-rate precog who read palms in Greenwich Village between classes at NYU. “Kamryn, can you take over for me?”
Kamryn looked like she’d rather swallow her own tongue, but she pasted on a fake smile and climbed up on the tiny stage. “Suuure.”
“Thanks, love. I owe you.” Holden squeezed her shoulder and then slapped Elf Boy’s ass. “Nice tights.”
The crowd hooted as Holden hopped off the stage and pushed through the swarm of bodies. They pressed in on each other with no regard for personal space. By the time he was face-to-face with Six, Holden was almost positive he was covered in glitter or sequins from the various costumes.
“Do you hit on everyone who comes through that door?”
Holden arched an eyebrow. “Does it bother you?”
“No. It just makes you look like a jackass.”
“Well, don’t sugarcoat it or anything.”
Six went back to scanning the crowd. “People would take you more seriously if you weren’t such a horndog.”
“That’s nice, Sixtus. Unfortunately, I don’t take advice from virgins.” Holden put his hand on one of Six’s big shoulders and guided him backward. “We need to talk.”
Six grabbed Holden’s wrist and squeezed so hard he swore something crunched. “Don’t touch me unless I ask you to.”
“Nice phrasing.” It was tempting to touch him again, but Holden wasn’t convinced extensive teasing wouldn’t result in him having broken bones. “Can we have a normal discussion now?”
“What about? You see I’m working, right?”
“I see you trying to glare various costume-clad queers into submission. But this is serious.” Six looked at him without comment, and Holden sighed. “Listen, I need to talk to you about the Farm. Please?”
Just like earlier, the p-word cracked Six’s hard-ass exterior. Holden wondered if that was all it took to get Six to comply. Without a way for Six to gauge emotions or mood, it was probably difficult to tell whether a sarcastic bastard like Holden was serious or not.
“Let’s go to the patio.”
Holden cut his way through the crowd. Just like before, people grabbed for him along the way. More than one called out a compliment or an invitation.
“They act like you’re a rock star,” Six noted once they were outside again. “No wonder you’re so arrogant.”
“Oh please. I was born arrogant. And they only give a damn about me because of my last name.”
“It’s true, but I didn’t expect you to admit it.”
“Yes, it’s very clear you think little of me.” Holden tried not to take that personally. It was easier since he had bigger fish to fry. “I need information about the Farm, and you’re the only person I can ask.”
“Why don’t you ask your father?”
“Because my father doesn’t trust me.” And I don’t trust him. “And he isn’t there on a regular basis. You were.”
“As a guard.” Six leaned against the door with his arms crossed over his chest. “I have no insight as to how decisions are made about the psys who are held there. I provided security for the facility. That’s it.”
“But that’s what I need to know about.”
“And you think I’ll discuss it with you?” The combination of beard, man bun, and cocked brow made Sixtus look like a condescending hipster. “You may be Richard Payne’s son, but you’re not a staff member. Especially not on the Farm, which is far more secure than the CW.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because the Farm is off-limits to anyone in the outside world. The CW is a front.”
A front. All of these years, Holden had known it had a double purpose, but no one had ever referred to it as . . . a front. A front for what, though? They did take in displaced psychics and guide them. He’d seen it himself. He’d even volunteered there as a kid.
“So you’re telling me you’re unable to give me information about the Farm’s security, the conditions under which people are held, and even how people live?”
“Correct.”
“So, for example, you can’t tell me if, for some reason, residents are . . . closely monitored.”
Six tilted his head against the door and regarded Holden from beneath his long lashes. “Do you have a theory you’re trying to confirm, or are you just spit-balling?”
“Are you going to turn around and report my theories to my father?”
“Would you trust me even if I said that I wouldn’t?”
“Good point.” Holden searched Six’s face for a long moment before sliding closer and bracing his hands on the door on either side of Six. He smiled. “What if we traded?”
Again, Six just stared at him. This beautiful personification of blankness but with burning black eyes.
“What if you answer one measly little question, and I give you something good in return?”
“Money?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of sex.”
“I’d prefer money.”
Holden clenched his jaw. It wasn’t every day he was flat-out rejected, especially by a cyborg. It was putting a serious cramp in his game.
“You admitted you’re a virgin.”
“I didn’t admit a fucking thing,” Six said.
“But you didn’t deny it.” Holden leaned closer. Six’s eyes flicked down to his mouth and back up again. “I could show you what you’ve been missing.”
“Sounds like a bad idea.”
“That’s because you haven’t had someone else get you off before.” It was the perfect time to take Six off guard with a kiss, but Holden hesitated
. He’d seduced dozens of men in the past twenty years of being sexually active, and this was the first time he was nervous about it. His stomach had never knotted up while his breath caught right before a little peck on the lips. But, then again, all those times he’d reached out with his gift to make sure the other person was into it. He’d felt their lust. And Six projected nothing. “Have you ever kissed anyone before, Sixtus?”
Six dropped his big hands onto Holden’s shoulders, but he didn’t push him away. “You need to back up.”
“If you wanted me to back up, you would have shoved me by now. I think you’re intrigued.”
“Think you can manipulate me with sex.” Six laughed dryly, but it sounded forced. “Your father warned me you would try this. He said you’re a player. Someone who uses his charm and looks to con people into doing what he wants. And uses his empath skills to finish the job. But none of it works on me.”
“How do you know I want to manipulate you?” Six’s grip on his shoulders tightened hard enough to be painful, but Holden didn’t back off. He moved so close their chests were pressed together. “Maybe I’m just curious as to how you’d react to having my tongue in your mouth. Or your dick in mine.” Holden ran his fingers along Six’s cheekbone. Six started, clearly unprepared for the light touch. “I bet you have interesting fantasies.”
“I do,” Six said, but his voice was lower. “You don’t speak in them, though.”
“We can find a fun way to shut me up right now.”
Holden pressed their lips together before he could back off this plan. He half expected to be shoved away and for a fist to crash into his face right before the taste of iron bloomed in his mouth, but it didn’t happen. The hands gripping him closed down harder, grinding bone and muscle, but that was the only way Six reacted. At first.
He was initially frozen when their lips brushed, but after one gentle swipe of Holden’s tongue, Six opened his mouth. Shuddering, Holden licked into the wet warmth deeper and more insistently.
A groan muffled against him, low and quickly aborted, but Holden heard it. And he felt the way Six leaned into him. It was barely a response, but it encouraged Holden to pin Six against the door and dive into a hungry kiss. This time, Six was an active participant. Their slicking tongues, frantically moving lips, and a full-body press made it quite clear that Six was into this. His dick was fully rocked up in a way that could not be explained by anything other than arousal for Holden.
Oversight (The Community Book 2) Page 5
