Raven Chapter 18 Stolen Shirts and Shipping Manifests 216 #3
I never bothered to hop a ride when I was a ghost. Why would I?
Tagging along in the group SUV was more entertaining, and his office was only like a mile away.
Floating over took seconds if I got bored.
Which I rarely ever did because watching him do paperwork is top on the list of things to bore me.
“Why do you even drive to work when it’s less than a mile away?” I ask. It’s the main reason I’ve never seen this rolling bunker before.
“It’s a security protocol,” he states, his tone leaving no room for debate.
“When we first started, I walked. There were… altercations. It became clear that the only secure route is from our garage to the building’s garage.
This vehicle, like all of our vehicles, has been retrofitted with ballistic glass and armored panels.
A sidewalk is a tactical vulnerability.”
“Of course it is.” I mumble as I stare out the window for the insanely quick car ride.
We make our way into the building’s underground parking garage before we’re out, and he’s leading me to the elevator, his hand hovering over my lower back the entire time.
When I look up, I see he’s scanning our surroundings as if something is going to jump out at any minute.
I don’t think it will, but that doesn’t mean his little show of protectiveness doesn’t make that fizzy feeling inside me start up in earnest.
Once in the elevator, he inserts a key, much like at their apartment, and we’re making our way up to the 20th floor. The brushed metal tomb whisks us upward with a pressure that makes my new stomach lurch.
When the doors open, the world is vastly different than the one we just left in the parking garage.
The air is still and cool as we stand on the very end of a long, terrifyingly minimalist hallway.
There are some conference rooms and other offices along the walls, many are labeled with the guys’ names and a few others.
No one else seems to be here yet. Which makes sense, it’s way too early to be anywhere but in bed.
The only sound is the soft, precise click of Forrest's dress shoes on the polished floor.
His office is the last door—the one at the end of the hall, tucked away like the final boss in a video game.
At home, he plants himself between the front door and anyone who might threaten his family.
Here, he's buried so deep in the building you'd have to go through half the company to get to him.
I wish I'd paid more attention to this version of him. The few times I've watched him work, it was just spreadsheets and phone calls. And that was just at home . The thought of sitting at work while he does the same thing for eight hours? Hard pass.
No, all of my time in this building has been spent watching Anik pummel new recruits. That, at least, was entertaining.
“Today, you are a Human Systems Integration Specialist,” he states as we stop at his door. “Observe. Take notes. Do not engage. The pendant will do the rest.”
I nod. “So, are you just going to be doing paperwork all day like at home?”
He opens the door, and we step into a space that is, predictably, minimalist.
This man needs a plant.
A single, rebellious succulent would be a start.
The room is a glorified library, with towering shelves of dark wood crammed with books.
The only furnishings are a pair of leather chairs in the far corner and his massive, matching desk.
An articulated arm holding four monitors sprouts from its side, poised for battle.
The only concessions to visitors are two simple grey chairs facing the desk.
This is where productivity comes to have all its fun surgically removed.
Seriously, this place smells like old books and repressed feelings. The former I appreciate. The latter? Not so much. Even if it is incredibly on brand.
Though, I would love to see all the guys locked in here with no way out.
Anik would somehow have had the forethought to bring a homemade dinner with him.
Emerson would find the lack of vintage tech baffling.
Dre would be ordering a more ergonomic, stylish chair for Forrest. And Kieran would be scaling the bookshelves in protest.
Well, my new mission is clear: form an interior decorating rebel alliance.
My two recruits? Kieran for the sheer anarchy and Dre for the furnishings.
Anik and Em can join if they want, of course.
There's always a need for good food and Frankenstein tech.
I bet we'd have this entire floor warmed up in a week.
Forrest motions to the chairs tucked away in the corner, and I make my way over as he rifles through his desk. By the time I'm sitting comfortably, he has a pen and paper in front of me and is gearing up for a lecture.
"Yeah, yeah. Just sit here and take notes." I wave him off, then raise an eyebrow. "Is there going to be a quiz later?"
