Raincheck

by Colleen Charles

  “Smarter than you.” The reply comes almost instantly, and I tense as my blood starts to boil. “And I’m getting pretty bored. You should go now before I get really angry.”

  “I’m not leaving until I have your word.” I step closer and loom over it.

  Ostrich snickers.

  I’ll fucking throat punch him, so he can never snicker again.

  “And this voice distortion thing is ridiculous.” I can’t resist a little parting taunt. “It’s easy to be brave when you’re hiding behind a screen like some juvenile Wizard of Oz wannabe. I bet you don’t even have a driver’s license, do you, you little pubescent piece of shit. Maybe you should buy some stock in Clearasil and Kleenex.”

  “We all hide behind screens.” He baits me right back, the little fuck. I don’t like it. “That’s what it means to be a hacker, doesn’t it?”

  He’s right, but I’d never admit it. Anger snakes its way up my spine and threads out along my limbs. I have to stay perfectly still, so I don’t tremble with it. If he’s a coder worth his salt, he’s got cameras on me. And if he doesn’t...he’s stupider than I thought.

  “We have to live our lives in the dark,” Ostrich continues. “That’s what we do, Hawk.”

  The emphasis on my moniker almost sends me over the edge, but I bite my lip and restrain myself as the bitter, iron-like taste of blood seeps into my mouth.

  “Yeah, I get that,” I growl. “But sometimes, we work together. You know how close-knit this community is. We work for the greater good.”

  “I do.” The smug tone rankles. He’s got me by the short hairs. “How do you think I found you?”

  I blink. By now, the conversation has gone so far off track that I’m not even sure what I can do to bring it back around. But it doesn’t matter – I’m fucking angry. I’m so angry that I can hardly see straight, and I feel like kicking right through Ostrich’s stupidly-expensive server tower right in front of me.

  “I found you on the BBS. And right then I knew I could never work with you.”

  His words hit pay dirt, a sharp blow even in my state of rage. The words pepper my body like stones blazing heat, made all the hotter by the mocking tone.

  “What?” I hiss. “Why? What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I knew I could never work with someone so arrogant, so worshipped by the community.” Ostrich laughs, but it’s a bitter sound. “You don’t really want to collaborate with me. You only want to work with me because you were stupid enough to lose your project, and I’ve got something even better.”

  I’m stunned speechless.

  “And you think that I’m going to give you credit for my project, just like that, because you approached me.” More bitterness and anger creeps into his voice. He sounds like a man with a vendetta. Against me. I rack my brain, trying to remember pissing off anyone I respect in the community, and I fall short. That’s just not how I roll. “And after that, who knows what the fuck would happen. If I had to bet money – which I’ve got a lot of, by the way – I’d bet everything I own that you’d never speak to me again...at least, not until you needed more help.”

  “That isn’t true.” My voice raises to an uncomfortable pitch. “That’s bullshit, and you know it!”

  “And yet here I sit, unmoved. You may be the idol of every codemonkey from here to the West Coast, but you’ve done nada to impress me.”

  I stare blankly at the black screen as the movie of my demise plays across my pupils.

  “You can go now since I don’t fly that close to the sun.” Icicles drip from his fake voice. “Because there’s no way I’d work with you. Not if you were the last hacker alive on earth. Figure out your Italian Stallion Godfather problems with somebody who gives a shit.”

  I have to take a deep breath in order to resist the urge to punch a hole through the wall.

  “Fine,” I snarl. “You know what? I’m done asking.” I whirl around and stomp upstairs. The sound of Ostrich’s disguised laughter fills my ears as I storm out of the house and into the desert air.

  By now, the sun hangs high in the sky like a giant ball of fire – it’s about the time that I’d shut down my computers and lie down for a nap. But I can’t think. I can barely breathe – I can’t remember the last time I trembled with rage at anyone, much less someone that I’ve never actually met in person. I’ve got half a mind to storm back inside and beat the shit out of that asshole, but I convince myself to take the high road.

