3 Kimmy
If I had to pick a moment of my life that resembled a poorly scripted B-movie, it would have been Tuesday night in the parking lot of Joe's Market.
I paused under a pair of streetlights that reminded me of the universe's broken Morse code. Let the cars leaving the lot pass. My bags were loaded with what Brynn called rich folks’ food and what I called healthy options.
Two for one zucchini pasta. Low sodium bone broth.
Baked veggie chips. Gourmand cheese. A single bottle of merlot, just so I could pretend I was classy and not stress-drinking.
I was halfway to my Honda, when a sedan with tinted windows glided in like a shadow. It idled there, hungry and silent, before creeping forward to block my path.
My heart did a pirouette in my chest.
A rare window hissed down. The smell that drifted out wasn't anything I recognized—old leather, faint citrus, a whisper of something coppery.
I forced my eyes to remain on the vehicle.
The driver's silhouette was a careful absence—just a jawline in profile, hands resting at ten and two.
Next to him, the passenger seat was empty.
Back left, though, was occupied by a familiar shape in a hat brimming over the face.
"Miss Holt," the shadow said from behind the lowered window. The voice, now that I could place it, was the same as the one from the park bench. Calm, smooth, not a waver. "I've come to get your answer. Please get in."
The bags in my arms suddenly weighed double. I looked behind me. The people going in and out of the store didn't pay us any attention. For a second there, I thought about running, but the only cover was my own car, and the sedan would eat me alive before I ever got to my Honda.
I swallowed past the knot in my throat and took a step forward.
The passenger door on the right side was pushed lightly from the inside. I moved the bags from my right hand to my left and grabbed onto the handle.
Awkwardly, I climbed into the back seat, setting both bags on the floor by my feet.
The man in the hat didn't move. He sat perfectly still, like a magician about to reveal his greatest trick.
The inside of the car was night itself. The windows were so dark it felt subterranean.
"Close the door, Miss Holt," the man said.
I did.
We rolled forward.
The man turned his head toward me a little.
Up close, I could make out portions of the profile.
A long, flat nose, lips pressed into a tired line, a couple of wrinkles.
The eyes were hidden, hooded by the hat.
If I were to meet him in the street in the daytime and in different clothes, I wouldn't have recognized him. He was good at camouflaging.
He didn't waste a second. "Would you like to move forward, Miss Holt?"
I looked for the handle on the door, just to be sure it wasn't locked. "Is this how you guys always do business?"
"Discretion is our priority. I'm sure you understand the reasons. Neither one of us wants to be caught."
I wanted to laugh, or cry, or both. Instead, I stared at the outlines of the city sliding by outside, blurred by the glass. "What happens next if I say yes?"
"First, you confirm. Then, we begin. If you decline, you'll never see me again."
The car turned sharply, and I braced myself against the seat. "How do you know my last name?"
The man made a sound, a lot like laughter. "That's part of the job."
I squeezed my knees together and tried to remember the reasons for being here.
Ronan's grin. Jerico's cold hands. Caius's breath against my ear.
All of them, untouched and unpunished, living their beautiful lives while I survived on pharmaceuticals and therapy.
The meds dependance didn't bother me as much as my inability to do what I'd been doing before I met them.
I wanted my career at Evernight Events back.
I'd given that company my soul and now I couldn't get a job even at the worst event planning firm in town.
"Miss Holt?" the man called.
I took a deep breath and said, "Okay, yes. Let's do this."
"Very well." Pause. "You understand the risks, Miss Holt?"
"I do."
"Good. We like to be transparent." He pulled out something from the folds of his coat. "Take this," he instructed.
My hand shook when he placed the object into my palm. I looked at it and realized it was a phone. The old kind. In the crime thrillers they called them burners.
"We'll contact you on this," the man explained.
"It has two numbers. One is my secretary and another marked as Customer Service is for the operative assigned to your case.
You do not call either one unless our operation puts you in danger.
And if it does, you call secretary first. Unless he's not available or can't help you, you don't touch the second number.
We can't have anything tie you to the operative. "
My eyes were focused on the phone. My pulse was too fast. "And the money?"
"Secretary will be in touch regarding payment details."
The car continued rolling, tracing some invisible path through the city's arteries, then it came to a stop.
"Have a good rest of your evening, Miss Holt," the man said, pointing at the door.
I pushed it open, realizing that we'd pulled back into the same parking lot. The sedan stood beside my car. I grabbed my groceries and got out. The burner was clenched tight in my fist.
I didn't move until the vehicle was gone and the evening air felt like air again.
Three days after I'd given every last penny of my settlement to a mysterious man waiting for me in the park where I jogged, I was cross-legged on my couch, a blanket wrapped around me, laptop balanced on my knees.
