Fin curls her lip in distaste. “Ugh. Just the thought of a veiny, purple, engorged cock bobbing in my face makes me want to barf.”
I start laughing so hard I almost choke.
Max says sourly, “Thanks for that. Next time I see a dick up close, I’ll be thinking of you.”
Fin says sweetly, “Why, Max. How nice. Next time I see a B movie where everyone dresses like rodeo clowns, I’ll be thinking of you.”
“Oh, you think you’re such a stunner, huh? You look like something I drew with my left hand.”
I say, “Girls.”
They ignore me. Fin says, “Don’t make me have to smack the extra chromosome out of you.”
Max says, “Bite me.”
“I would, but I don’t want to have to get a tetanus shot.”
I say brightly, “Okay. That was fun. Is everyone ready to go back into their cages now?”
Max sticks out her tongue at Fin, who looks at the ceiling, shaking her head.
I say, “Between the three of us, I figure we’ve got half a brain. So I need your help figuring out something.”
They look at me. I lean my elbows on the table and prop my chin in my hands. “What do these things add up to? Secrets. Charisma. Surveillance skills. Computer skills. Undetectable access into buildings and locked rooms.”
Max says, “Me.”
Fin says, “Me.”
I roll my eyes. “Let me finish. Advanced technology. A loyal army of soldiers. A mythical reputation but no verifiable evidence of existence on paper.”
Max says, “Batman.”
Fin says, “Lisbeth Salander.”
“Both of those are loners. They don’t have armies of loyal soldiers. Pay attention.”
Max raises her hand. “I have a question.”
“Of course you do. What is it?”
“Is there gonna be a test at the end? Because I missed some of the first part.”
Sighing, I continue. “Ruthlessness. Intelligence. Sophistication. Vast sums of money. A gigantic ego. Excellent skills with firearms. A complete lack of fear. Incredible style. Magnificent hair.”
Fin snaps her fingers. “A supervillain.”
Max chuckles. “Or a psychopath.”
“Maybe both. But seriously, if you put all those characteristics together in one person…what do you get?”
They think for a moment, until Fin says, “A real person? Like, not a comic book superhero?”
“Yeah.”
She lifts a shoulder. “The head of the CIA.”
“No,” says Max instantly. “That guy looks like a dentist. He has orthopedic shoes and an overbite. No style, charisma, or magnificent hair.”
“Let’s hear your idea, then.”
“I don’t have one. I’m just pointing out that yours sucks.”
They bicker back and forth, but I’ve already stopped listening. I rise and go stand at the windows, looking down onto the street.
Looking down onto the big SUVs with the shiny rims and blacked-out windows, filled with armed men in suits.
“The head of the CIA.” Fin’s words echo over and over inside my skull.
Maybe I had it backward when I thought Killian worked for the police.
Maybe they’re working for him.
Maybe everyone’s working for him.
Maybe he’s much more powerful than I thought.
Or maybe I should get drunk and have a séance with the ghost of Pippi Longstocking, my beloved childhood cat, because I’m already hallucinating anyway.
The next day at work, I Google “Head of the CIA.”
Clicking on a link, I’m taken to a Wikipedia page where I learn that the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency is a petite brunette woman named Gina who looks like a middle school teacher.
She doesn’t appear ruthless, sophisticated, or as if she possesses any skills with firearms. She does, however, look like she can crochet a rather excellent throw pillow and has perfected a recipe for tender and flavorful meatloaf.
I’m filled with disappointment.
I decide to abandon my shiny new conspiracy theory that Killian is Secret Boss of Everything. If he were in any way related to government work, he wouldn’t own so many Armani suits. Not to mention, he wouldn’t be a bazillionaire who lives in a skyscraper. He’d probably have a 401(k) and a great dental plan, but that’s about it.
So I’m back to square one. All I have to go on is that he’s sexy, rich, arrogant, mysterious, and a champ at performing oral sex.
I give serious consideration to the idea that his whole cloak-and-dagger, not-who-but-what, I’m-helping-people-too routine is a bag of baloney, and he’s just getting his kicks by messing with my head. That he’s nothing more than a mobster with delusions of grandeur.
It’s the simplest explanation. Especially considering that gargantuan ego of his.
But somehow it doesn’t fit.
What’s with the accents?
What’s with the Shakespeare?
What’s with hacking a satellite? I mean, who the fuck knows how to hack a satellite?
This whole thing is exhausting.
On the way home from work, I decide to treat myself to dinner. I’m not in the mood to play referee between Fin and Max again, so I stop at a little Italian place that makes lasagna almost as good as mine.
I sit down and order a glass of red wine and a plate of spaghetti Bolognese from the elderly Italian waiter. Then I settle into my chair and look around at the charming décor.
Just as I’m lifting my glass to take a sip of the wine, I happen to look out the front window.
And there, on the street outside, is Killian.
With a woman.
A very pregnant woman.
She’s in his arms. He’s tenderly kissing her.
One hand cradles her face, the other caresses her swollen belly.
I turn to stone. Every muscle in my body clenches. I’m unable to breathe or move or even blink as I stare at them out on the sidewalk.
She’s young and pretty, about my age. Brunette like me, too. She gazes up at him with stars in her eyes. He stares down at her, smiling.
God, how it hurts. How it burns.
I don’t recall ever feeling pain like this. It’s like acid eating down through my flesh to dissolve my bones. I’m breathless with it. I’m about to explode from it. I’m dying, one agonized heartbeat at a time.
In a moment, they move off, walking arm in arm down the street until they pass out of my line of vision. But I remain frozen, my wine glass clenched in my hand, hot tears pooling in the corners of my eyes.
He swore he wasn’t using me. He looked deep into my eyes and said every word he’d ever told me had been the truth.
He told me he thought I’d make an amazing mother.
When the waiter arrives at the table with my entrée, it breaks the spell I’m under. I set the glass down carefully, my hands shaking hard. I take money from my purse and leave it on the table, then I rise and walk blindly to my car.
My heart pounds. My skin turns clammy. My stomach is in knots. I know I’m hyperventilating, but I can’t help it. The world looks fuzzy around the edges, as if I might be about to pass out.
Pregnant. She’s pregnant with his baby. Like I almost was.
I feel like such a fool. Like such a stupid, naïve child. I feel like I could get sick and never stop throwing up, as if my body wants to purge all my organs.