  After all, the last thing the Vegas BBS needs is to learn that its hero is actually a monster.

  I drive home, pushing the gas pedal to the floor the whole time and wondering just what in the hell I’ve done to make Ostrich hate me so much. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not like he’s been around for a long time and we have some kind of history. And even then – in the past, whenever I’ve had a beef with another hacker, we’ve always worked it out. Besides, despite being so close-knit, the Vegas hacker community is always a little tense. Making enemies isn’t a good idea.

  I stop on the way home for more diet Mountain Dew, honey-mustard pretzels, and some beef jerky. But when I’m back at home, down in my reconstructed lair, nothing comes to me. Luckily, I can afford the best rush construction guys and the best tech guys in the world. I sit in front of my computer for hours, staring at a blank screen, wondering just how the hell I’m going to get myself out of this mess.

  If the talk with Ostrich had gone in any other direction with the same outcome, I’d try again. I’m a stubborn motherfucker, and I hate hearing ‘no.’ That’s not an option now, though. Ostrich made it perfectly clear that he never wants to work with me.

  The only thing I don’t understand is why. What did I possibly do?

  My phone buzzes on the desk, jolting me back into reality. With a frown, I swipe open the call and answer, not looking forward to this next round of recrimination.

  “Hello?”

  “Hawk, it’s Caldwell. Do you have an hour or two later?”

  “Yeah.” I glance at my empty screen, knowing he expects me to just recreate years of work in a few hours like I’m some kind of coding David Copperfield. If only I could pull a valuable piece of software out of my hat. “I’m working pretty hard, but I could definitely take some time off.”

  “Good. Meet me at Best of Both Worlds at seven-thirty.”

  That’s the thing about Caldwell – he doesn’t ask, he just demands. I don’t even consider telling the man no.

  “Sure,” I say, knowing I don’t have a choice. “Any reason?”

  “I’d like to chat about the new software.”

  Shit.

  “Sure,” I repeat. I’m going to have to come clean about my non-meeting with Ostrich. “Sounds good.”

  We hang up, and I realize I have exactly seven hours in order to craft the perfect excuse and figure out what I’m going to do.

  ***

  At seven-thirty on the dot, I walk into Best of Both Worlds, a fusion restaurant that just opened on the Strip. A smiling hostess walks me over to the bar, where Caldwell sits at a corner booth with a Manhattan in front of him.

  “Hey.” I slide down across from him.

  He nods by way of greeting. “What do you think of this place?”

  I glance around. “Looks nice. Different. Why?”

  “My brother Carter and his wife Pepper just opened it.” Caldwell looks up at me, his forehead creased in concentration. “I think it’s going to do well. Steak and seafood fusion – you should really try the hangar steak with crab imperial on top.”

  My stomach roils at the thought. “That sounds amazing, but I’m not hungry.”

  He lifts a shoulder and then lets it drop. I try to read the meaning that lays just underneath the gesture. He’s hardly nonchalant about this whole thing, especially if his financials are suffering. “Come back sometime, then. Just tell me, and I’ll book you a big table.” He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe get some of those brainiac hackers in here for a real meal instead of White Ca
stle and Taco Bell.”

  “Hey, I happen to find Taco Bell very nourishing when I’m craving something at four-thirty in the morning.”

  Caldwell snorts. “Because it’s the only damn thing open outside your gated community. Are you ever going to settle down and follow a normal schedule?”

  “Not if I can help it,” I say drily.

  “Well, I’m starving.” He picks up a menu and scans it for a second before narrowing his eyes. “You want anything? A salad? You’re looking a little jaundiced. Must be all that time in the basement. Some kale might put a little color back in those cheeks.”

  “Salad is fine.” Truth be told, I’m so anxious and angry that I can barely manage sips of my neat whiskey, but I don’t want Caldwell asking any questions.

  An older woman with a big beehive of ginger hair waltzes over to the table with a wide, genuine smile.

  “Well, hi, honeybees.” As she greets us, I notice her syrupy-Southern accent, the kind that stretches one-syllable words into at least two. “How are y’all doin’?”