I'd been like this for hours—enough time for my thighs to go numb and for the recommended daily limit of screen time to collapse and beg for mercy.
I was supposed to be researching a list of venues for a client who wanted a vintage-y gala, but instead I scrolled through endless feeds, searching for any news about Ronan Wick, Jerico Thorne, or Caius Valmont.
There was nothing. Not a single update. Not a scandal, not a mugshot, not even a passive-aggressive sub-thread.
I clicked through every news site I could find, even the conspiracy forums, desperate for any ripple in the water. But the surface was glass.
A cold pit formed in my gut. Had the Bureau just taken my money and vanished?
I checked the burner again, the one with its own little altar spot on the coffee table. The display was blank.
Was all this just some elaborate scam?
There's an organization. They call themselves the Bureau.
They help people like...well, people who've been failed by the system. For a price.
My mind went back to the night at The Crypt. Brynn was there along with two of her other friends—Vex and Rosemary. Had they all been in on it or had Lena fooled everyone?
The keys on my laptop clacked. I opened a new tab and started searching for Bureau urban legend, but only got stories about insurance companies and the FBI.
Was I being catfished by my own desperation?
My real phone buzzed. But the screen indicated it was Geneva, my boss and the owner of Lark & Lark.
I felt my brain resist the idea of answering. Geneva only called when something was on fire and I didn't have enough mental bandwidth to deal with it right now. I was spiraling, I realized.
Still, the responsible woman in me who respected the only company in town to employ me answered. "Hey, Geneva."
"Kimmy, thank God. I wasn't sure you'd pick up. I'm sorry. I know it's late." Her voice was shooting out at a hundred words per second. "Do you have a minute?"
I heard engines in the background and the sound of wind. She was driving, and likely high on cold brew.
"Sure." I closed the laptop and dragged the blanket tighter around me.
"Okay, so here's the situation," Geneva began. "My father had a stroke. He's in a hospital up in Ukiah. It's a mess."
"Oh God. I'm sorry to hear about that. Is he okay?" I'd never met the man but I liked him from her stories alone. He looked like Santa Claus in all of the pictures Geneva shared with me.
"Thanks, hon," she said. "And honestly, we don't know yet. Mom is terrified and my brother is useless in crisis. I need to leave tonight and I have that mixer in a few days. I remember you don't like socializing, but I really need you to go in my place."
My mind skidded. "No," I said, immediate and instinctive. "I can't. You know I don't do public events." This was the one point in my employment contract we had discussed at length when I came to Lark & Lark.
There was a pause. Perhaps, Geneva wasn't expecting this much resistance. "Kimmy, I wouldn't ask unless it was an emergency."
"I'm not—" The word choked up. "I'm not good at crowds."
"You're better than Terry," she shot back, and I could hear the frustration in her voice. "If I send Terry, he'll get wasted and pitch his dumb holographic tour idea to the potential investors. And that'll scare them off for good."
Anxiety washed over me. I stood up, letting the blanket drop. "I just— Geneva, I'm really not fit for this. We agreed I'd do work from home when you hired me."
"You are a great fit, hon. You've done this before. I don't know why you left Evernight Events, but anyone who worked there is golden in my book."
I was pacing, phone wedged against my ear. "I'm an introvert," I lied. "I needed something that suited me better, which is Lark & Lark."
She exhaled, hard. "I need you, Kimmy. It's one night. Just schmooze. Talk up our brand. Drink a club soda and leave before 10 PM. Please."
My brain whirled. The idea of a crowded room, of handshakes and eye contact, made my skin want to jump off my bones. I tried to think of a way out. "I could do the follow-up emails, or—"
"Kimmy, I have no one else. If we don't secure an investor, the next six months will be very tough. I won't be able to give you guys a raise. Or worse."
I bit my tongue. Geneva was good at this, at making you feel like the only person in the world who could save her and her tiny company.
I didn't care about a raise. I was very good at being frugal now, but there were others.
And I guess the idea of my coworkers suffering because of my cowardice did the job.
"All right," I said. "I'll do it. But this will be the only time."
She made a sound that was half-relief, half-sob. "Thank you. I owe you, big time. I promise you won't regret it."
"I expect you to buy me a lifetime supply of cheese," I said, trying to make it a joke, but my voice didn't get there.
"Deal," Geneva replied. "I'll text you the details. Dress code is cocktail. You got this, Kimmy. You're the best."
"Yeah," I said, already regretting agreeing.
When the call ended, I just stood there, breathing heavily. The room was silent except for the soft hiss of my air purifier. I looked down at the burner phone, still dead. Then at my regular phone. A new notification popped up on the screen.
It was a money transfer from Geneva and the memo.
For a killer outfit—treat yourself.