by Jody Wallace
“We have to stop it before law enforcement or the media notice a pattern,” Al added. “We can’t cover up something like that, not with a hundred Lou Lampeys.”
They echoed thoughts and fears I’d already had, so I couldn’t argue. As long as the burnouts only happened to supras doing their jobs, it was industry-related, greed-related, power-related. Transfer those attacks to the personal arena, and it was something else, something a lot more terrifying.
“We’re all in this together,” Yuri said.
“Most of us are,” I pointed out. “Some of us, not so much.” Moles, moles, everywhere, and not a man to trust. “Will there be a prize for the first person to catch the bad guy?”
“How about your contract?” Yuri suggested, and I couldn’t tell if he was joking.
Chapter 19
What Are Friends For?
The news about Adam Donning hit the company hard. On the plus side, everyone was talking about it so it was easy for me to ask questions. Who do you think could have done this? What do you think they want?
On the minus side, the more I dwelled on it, the more my stomach burned like a permanent tequila hangover. I’d had a tequila hangover once—never let it be said I’m incapable of learning lessons—but at least I got to be drunk the night before. Now I just got to worry about life, liberty and the pursuit of the saboteur. Anyone the saboteurs attacked in the future could suffer Adam’s fate. A Baumhauser supra in a coma had been given a grim prognosis.
Since no one had any idea how or why this was happening, we couldn’t protect ourselves. Hysteria didn’t erupt but tensions mounted. The fact the incidents had expanded beyond YuriCorp did cut down on the number of people who wanted to quit, though.
Now they all wanted to move to Canada. Like that would protect them.
When my would-be boyfriend offered to spend the night at my place prior to leaving town, I texted back about how unsettled I was regarding my secret assignment and did he want to brainstorm with me? Suddenly he had to work late. He wouldn’t want me asking his opinion without a post-orgasm power down. There was no way I could sleep with John now, but I couldn’t squeeze a break up into my schedule either. I had a limited number of hours in which to do what I hadn’t been able to do in five months, and it didn’t help that Lou had absorbed me into her picnic preparations. I became very adept at listening for the pitter patter of her Dr. Scholl’s because if I didn’t hide, I’d end up on the other side of Nashville tracking down bulk biodegradable plates.
I couldn’t ask questions about company loyalty and supra burnouts if I were alone in my car, running Lou’s errands.
Sergeant Lampey ambushed me Friday before I could duck into the closest cubicle and pretend to be obscenely busy. Since the closest cubicle was Sheila’s and she’d recently slipped me another “You’re too nosy for your own good” note, my hesitation at using her as cover was my undoing.
“Cleo!” Lou practically chortled at the sight of me, hovering between shabby office walls with panic in my heart. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
“Hi, Lou.” I could pretend my car was in the shop. I’d tried out of gas yesterday and she’d given me ten bucks and lecture. “I hope I got enough plates.” I’d bought half again the number she’d requested to make sure she wouldn’t send me back for more.
“Potato salad,” she said without preamble. “We have to pick two.”
“German and red skinned. Yummy.” I inched backward, readying myself to break for the lab. Arguing with Beau about blood tests, which he hadn’t completed yet, thank God, was better than helping Lou. Maybe. “I have an appointment with—”
“Have you had lunch? Never mind, you’re always hungry. Samples in the break room. Chop chop.”
In the cubicle behind me, Sheila snickered. Her amusement was more proof of the vindictive personality hiding underneath all that “I’m trying to be a friend” rubbish.
“Does chop chop mean I have to cook? I’m no chef.” Lou towed me reluctantly behind her. We passed Samantha and I cast her a beseeching glance. She’d known Adam for years, and his death rattled even her. She knew what I had a week left to decipher.
“No cooking. You just have to taste.” Lou motioned at Samantha but didn’t grab her arm like she had mine. “You, too, Sam. You could use some meat on your bones.”
“I have an appointment with—” Samantha began, sounding uncannily like me.
