24. Calista
Chapter 24
Calista
O f all the places I expect him to take me to, the last one is a gorgeous three-story house in Brooklyn’s Park Slope.
The sun’s starting to spread a little light into the horizon, and even though I slept on the plane, I’m exhausted. But I’m still not exactly ready to pass out. My nerves jitter too much for that.
At least we’re not in DC.
He hasn’t handed me over.
Yet.
Smith shows me around the place—living area and kitchen on the first floor, study and a more informal living room on the second, a gym, and finally a top floor that houses a master bedroom with a balcony. He takes me back down to the second floor and opens a door I didn’t see the first time around, one that leads to a spare room and an en suite bathroom.
“You can have this.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t have any clothes for you.”
“Is this your way of telling me you want me naked? ”
“This is my way,” he says, frowning, “of saying I’ll have stuff delivered. Let me find you something to sleep in.”
“Smith…”
He’s halfway to the door when he stops and comes back over to me. I ease my aching feet out of the stupid heels. Superpower or not, it’s time to turn back into Clark Kent.
“Yeah?”
“What are you planning to do?”
“Depends on you. Are you going to run?”
“I…” He’s not asking about a sexual game or even about him chasing me down. It’s a weird trust question. At least, I think it is. “I don’t know.”
“Your brother goes to school here.”
My heart hammers. “I’m not about to put Henry in danger.”
“Good to know.”
“Are you asking me for a truce?” I ask.
The wig’s off and he smooths fingers through my hair, the heat of him spiraling down into my flesh and bones.
Smith shifts the conversation. “I can work with you to see if this guy Trenton is alive, as long as you help with the information on the Collectors and any other big red flag sex traffickers.”
I frown. “Aren’t they all red flag?”
“You’d be surprised.”
My stomach twists and turns. He smells of sin, darkness, and smoke. Just at the edges.
I don’t know if his cynicism is making my defenses rise or if I’m turned on by his closeness.
Maybe both.
“And the weapon?” I ask.
“That you don’t know anything about.”
“Smith. ”
He lets out a deep sigh. “I’m not sure yet. There’s interest, and…” He stops, steps back, and runs a hand through his hair. “The people I work with, they’re interested, too. But the destruction or betrayal of the United States isn’t exactly in our wheelhouse. This is my country and home. I’ll fucking defend it with my last breath. So if you’re thinking I’m going to do the wrong thing here, I say that mistrust is fired right back at you.”
“I wouldn’t!”
His smile is grim. “Exactly.” He leans in. “I’m asking for a ceasefire between you and me, and then we can see.”
I don’t ask about what. I don’t dare.
“And?”
“If I give you access to a computer, you’ll help me with anything to do with the Collectors?”
I stare up at him. I need that help, too. Symbiosis. I get what I can find on the dark web, dig into people, and he… he can open doors. “To bring them down?”
“Fuck yes.” Smith paces a moment. “And you won’t run?”
I give him a slanted look. “What if I do?”
“There’s a time for play, Calista, and today isn’t it. Stay in.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
After my shower, I find a laptop lying on my bed along with some clothes. Just shorts and a T-shirt, probably used for running or the gym. They’re clean but old, with small holes and worn patches in parts.
One thing I’ve learned about Smith is that he’s meticulous. And he dresses perfectly for every occasion. If he thinks the clothes as is will stop me from running, then he doesn’t have the handle on me he thinks he has .
I dress quickly and walk toward the front door. I grasp the handle, analyzing the four locks. They look easy enough to break through. An alarm system sits on the foyer’s wall to the right but there’s no flashing light. Maybe it’s off.
I could be out of here in seconds.
It’s a test, a trap.
A man like Smith wouldn’t leave me in here without setting a trap.
Plus, I remind myself, there’s an opportunity where I could maybe make things right. A possibility that I could destroy a monster and all of the people who had something to do with my mother’s death.
Revenge is a dish best served cold. So they say, whoever the hell “they” are.
And…
“Is there anywhere to hide from him?” I mutter to myself.
Maybe, maybe not. But I can use him. The computer. So I drop my hand and head back up the stairs. I hit the gym for an hour, and then when I’ve worn away the aggression and anger and all the other emotions festering inside, I grab the laptop and go to the living room to work.
The very first thing I do is send Henry a message. He won’t respond. It’s just a post online in a freecycle site, for a book. Scary Stories for Cool Kids . A book that we had as kids. It’s out of print, and I put up the price for it to thirty-nine dollars. Our code for safe and sound. Ninety-one is trouble, and so on. It’s something we’ve always used. He’ll see it. No one will think twice.
Henry’s got a hefty collection of old books, so we decided long ago it’s the perfect cover. He’s always had online alerts for various books, some he just watches, wanting perfect editions. And some other ones? It became a way for us to talk without anyone else knowing .
Then I check up on Senator Riley, but there’s no message. But one thing I won’t dare do is open my own apps, the ones I just designed for laughs, and the ones hiding code for the things I collected on the weapon.