  “Hawk, this is Dixie, the sous chef. Dixie, meet Hawk, the best hacker Vegas has to offer.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine, sugar.” She smiles wide and presses her hand against mine like a debutante would. “Always nice to meet a friend of Mr. Caldwell’s. Nothin’ but the best for my favorite VIP. I always come out of the fires of the kitchen to help him all special like.”

  Something about her strikes me – maybe it’s the accent or the warm way she speaks to me as if we’ve known each other forever.

  “Dixie, you’re a woman after my cold, cold heart. We’d like a bottle of the twenty-year Talisker.” Caldwell studies the drink menu as he interrupts my thoughts. “Can you just take our order and give it straight to my incompetent brother, since you’re already here? Two Caesar salads, and I’ll have the ribeye, bone-in. Medium rare, please.”

  “Sure thing, sweetheart,” Dixie drawls. She turns to me and smiles. “Anything for my second favorite Caldwell after my darlin’ Pepper. And what can I get for you, sugar?”

  At the sound of “ribeye,” I’m suddenly starving. “I’ll have the same but make my steak rare.” Nixon lifts his brow, but I only shrug.

  “Well, bless your little heart.” Dixie pats me on the shoulder. “Anything else I can get y’all?”

  “No, thank you, Dixie.”

  When she’s gone, I drain the rest of my whiskey and toy with the glass.

  “How’s the software coming along?”

  “Good,” I lie. “I think we should be close, very soon now.”

  “That’s a relief.” Caldwell gives me a critical look, but he doesn’t question my explanation. “This fucking year. It’s been so crazy that I can hardly find the time to stop and breathe.”

  “I know.” It’s hard not to heave a huge sigh of relief knowing that he’s not going to push the subject.

  “So much has happened.” I get the sense that he’s not so much talking to me as just expelling his concerns to the air.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting,” the server chirps. She sets down a bottle of Talisker and two clean highball glasses.

  “Thanks.”

  She opens the bottle and leaves it on the table before sashaying back to the kitchen. Caldwell pours three fingers’ worth of scotch into each glass and slides it across the table. I take a sip, and the warm, comforting burn soothes all the way down to my stomach as I swallow the smoky liquor.

  “Nothing better than good scotch for what ails you.” I lean back in the booth. Even though I could probably spring for this expensive bottle now and then, I’m not unhappy that Caldwell can have whatever he wants since his brother owns the place. The smoky flavor slides right down the back of my throat, and for a fleeting second, my troubles fade. Until Caldwell opens his mouth.

  “To moving past all the shit.” He holds his glass in the air with a slight grimace. “And getting the next quarter out of the red.”

  I clink my glass against his and drain the whole thing in one gulp. Already my head swims with the scotch, and the promise of more from the bottle in front of me. Without consulting my host, I grab the bottle and refill my glass.

  “Rough day?”

  “You have no idea,” I say drily before gulping it down. I know twenty-year Talisker is too good to be bolted like this, but right now, I don’t care.

  “What happened?”

  For a moment, I almost break down and spill the entire truth. That I met with a self-righteous asshole who refuses to collaborate with me...and who seems to hate me more than anyone else I’ve ever met. But I catch myself just in time.

  That’s the scotch talking, I tell myself as I drum my fingers on the glossy wooden tabletop. Not me.

  “Just a rough day. You know, dealing with...things.”

  “I get it.” He takes a long swallow of scotch and shakes his head. “It’s not fun.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  Dixie returns, pushing a cart in front of her. A large salad bowl perches on top, as well as a pepper grinder and a huge block of fresh parmesan.

  “The Caesar is our specialty here.” Dixie slows the cart to the side of our table. “You boys ordered just right.”

  “Yeah, we did.” Caldwell eyes the cart and practically salivates. “Thanks to Carter and Pepper. Trust me, Hawk, it’s amazing.”

  Dixie starts tossing the salad, adding Caesar dressing that smells tangy and amazing. She dishes it out, then stands over me with the pepper grinder.