“We only have eight days, girls,” Lou barked. “This picnic has to be perfect. We’re going to do your grandfather proud.”
Samantha fell into step behind me. Lou was the Pied Piper of Potato Salad. Before I could blink, she’d seated us at a table with ten white Styrofoam containers, a couple biodegradable plates, and two paper forms.
“Write down your assessments,” Lou said. “I expect these to be filled out in the next thirty minutes. Use water to cleanse your palate between samples.”
“I don’t eat potatoes,” Samantha said with a moue of distaste. “Empty carbs.”
Lou shoved a fork at her. “Come to the farm and help cut grass tomorrow. You won’t gain an ounce.”
I gamely spooned a clump of potato salad on my plate. The yellow, eggy mixture seemed heavy on the onion, if the smell were anything to go by. “Looks delish.”
“I also need that list of dunking booth volunteers,” Lou added before she tromped out of the break room.
Samantha waited until Lou was safely out of earshot and pushed her plate away. “I’m not eating white potatoes, and I’m sure not eating any mayonnaise.”
I checked the blank assessment form, glad she’d been nabbed by Sergeant Lou. It’s not that I wanted Sam’s company, but I had questions about sex and supras she could answer. Plus, I wanted her at the top of the list of dunking booth volunteers.
If I could get Beau on there second, I’d be set. No one said I couldn’t approach people I personally wanted to dunk.
“Number eight uses sweet potatoes,” I told her. “Try that one.”
She did and pronounced it inedible. “Come on, Cleo, I’ll just write whatever you write.”
“If I have to eat these by myself,” I said in as coaxing a voice as I could muster, “you could make it up to me by sitting in the dunking booth.”
“Sounds like fun.” Not the answer I’d expected. Was I being primed for something? “Can Alex sit in the dunking booth too?”
“Um, sure.” Also not the response I’d expected. “Will he mind being our Psytech target?”
“Not if I ask him the right way.” She chuckled.
That was more in character and created the perfect opening for my other line of inquiry. Supra sex. “What did you and Alex do last weekend?”
Samantha rubbed her hands together. “What didn’t we do?”
She was never loathe to discuss sex, in great detail and with accompanying gestures. Today was no exception. Through careful questioning, I discovered burnouts after sex are not only common but expected, and the longer you burn someone out, the better a lover you’re considered.
John hadn’t mentioned how long he’d been burned. I mean, the foreplay had been mutual, but I hadn’t put the effort into it he had. He’d probably been back to full smell within an hour or two. No doubt I’d botched supra sex as much as I had supra investigating.
Samantha, on the other hand, considered herself damn good at supra sex, if the fact Alex was unable to do whatever it was he did all day Sunday was anything to go by.
Or walk without a limp, but at that point I redirected the conversation.
“No more seeing other people?” I asked after scribbling down my reactions to potato salad number five.
“I don’t know why he thinks he can do better than me.” As if unaware of her actions, Samantha helped herself to number four, a delicious mix of new potatoes, dill and creamy sauce. “I just reminded him what he’d be missing.”
“What exactly does Alex do?” Could he read her mind? Find out YuriCorp’s schedule and send his min
ions to sabotage our employees? Not to mention his own coworkers and Baumhauser, to hide his tracks.
She smirked. “I don’t want to tell you that.”
“You don’t want to tell me anything.” I scraped my nearly empty plate into the garbage and unlidded the next potato salad.
Samantha, like Al, could circumvent my ability. A simple and heartfelt “I don’t want to tell you”, and there was nothing more I could learn.
“Are you bringing Alex to the picnic?” Maybe I could catch Alex off guard.
“Of course.” She tried another bite of potato salad, her eyes closed in empty carbohydrate bliss. “It would look weird if everyone brought families or dates and I didn’t bring Alex. Besides, Clint will be there.”
“Why would your ex be there?”
“He’s seeing some girl from the downtown office.” She licked dressing from the tines of her fork.
