She and Nan exchanged glances. Neither saw the obvious problem that the school had. Vanka was swiftly expelled for plagiarism, an accusation that left them in a fit of giggles all the way home.
Despite the times when normal society didn’t understand her, Vanka appreciated the routine predictability in her neighborhood. She and Andy were the only single residents in their thirties in a two-block radius. The lion’s share could be categorized as married, once-married, living-as-though-married, or remarried. Kids and dogs were optional accessories. The area was the perfect location to relax between assignments.
She’d never had the urge to become close with her neighbors. The relationships were surface-level and pleasant. But she enjoyed them and never wanted to know more than what was necessary. Her research had been invasive—employment, financial and criminal problems—but that was as much to keep them safe as well as herself.
Snooping didn’t weigh heavily on her conscience. The only other option she had, growing close enough to her neighbors to ask who they were as individuals outside their families, would take too much time. The opportunity to discover pertinent information might not even come up.
Who are you?
No, really, who are you?
Not your titles of parent, partner, or employee.
You—just you: Who are you?
No one asked those questions because no one wanted to give those answers. Really knowing oneself could be terrifying. Only the lucky ones could answer and ask others who they cared about—and only if they were really lucky.
Spiker’s arm brushed hers as he ducked under a white birch’s low-hanging branch. Did she know who Spiker really was? Today shined a light on the answer: not really, and that hurt a little. Like Vanka’s Nan, he was the closest thing she had to family. Nan wasn’t blood, but she was the closest thing that Vanka had after her parents died.
Like Vanka’s parents, Nan made sure she understood that life had to have meaning. To this day, she asked Vanka the tough questions that her parents would’ve expected her to ask the world, the questions that forced Vanka to be uncomfortable. To be alive and acknowledge everything the world had to offer. Good and evil. Wealth and destitution. Justice, fairness, and the murky grounds of retribution and recalibration.
Their lives had meant something. Her parents had embraced their purpose. She only wished they could see her now. They would be so proud of her.
They stopped outside of the backyard gate. Spiker’s hand rested on the latch. “Anything interesting I need to know about this guy?”
“Former marine. Never married. Government contractor, specializing in GPS tech.”
“Security clearance?” he asked.
She nodded. “BPSS.”
Spiker shrugged off the Baseline Personnel Security Standard. “Then there’s nothing to worry about?”
Vanka side-eyed him and shook her head. “Those are famous last words.”
Spiker cursed under his breath. “Did I just jinx us?”
“Better not have,” Vanka warned.
He laughed, not because of the playful way her laser-glare just threatened to leave him dead in the front yard, but because he liked that tone of voice. A little bossy. A little know-it-all. A lot don’t-fuck-with-my-good-thing. He liked that tenacity. Vanka was easy to underestimate. Under her gloss and glamor, the woman had the unyielding persistence of a bulldog. If she liked where she lived, no matter how out-of-character he might deem her little colonial house in the DC suburbs, then by God, she’d risk life and limb to stand her ground.
“I’d tell you if there was something to fret over. And, obviously, I wouldn’t live here.”
“Obviously,” he mimicked, murdering a British accent as he unlatched the gate and held it open for her. “You’d live some place with your type of people, like New York City.”
Vanka led them along a stone path toward the backyard. “You’re about to meet my type of people.”
“Uh-huh.” They paused at the corner of the two-story brick house. A large hedge blocked his view into the backyard and her so-called people. “I’m totally buying that load of bull crap.”
Annoyance crinkled her nose. “What is wrong with you?”
“A little bit of everything these days.” He stepped around the hedge. A well-manicured yard opened to a stone patio arranged as an upscale, outdoor kitchen and living room. This was no bachelor pad. Andy’s backyard setup could have been photographed for a magazine catering to outdoor man caves. “I need something like this at my place.”
Andy’s back was turned toward them as he faced the oversize grill built into a matching stone counter. He piled aluminum-foil-wrapped potatoes on a tray next to the kabobs that awaited their turn.
Vanka set the fruit salad on a side table that matched a much larger dining one. The fruit salad was one of three side dishes: a collection of salsas to pair with blue corn tortilla chips, and a cold bean dish with diced onions and peppers and flecks of parsley.
Spiker moved to their host, and Vanka joined by his side as Andy turned from the grill. “I’ve never been a jealous man.”
“Bullshit,” Vanka stage whispered.
Andy nodded like a man who understood the effect of high-end appliances landscaped into a well-designed suburban oasis.
“But I need this set up in my backyard.” With ample counter space and the perfect amount of shade, this was like a little slice of unpretentious heaven that he hadn’t known could exist. His gaze followed the stone counter until it dead-ended in the opening of what could’ve been a short, stocky chimney. “That’s a pizza oven?”
“You know it,” Andy chuckled.
“Damn.” This was nothing like the outdoor living spaces that he’d come across on the job. Those were designed to make a statement, one where the mega-mansions of the rich and evil could offer a shoutout to their fellow crime lords and drug kings, bragging, Business is good.
The palatial homes with trendy outdoor kitchens had long ago become cliché, with their cliffside cabanas and crystal chandeliers that reflected over infinity pools. That only meant one thing: they had a shit ton more work to do—at least, back when GSI knew the difference between criminals and criminal-clients.
Spiker rubbed the back of his neck and refocused on his new wish list: stone and steel, one hell of a grill, and an ice chest within arm’s reach.
Andy opened a below-counter fridge, removed an empty, chilled tumbler, and handed it to Vanka. “Make introductions for me, Vee.”
Vee? He’d ask Vanka about that later, eyeing the familiar way she and Andy played off one another. Spiker focused on the empty tumbler in her hand, then followed her to meet the people she socialized with when they weren’t together.
“This is my friend Spiker,” she announced, then paired names to people. “That’s Morgan, Rory, Biyu, and Jay.”
The phrase “my friend Spiker” rubbed him the wrong way. He shook it off and played his part. The group was easygoing and nothing like he’d envisioned. Part of Spiker felt foolish for the assumptions he’d made. Part of him felt duped. He wasn’t sure which one had a leg to stand on or would win out by the end of the night.
Vanka opened the ice chest and withdrew an unopen bottle of wine and can of lemon-lime soda. She reached for a hidden accessory drawer and removed a wine key, then stepped aside for Spiker. He eyeballed the eclectic mix of beverage options and decided on a local pale ale. Vanka uncorked the wine bottle and maintained small talk, sharing the same formulaic banter that he’d heard countless times before while they were on the clock.