Why a part of me wants there to be a quiz is baffling. Quizzes are not sexy.
Well, not necessarily .
I could definitely see Emerson making a test hotter than Hades itself. Now all I can think about is being edged every time I get a question wrong and rewarded for the right answers.
Okay, reel it in, you hussy.
"It is important to look like you are taking notes. If you have anything of importance to write down, then please, do so." He reaches into his pocket and hands me a wrapped bar of some sort. "I also packed a snack. It's important to maintain focus."
I just blink up at him. It's six in the morning. If he thinks I’m surviving longer than a few hours on a snack then this man is as deluded as I am.
His computer makes a little chirp noise, and he leaves me without another word. Settling in behind his desk, he pulls out a stack of papers, sticks something into his ear, then reaches forward and clicks a button that makes the largest screen glow.
I watch, mesmerized, as he handles a video call with a group of people speaking rapid-fire Japanese.
The thing in his ear must be a translator, because his responses are immediate, his tone respectful yet utterly unyielding.
The fire that his quiet authority started in me earlier now burns a little hotter.
He commands the room without ever raising his voice.
“The terms are non-negotiable. Our security protocols are our product. Please set up another meeting once you’ve reviewed them and are ready to sign.” He terminates the call with a finality that makes me shiver.
I’m so engrossed I don’t realize over an hour has bled away until a junior analyst named Evans rushes in, panicked. “Someone left their station logged in last night! The system is flagging an eighty percent chance of a data breach!”
“Breathe, Evans,” Forrest says, his calm a stark contrast to the man’s heaving shoulders. “Initiate protocol Cerberus. I’ll handle the client notifications and loop in Emerson to verify. I’ll have Anik check for physical activity in and around the building that night.”
I watch as his calm seems to infect the formerly panicked Evans. He walks out of the office looking a lot more sure and confident than he did coming in. A few more employees drift in for signatures or approvals before Forrest finally sinks into the dreaded paperwork.
I have absolutely no idea what he’s doing, but now that there are no people to watch, I find myself becoming dangerously bored. I get up and start munching on the wrapped bar he gave me. It’s some sort of nut bar that isn’t bad, but also doesn’t compare to anything else I’ve eaten.
Well, except maybe coffee, but in comparison to Anik’s cooking? It’s a culinary tragedy.
My fingers run absentmindedly over the spines of his books, pausing to note the ones with cracked spines. He may be too much of a suspicious bastard to open up to me just yet, but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn something anyway.
Turns out, his love for Jane Austen goes beyond the 1995 Pride and Prejudice miniseries.
The book is just as well-loved, nestled right next to Persuasion.
By the looks of it, everything on this shelf is a favorite.
The next one looks like it’s been rebound—the cover’s in way better shape than the pages.
It’s called Meditations by some guy with a fancy name.
I flip through it, but it’s all duty and self-discipline, so I tuck it back.
I know myself well enough to also know a lost cause when I see one.
There are a bunch more super dry books from guys with fancy names like Seneca and Epictetus. I pull out a massive book by some guy named Victor Hugo. The blurb looks promising, but one chapter in and I'm lost
I need to resurrect these guys and book them a cooking class with Anik. Sure, they have fantastic prose. Lots of fancy words that make your brain all zingy and tired. But they're also uncomfortably dense and dry. Anik never needs to make someone's brain hurt to get a point across. Double whammy.
My fingers trail over The Count of Monte Cristo and The Aeneid before they land on the most beautiful books I've ever seen.
This set of four looks like jewels tucked in among bland rocks.
Pressed velvet covers, inlaid gold lettering, beautiful artwork.
All by some guy named J.R.R. Tolkien. The name rings a bell.
When I was in the human realm, the movies from these books were a big deal. I once watched someone throw a whole weekend party with themed food just to watch the trilogy. I got distracted before they began by a guy running naked down the street while his girlfriend chased him with a rolling pin.
She’d come home to him in bed with another woman. The drama was fantastic. So worth missing the nerd party.