“How long did you date him?” Sometimes, when Samantha got tired of talking about sex with Alex, she talked about sex with Clint. He worked for a PI firm and there were handcuffs involved, even a body bag once, which was more than I’d ever needed to know.
“Long enough to figure out he’s got issues. He’s bad news.”
That had been crystal clear the first time she’d mentioned the body bag. I dug into my current mound of potatoes. “Don’t most guys?”
“Don’t most people?” Samantha laughed and forked up salad. “He can’t get over losing me. He thinks we’re perfect for each other because we negate each other.”
“He’s a pusher too?”
“Something like that.” She waved a hand vaguely. “Skills don’t have to be exactly the same to pair cancel. If your skills are similar, supras can block each other. Like chameleons can’t fool each other.”
Beau seemed to be exempt from that. I lowered my voice. There was a blanket in the break room, but whenever you turned it on, it attracted all sorts of people suddenly dying for coffee and eavesdropping. “If I met someone who could do what I do, do you think I could read him and vice versa?”
“Doubtful.” She sipped her water and dapped her lips with a napkin.
“So you do know any single men who can do what I do?” I joked.
“Cleo, I’m shocked. What about your pocket chameleon?”
I diverted her before she could ask questions about Beau. Or John. “Al told me there’s a way to get around your ability.”
“Did he?” She started opening and closing potato salad lids, settling on one I hadn’t tried.
I stuck my fork into the center of my next blob, this one an unhappy-looking mush. “Pair cancellation or something else?”
She smiled. I didn’t tell her there was dill between her teeth. “I don’t want to—”
“Tell me that,” I finished, cutting her off. Hey, I’d verified there was a way. The bud would blossom for me eventually. “Does it involve sex?”
“Not necessarily.” She sighed and ate a chunk of potato. “I shouldn’t eat this.”
“But Lou told you to.”
“Speaking of Lou,” Samantha confided in a whisper, “is it me or has she gotten scarier this week?”
“It’s not you. She has.” Lou was wasting her time working as YuriCorp’s receptionist cum eraser. She should be CEO—of a much larger company. Something like FEMA. But even with the picnic looming, her incredible hustle sometimes stalled out in rant about supra police. “Did you sign her latest petition?”
“I always sign the petition.” Samantha finished her serving and started eating the rest straight from the container. “Want to know something crazy? Ursula thinks I have a thing for you.”
If I could have a single conversation with Sam that didn’t swerve in some freakish, unnerving direction, it would be a red letter day. “What did you tell her?”
“I like men.” She indicated that I should try her potato salad selection. “Your orgasms are of no interest to me.”
For that, there was a mask. A light one, but definitely a mask.
“Dude!” I shoved the container back at her. “No, thanks.”
She grinned. This time there was no greenery on her straight, white teeth. “Oops. Maybe I find your sex life a little interesting.”
“You’re trying to make me uncomfortable.” Samantha cared about my orgasms but wasn’t gay. It made no sense. “Wait a minute. This is about my ability. You want me burned out.”
“Who wouldn’t?” She rolled her eyes. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to be friends with you? Dealing with your ability is exhausting.”
“It shouldn’t be exhausting to tell the truth,” I whispered, somewhat stung. How had this turned into a kick the Cleo session?
She shrugged. “I’m surprised John hasn’t seduced you. It’s got to be wearing him out with everything he has to hide. How did you find out—you know what?”
“Right question, right time.” I averted my gaze, my face heating. It had to be as red as the lipstick she’d somehow retained through an entire container of potato salad.
Samantha observed me closely. “You screwed him, didn’t you? You slut!” she exclaimed too loudly for comfort. “Beau is gonna be pissed. I can’t imagine he’s the type who’d appreciate his woman cheating on him.”
“Shush,” I hissed. “I’m not a slut.”
“Ho.”
“I said shut up.”
“You faked the big O.” Samantha’s hands crept across the table toward me, and I leaned against the back of the chair, crossing my arms. “John bought it? That’s amazing. He must be one trusting SOB.”
