Chapter Thirty-One
Thirty-One
Axe
After I leave the real Josie, I spend the evening with AI Josie—or at least the most basic, bare-bones version of her avatar, which Theo sent me.
She doesn’t talk yet, nor has she been transferred to an operating system.
Right now she’s nothing more than a series of illustrations showing different emotional scenarios.
All the Josies are right here in front of me.
So close I could reach out and touch her.
I load the pictures onto my three massive computer screens and let myself be surrounded from every angle. I try to stay objective—I am evaluating a SynthoTech product, not gazing at a lass I can’t deny I have very strong feelings for.
But it’s bullshit, isn’t it?
I like Josie. More than I should. I want to protect her. I want to spend more time with her. Every time I touch myself, she’s right there. Right at the center of my mind.
But that’s as far as I can or will go. She’s my employee. Not only would I be setting myself up for a lawsuit, but I only do casual, and Josie doesn’t seem the type for casual.
A sharp knock on the door makes me damn near jump. Perched high above the street, my loft—once an old grain warehouse—now offers sweeping views of the city skyline. It’s sleek. Modern. Divided into sections: bedroom, office, kitchen, dining room, library.
The library’s where I’ve got my massive custom fireplace, my only nod to Scotland. Even with that small concession, the loft’s a far cry from some ancient castle; it’s more like a big contemporary studio.
Which is just the way I like it.
“Axe! It’s me!” Strike lets himself in, and I immediately regret giving him a key, which was meant for emergencies only.
As in, if I got arrested. Not for random pop-ins.
I scramble to close all the Josies on my screens, but I’m not fast enough. He comes up behind me, takes one look, and bursts out laughing. “Dude, and I thought I had it bad.”
“I’m working. This is for work. They’re the first mock-ups from Theo.”
“Sure,” he says. “You keep telling yourself that.”
“Also, next time, use the fucking doorbell. Why are you here?” I ask. Strike walks over to the bar set up in the corner and pours himself a drink.
“Want one?” he asks, and I shake my head. And then I change my mind.
“Throw me a beer,” I say. Strike’s the one person I trust to get into my Scotch or raid the mini-fridge. Aside from the staff—who I keep as scarce as possible—he’s the only one who’s ever set foot in here.
Strike sinks into the cracked brown leather couch, pops his feet up on the coffee table, and tosses me a bottle of Imperial Stag lager.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I say, and lift an eyebrow.
“So I walk in, and you’re staring at three different pictures of Josie. One of which was zoomed in.”
“Nope. Not happening. We are not discussing this,” I say, because we are not. “It is literally my job to look at pictures of Josie.”
“Can I see your notepad? Did you write her name and draw little hearts around it? Did you write Mrs. Josie MacKenzie over and over again?”
“Fuck off and give me my fucking key and get the fuck out of my house and stop drinking my best fucking scotch.”
“It is delicious.”
“I’m going to ask you one more time: Why are you here? Book club isn’t till next week.”
“Couldn’t wait to discuss The Adventures of Captain Underpants.”
“Motherfucker, get to the point.”
“Okay, okay. I looked through those von Graf files you gave me.” Last week, I cracked into Primogen Capital’s indoor server and pulled ledgers that were hidden behind one hell of an impressive firewall in the Botox Baron’s system.
Handed them straight over to Strike—he’s better with the money trail, while I handle the tech.
We’re both deadly-as-hell assassins, and a damn good team when he’s not too busy taking the piss.
“And…” I get to my feet. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. Confirmation that von Graffenplastique is, in fact, a sex trafficker. That I can finally take him down. My fingers are itchy to grab a knife right now.
“I’m closing in. No doubt he has a ton of shady money that I haven’t yet been able to fully trace. And he’s deep in association with all the known buyers, as well as plenty of—as you Scots like to call them—unsavories. We’re seventy-five percent of the way there.”
“And the other twenty-five percent?” I’m feeling restless, ready to dispatch this guy.
The way von Graf’s had access to Gemini, even though it’s just Josie’s avatar or sketches, makes my skin crawl.
The sooner the bastard’s dead, the sooner I can be sure he’ll never get near her—virtually or, God forbid, in real life.
“I’m working on it.”
“Work faster,” I say, and Strike barks out a laugh. Fair enough. He does not work for me.
“I’m giving you a pass because I know the unique torture of being head over heels in love with someone and feeling certain you can’t have that person.”
I grab my letter opener—I know fifteen ways to kill a man with it. Strike just laughs, standing up and knocking back the rest of his drink. “Cheers for the scotch, mate.”
He salutes me, walks out my front door, and slips into the night. I click, and Josie’s back up on my computer screen. I stare at the three smiling images. Bonny lass. One word echoes over and over and over again in my head: love, love, love.