Chapter Thirty-Six
Blade
A text came in while I was bench-pressing in the weight room.
Glancing at the floor, I read it.
Crazy Chick: I don’t make anyone happy .
Drenched in sweat, ignoring the fact I’d brought the fucking burner, I set the bar back on the J-hooks, then grabbed the phone as more texts hit in rapid-fire succession.
Crazy Chick: I don’t contribute. Okay, maybe a little with this stupid CS craptastic joke of a paycheck.
CS? Combat support? What the fuck was this chick into?
Crazy Chick: But not in any meaningful way. I’m not making anyone’s day. I’m not even giving away moments of happiness.
Crazy Chick: And I didn’t even think of that before this very minute, which makes me an asshole. And a taker. And you know how I feel about that. Actually, you don’t because you aren’t her, I don’t know who the hell you are, and I shouldn’t be sending you this text. But I did. And I don’t know why. So there you have it. Lucky you.
I sat up from the bench and texted back.
Me: Fuck happiness .
Crazy Chick: What??
Crazy Chick: Why?
Crazy Chick: Because it’s overrated and we’re all doomed anyway?
Christ, this woman could text faster than I could pull the fucking trigger.
Me: No .
Crazy Chick: No? That’s it? Just “No”?
Crazy Chick: Let me guess, you’re a doomsdayer, and this is all one big fucking suck for you.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Me: Not a doomsdayer .
Crazy Chick: Then what are you?
Me: A realist.
Crazy Chick: So that’s supposed to explain the “Fuck happiness” comment?
Me: No .
I wiped down the equipment with a small towel, then tossed it into the bin before replying.
Me: Happiness is a fleeting, bullshit emotion driven by endorphins or dopamine. Purpose and contentment aren’t.
The dots appeared and cycled through for a full thirty seconds as I walked out of the weight room.
Crazy Chick: So I’m just supposed to be content… with contentment?
Me: Do whatever the fuck you want.
I crossed the lobby to the stairwell.
Crazy Chick: Gee, thanks, Sophocles .
I hit the first flight of steps.
Me: Not Sophocles .
And technically, the sentiment wasn’t only mine. It was Arthur Schopenhauer’s, recited so many goddamn times by my old man that I hated it. A man can do what he wants, but he cannot want what he wants.
Crazy Chick: Whatever. I don’t have purpose or contentment anyway.
This time I gave her an actual fucking philosophical quote.
Me: The first and best victory is to conquer self .
Fucking Plato. Hated his shit too. I hated philosophy, period. But I still quoted that bullshit because it’d been ingrained in me the same as becoming a SEAL had been a foregone conclusion.
Crazy Chick: Now I need to conquer myself? Gee, thanks. Awesome. Spoiler: you’re not helping.
Me: You didn’t ask for help .
She’d just spouted more insane shit.
Crazy Chick: And if I did?
Any other day, I wouldn’t be having this asinine conversation. Hitting the second flight of steps, I fucking thought about it.
Me: Are you asking?
I might fucking step in it.
Crazy Chick: What are you going to do? Ride in and save me from my shit? From my past? From every reason why I’m in this situation?
I stopped at the third-floor landing.
Me: Do you need saving?
Crazy Chick: Again—gee, thanks. What a resounding invitation .
What the fuck?
Me: Do you need help or not?
Exiting the stairwell, I headed toward the elevator.
Crazy Chick: Is that your way of offering?
Me: Don’t try to pull reverse psychology bullshit on me. If you need help, fucking ask .
Crazy Chick: Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I don’t. You couldn’t help me anyway. No one can.
Hitting the call button for the elevator, I read it twice.
I didn’t do Frog Hogs or Tag Chasers, and I sure as fuck didn’t do needy chicks. And this crazy-ass woman was about as needy as they came. But that last text wasn’t. It was fucking resignation.
That headspace I knew.
It was my fucking motto these days.
Knowing I’d live to regret it, I typed.
Me: Tell me what you need.
The doors opened, and I stepped onto the elevator.
Crazy Chick: What? Why?
Me: Because .
I apparently had a hard-on for some distraction.
Crazy Chick: That’s it? Because?
I should’ve saved myself the trouble and gone to the range. Or looked to see what was on the books at AES tonight. But I was still pissed at Alpha.
Me: Start small.
Unarmed, shirtless, in running shorts and trainers, I was still five fucking floors away from a shower and my Sig. My response time would be shit if she needed someone dead STAT.
Crazy Chick: Start small? What does that even mean?
Me: Tell me one thing you need .
The dots spun up, then she fucking acronymed me again.
Crazy Chick: DC or NC
Knowing she wasn’t talking about states, my thumbs flew across the screen in agitation.
Me: Spell it out.
The elevator stopped on the top floor, and I walked out.
Crazy Chick: Dub con or non con. As in sex . Preferably with strangers I never see again.
I fucking halted.
Crazy Chick: See?
Crazy Chick: You can’t help me . Unless I run into you at the bar tonight… and don’t know it’s you.
Anger flared, and I fired off a demand.
Then I was Oscar Tango Mike.