I could, at last, understand why Samantha harbored such ill feelings toward John. He was betraying her grandfather’s company. “We can’t talk about this here. John doesn’t know we know. Yuri and Al said it needs to stay that way.”
“I won’t say a word,” she promised. She had no plans to blab that particular information. “Jesus, you’re good. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“That’s enough.” My stomach churned. Potatoes, onions, olives, eggs, bacon, celery and various dressings threatened to make a reappearance. I didn’t need to be reminded of the skank factor of my situation. If I’d become YuriCorp’s hot topic for landing Beau, I could only imagine how scalded I was going to be for switching to John. “You tell me when you don’t want to talk about things, and I’m telling you I don’t want to talk about this.”
She laughed. “I’m not as nice as you. Who’s got a bigger cock, Beau or John?”
I wanted to tear my hair out. No, hers. “I’m absolutely not going to answer that.”
“Who’s kinkier? Do either of them tie you up? Spank you? Let me guess. John. The man’s got obvious control issues.”
We stared at each other over the half-empty containers of potato salad.
“Please?” she begged. “I really, really want to know.”
“No.” Her obsession with sex had to be some kind of psychological issue. “You need therapy.”
“Who gives you more burn time?”
I glared at her. “What difference does it make?”
“I keep a list. A lot of us do. Clint was good but Alex is a natural.” Samantha withdrew her hands, hopefully giving up the notion she could push what she wanted out of me. “Why is that bad? You’re the one with two fuck buddies.”
“I’m going to break up with Beau tomorrow.” I cautiously palmed my water off the table, afraid she’d strike like a snake and get my skin. “I’m not a cheater.”
“Faking orgasms is cheating, Miss Can’t Do Wrong. Did you go the Meg Ryan route or Kegel him?”
I didn’t care what she thought about me. Really. “What if I wasn’t faking? What if I just kept my powers?”
“You couldn’t O? You poor thing. John’s that bad?” She tsked, but she also smiled with great satisfaction. “You’re backing the wrong stallion, girlfriend. Stick with Beau and ditch John. John will spend more money on you, but bad sex isn’t worth it.”
“What if the orgasm
wasn’t good or big enough to take effect?” I held my breath, hoping she’d give me the answer I wanted—a percentage of healthy and socially acceptable supras were immune to the orgasm effect, and I was one of many.
“There’s no such thing as a bad orgasm. Admit it, you’re a cheater. And a liar. And you’re screwing two guys. I’m so proud!” She pretended to wipe away tears. “My little girl’s all grown up.”
“Believe whatever you want.” Everyone always did, even when the unvarnished truth stared them in the face. I was the only one who didn’t get to maintain blissful ignorance.
The tell-tale clip clop of Lou’s wooden sandals echoed up the hallway outside the break room, preventing further revelations. I began scribbling on my assessment sheet and Samantha peered over my shoulder to copy my answers.
I was tempted to huddle over my paper, but she grinned and tapped her finger lightly against mine. It wasn’t a caress, it was a taunt. I still shivered.
“What did you write for number three?” she asked.
She hadn’t pushed, not yet. “Too much egg yolk and vinegar.”
“If Lou makes you test food tomorrow,” she promised, “I’ll eat most of it.”
“Thanks,” I said gruffly. Potato salads nine and ten had received short shrift. I was spudded out.
“What are friends for?” she asked, and damned if she didn’t mean it.
Damned was right.
~ * ~
Monday was the beginning of the end. I tackled my most difficult challenge, aside from finding the mole with the saboteur using the candlestick in the library before the picnic. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to enjoy Lou’s cooking and Samantha and Alex in the dunking booth without the interviews from supra hell hanging over my head.
If I could survive the next hour with Beau Walker, I could survive anything.
Using a clever strategy I’d developed the past several months, I hit Beau with my request before he could unfold the print-out that held my DNA test results. Sometimes, if I caught him before coffee, before he got frustrated with my feeble fading, he was more amenable to suggestion.
“There’s this company picnic this weekend,” I began, slipping automatically onto my naughty stool in the corner.