  “Just say when, sugar.” As she grinds, the top of her red mane bobs with the motion. Something about her tugs at my heartstrings. It’s her calm, loving nature. I feel like if I snuggled into her pillowy bosom, everything in my life would turn out okay. Even my lack of software to sell to the Armónico.

  I watch as black pepper sprinkles over the chopped romaine and creamy dressing.

  “When.” For some reason, I laugh at the end of the word. On a whim, I ask a question. “Do you have any kids, Dixie?”

  Dixie chuckles as she reaches for the parmesan. She grinds the cheese all over my salad and smiles. “That would have done plumb tuckered me out, darlin’. I never did get hitched. You want anchovies?”

  I nod, and Dixie spoons a few salty little fish on top of the lettuce. It smells heavenly, and with all the liquor sloshing around in my stomach I know I need something to eat. By the time she’s moved on to Caldwell, I can barely stop myself from drooling. As Dixie walks away, my heart slows in my chest.

  “What’s wrong?”

  My head snaps up, and I look at Nixon. “What?”

  “You look lost in thought. Or scotch. That’s fine too.”

  I know I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t help it. “Did you know I’m from Alabama?”

  Caldwell squints. “What? Really? But you don’t have any hint of an accent.”

  “Well, my mother was from there. I was born there,” I amend, feeling lame and drunker than I’d like to be. “She abandoned me. I...I’m trying to find her.”

  He doesn’t reply, but he looks sympathetic.

  “I was left there when I was a baby, you know, put into foster care.” Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out of my mouth. “I came to Vegas because I thought my birth mother was out here. I ran away when I was sixteen. My foster family...well, they weren’t the best.”

  “That’s terrible.” He fills my glass nearly to the brim with scotch. There’s real feeling in his voice. Caldwell’s the closest thing I have to a friend out here – or anywhere, for that matter. The note of sympathy in his voice loosens my normally tight lips.

  “I wouldn’t wish foster care on my worst enemy.” I can’t keep the bitterness from creeping into my tone. “It was a fucking nightmare, bouncing from one house to the other. The emotional and physical abuse. The scars.”

  “Did you ever...”

  “What?”

  “You know.” Caldwell looks
embarrassed. “Find a place to stay for good.”

  “Yeah. And it was no better than the rest of the places. They beat me and locked me in a closet nearly every day.” I stop only long enough to show him the tender inside of my forearm where several scars litter my skin. “It didn’t fucking matter what I did or didn’t do. They had real kids – you know, not sad-sack charity cases – and every time one of those kids did something wrong, I’d get it.”

  “Are those scars from cigarette burns?” He looks deeply distressed, and I know that I should shut up, but I can’t make myself stop talking.

  I nod, and a wave of relief washes over me as I finally admit it. I’ve spent years excusing away the ugly marks as something else. Anything else. “It taught me how to stop feeling things.” I grab the glass and pour the liquid gold down my throat. “But I’ve never stopped looking for my mother. I want to find her. I want to take her by the shoulders, look her in the face, and beg her to tell me why she left me.”

  “Are you angry with her?”

  I stare at my friend for a long time before answering. “No. Just confused. I...I don’t know where she was when she had me. I mean, I know she was in Alabama. But I don’t know about her circumstances. Her mindset. For all I know, she never wanted kids.”

  “You’re here now,” Caldwell says firmly. “And you’ve built a great life for yourself.”

  “Yeah.” I can’t mask the whisper of bitterness that just can’t be chased away. Taking a deep breath, I look down at the table, so I don’t have to meet Caldwell’s eyes. “I guess I should feel lucky.”

  So then why don’t you?

  Chapter Six

  Waverly

  “So?”

  Neon looks up at me like an eight-week-old Golden Retriever. His glasses slip down his nose and pushes them up before shaking his head.

  “Nothing yet.” He holds his laptop in the air so I can see the screen. “But soon.”

  “It better be soon,” I grumble. “What the hell do you think I hired you for, Chandler?”