38. Drama level Telenovela
drama level: telenovela
Mirren
Despite knowing better and the warning bells clanging in my mind, Mom and I have been devising a strategy around our op—there, I said it—our. Thus the tolling bells.
It’s not that Mom wouldn’t be suspect showing up where she doesn’t belong. It’s that she isn’t employed anymore, at least technically, so she can’t get her wrist slapped. It would take someone who wildly outranks Brody for her to stand down.
Could it reflect on me? Perhaps. But June Jones has never been controllable. So even if I were to advise against it, it doesn’t mean she’d listen.
My handler knows this. I’ve warned him about it a dozen times. I’ve asked not to be partnered with her. At least I have plausible deniability. The perfect defense for treason. Even my sense of humor doesn’t buy what I’m selling.
So, off the clock and without the agency’s resources, I research how one would hack power substations. It’s a chance I have to take, even with all the surveillance on U.S. citizens. There’s no intent. Even I know that lack of intent as my grand defense if I’m hauled in won’t do much.
As it turns out, it’s shockingly easy to hijack a transistor. The fact that we haven’t been malware attacked or hijacked for ransom means people are lazy, not that they can’t figure it out. Score one for the death of hustle culture and overachievers, because, seriously, it wouldn’t take much.
In fact, there’s chatter on little known, but often used, social feeds where outliers are known to chat. And one thing keeps coming up over and over again… Texas.
The state decided more than nine decades ago to avoid federal overreach.
Texas being Texas, I suppose. Roughly ten percent of the area is on the U.S.
grid or interconnected with it. That leaves ninety percent of their people and all of the center of the state on one independent grid.
And if you’re a malevolent actor, that means a test run on a smaller target before moving on to a bigger one.
Without a doubt, the conversations indicate that an attempt was aborted only because the crew knew they weren’t ready, not due to a change of heart or police intervention. And there are plans to move again.
In the next couple of weeks.
Which means, on my own dime, with no cover other than my mother, if I want answers, I’ll have to make my own way.
Enter a new alter ego, Janis Woolford, a woman with a terrible name, a rotten attitude, and a penchant for anarchy.
Creating new accounts and beginning to interact takes a day or two. Trust takes a little longer. But I need this first shot to work out. When I’m reinstated—and I will be reinstated—I’ll already be embedded and able to do something meaningful on real issues.
By Sunday morning, I’ve accomplished what I needed to and I’m recovering from Thursday evening family game night that was pushed to last night. Settlers of Catan got raucous with too much wheat, too many sheep, and—off the game board—way too much tequila.
Davie hosted. He was generous with the pours but massively distracted most of the night.
Mikey ribbed and teased me every time my phone dinged. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was seditious actors responding to my bait in covert social chatrooms.
Even so, I fell asleep to Strider coaxing an orgasm out of me with my own fingers and hearing him groan his own.
Many nights are like this. But all of them end with us talking about our days, catching each other up on pieces of our lives…
deep conversations about who we are, what we want, and how we plan to get there.
I wake up this morning the same way I do each morning… a sleepy Strider calls to wish me a good morning, tells me he’s thinking of me, and offers some little tidbit—this morning’s is “be a brutal ray of fucking sunshine”—before he signs off to go for a run.
I won’t argue the results. I love his body, the lean cut muscles, the rippling forearms, the firm pecs that are still soft enough to sleep on. But the man inside the stunning body?
He’s who I’m falling in love with.
And he’s the one who lives so far away.
Strider
I take a longer than normal route on my run. In fact, I drive to my parents’ neighborhood on the outskirts and hit one of the old routes I used during high school cross country. It’s familiar enough that I can let my mind wander.
Work is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced… or heard of for that matter. Theft, strangulation, audit, then investigation within ten business days is unreal. Drama level: telenovela, and right in the public eye for all to see.
Mirren missing a period is the easiest part of that timeline.
College. MBA. Running the company. All of that came easy. My personal life, though, that’s always been harder. I know what I want and refuse to settle. I’m all-in when it comes to what’s right in life. And I’m all in for and with Mirren Jones.
Apparently, the situation rectified itself as of this morning. She doesn’t need to know I noted it on my calendar. If she doesn’t want a baby, we’ll be smart. If she does, I’ll be ready.
There’s been nothing further from the investigation by the state or the audit from the contractor’s board. Thank goodness for their strict adherence to banker’s hours, because government efficiency on weekends would do me in.
There was a response from the association leadership on my resignation early last week. They were displeased—their word, not mine—but it makes no difference. My life. My choices. I have no accountability to some random organization.
Come to think of it, the timing of my audit is suspicious when paired with their reply.
And while the state agency responsible for licensure could have randomly decided, chances are they moved on a tip from the public.
My suspicions may never be confirmed, but I lean toward thinking they had a part.
I’m pissed, but more so, I’m tired. Tired of bullshit. Tired of running on adrenaline. Tired of being on the receiving end of what I don’t deserve.
My shoes pound the asphalt, and my brain hones in on exactly one thing. Freckles. The woman has changed the trajectory of where I thought my life would lead. And like an arrow nocked on a bowstring, my course has been set.
That thought leads me to point number two—my impending move to Alabama. Words I never thought would cross my mind feel like a well-worn pair of shoes, not simply broken in, but molded to perfection.
With that, my feet, of their own accord, turn me back to the home I grew up in. And my dad on his back deck with something on the grill after Sunday church.
My truck in the driveway must’ve tipped him off because he’s got more than enough smoked sausage and chicken to feed six, not the two or three they normally cook for.
“Let me grab a water,” I offer to him as he mans the grill.
“Grab me one, would ya?”
I kiss Mom on the cheek and grab two waters, lifting them in explanation.
“Tell your father the smashed potatoes and salad will be ready, but the broccoli might not be if he’s early.”
“Will do.” Back through the sliding glass door, I extend a bottle to Dad and take a long pull on mine, draining it quickly, my teeth aching at the cold. I relay Mom’s message and watch him flip the meat with tongs sturdier than any we ever had growing up.
“What brings you by, son?”
Why does anything have to “bring me by,” I want to ask. Instead, I avoid the word games and cut to the chase. “I met a woman and I plan to move to be with her. I need to talk with you about what that means for EP, and how you want to handle things if you want to be involved.”
He pivots comically slow, his face slack with disbelief before morphing into a beaming smile.
He sets down his utensils and hugs me, slapping me on the back with an open palm twice in the process.
“Happy for you, Strider. Can’t wait to hear everything.
But…” He sighs and takes a sip of his water.
“When you say moving, do you mean out of town?”
“Out of state. Alabama specifically. If I were in state, I could still manage Electric Peoria.”
“Alabama?” He mutters to himself. “Florida. Colorado. Diane is going to struggle.”
“You could always downsize.” At his look, I add, “Have a couple of places.”
He bats that suggestion away as if it’s a pesky gnat buzzing his face. “Our life is here. Tell me about your girl. Then we can figure out work.”
We talk until Mom comes out with a platter for the chicken and sausage, and we all meander inside for a Sunday family lunch that hits the spot even with the chaos of the last week, the hunger of my run, and the anticipation of what’s to come.
I drive home after offering to do the dishes and being shooed away by Mom who’s not taking the news nearly as well as Dad is.
I scan my house as I park, always on alert for O’Neill and where he could pop up. With nothing out of place, I enter through my garage and mudroom and am in the living room, heading for a much-needed shower when I stop dead in my tracks at the voice from the chair in the corner.
“Strider Anderson, I presume?”