When I’m done, I lose myself in the dark web, so much so that I jump when the pressure changes in the room right as Smith speaks.
“Anything good?”
I set the computer down, then stand on shaky legs. “Not really. Chatter is chatter. Nothing noteworthy that I can see.”
His mouth quirks but the smile doesn’t reach his blue eyes. “You didn’t look at what you have, did you?”
“What good is doing that? It’s puzzle pieces.” Some are from Johnny. Intel from him he asked me to hold on to. But the other stuff I found, poked into?
I wanted it because I like puzzles, because I’m a hacker.
I didn’t think it through.
“Let me ask you something,” Smith says. “Did you sell smaller blueprints that already are circulating as hardware on the market?”
“No.” I shoot him a glare. “Just?—”
“Just?”
“I have information that hasn’t left me.” My hand curls. “No one else has seen any of it.”
“Like encoded blueprints probably meant for higher-ups.” He shakes his head as he straightens his tie. “You fucking…”
“Idiot, yeah. I know how it looks,” I say quietly, “but I didn’t steal, I didn’t do… the things it looks like.”
“Like you took what you could to sell to the highest bidder, you and Johnny? Or that maybe you had Johnny killed? We know he’s not dead, but does the CIA?”
I give him a sharp look .
Smith raises a dark brow. “I’m playing Devil’s advocate. Don’t look at me like I murdered your best friend.”
“Did you?” I ask, swallowing.
His expression changes to curious as he goes to the small bar and pours a drink. But he just holds the glass. “Do you? Have one?”
Yes , I want to hurl at him. My brother . But I don’t. He’s my twin, my family, but he also has a life I’ve never had or wanted. Computers were my escape, and when I did have friends, I…
When.
A shudder passes through me. And I look down at my hands. This is stuff he could easily look up, no doubt the CIA has a full-on dossier of who I’ve befriended all the way back to kindergarten. “No, I… Shit, I don’t have any friends, not anymore.” To my horror, my lip trembles.
“Could be worse, you could have me.”
A small sob breaks free. I don’t know why. At all.
Smith sighs and sets down his untouched drink. “It’s been a long two days. Come here.”
And I do.
Why, I don’t know. But he’s got a hold on me. The thing inside me that keeps me separate from others, that creates the little moat around me crumbles, and I stand in front of him, gazing upward.
“Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing a thumb under my eye and the tear that’s probably there. “Don’t. I didn’t… I’m not good with kids.”
I’m not wearing shoes. It doesn’t stop me. I slam my foot down, hard as I can on his, and then I spring back. “I’m not a kid.”
“You’re twenty-four.”
“And lived a life that most thirty-four-year-olds haven’t, so don’t patronize me, old man.” I shove him for good measure. “You’re not good with people .”
Smith captures my hands. “True. But you’re fucking ornery as shit.”
“Asshat.”
“Come here.”
“Why?” I whisper. “So you can pull down my barriers and make me like you before you hand me over?”
“No, we both know you might want me, but like me? It’ll never happen.”
We stare at each other, and he rests his head lightly against mine.
“Maybe,” he adds, “I just need to forget all the shit for a night.”
“Go raid an old people’s home.”
“Banned.”
Laughter bubbles free. “Because you’re a pervert.”
“I know.”
We’re spinning, orbiting each other, keeping away from the reality of the situation, the truth of why I’m here and what he’s going to do. And that nagging voice in my head keeps barking about how he wants all my information, not just on the Collectors, but the weapons.
But right now, it’s all outside the window, looking in. The questions, the fears, and heat pulsates in me, throbbing deep, sending tingling, sweeping sensations along my skin.
His fingers skim the line of my jaw and my head tips up.
Smith kisses me.
It’s slow and both without reason and full of intention. It’s a kiss that wants and also gives. And I sink into it, kissing him back, mouth open, tongue seeking his. They touch, dance, and a thrill slides through me.
When he lifts his head, my feet are barely touching the ground and my heart’s slamming hard against my ribs. I want to kiss him again. Right or wrong, I want more.
He’s already untangling from me. And I hit the earth again. “Do you want something to eat?”
“No. I raided your kitchen earlier.”
“Of course you did.”
If anyone peeked in, this would seem to be a mundane moment of domestic bliss. But underneath? Wild things. “Where were you?”
Smith shakes his head. “I’m fucking tired. And you should grab another nap. We have things to do tomorrow.” He stops. “I’m not handing you over. Not yet. You’re helping me and I got nowhere today.”
“If we have a truce?—”
“I had meetings, and there are more tonight. And you? You’ll continue to pretend to be my wife or sex toy, depending on where we are.”
“Really,” I say dryly.
“Really. You’re the one insisting all hands on deck.” Then he pulls a list from his pocket. “See what you can find on these names.”
I take the list and spread it open.
My breath catches in my throat.
I know who some of these people are.
Collectors.