Chapter Five
They followed the oversized arrows that led them into a one-way only stairwell that deposited them onto the bustling sidewalk.
DC foot traffic made for epic people-watching, not just when he and Vanka were on the job collecting intel.
Power suits and tourist gaggles wove together.
Kids cried for hot dogs. Randos blocked the sidewalk to study their maps as bike messengers hopped between the sidewalk and the street.
Vanka stood out in the crush of foot traffic the way that Vanka always did, beautiful yet subtly sharp enough to slice through the waterfall of people.
There were times Spiker watched purely from an analytical position as strangers gave her room, curving their path around her.
Other times, he saw the situation from up close, unable to veer away from her, like the moon trapped by the earth’s gravitational pull. That was the power of Vanka.
Not that he’d ever tell her so. He’d never hear the end of it. But to himself, he could admit her intangible abilities were helpful assets to have in a partner.
They skirted the center of what looked like a middle school reunion. The children wore identical red polo shirts, khaki shorts, and white athletic shoes.
“Here we are.” Vanka pivoted toward the wide stairs that led to six massive white columns. “Natural History.”
“You took me to the Smithsonian?” Of course, that made sense given their discussion, but in what world did they daytrip to a museum?
“Don’t worry.” She locked her arm in his. “Learning something new won’t hurt that much.”
“I haven’t been to this place since I was a kid.”
“Oh yeah?”
He nodded. “Eighth-grade trip.”
They joined the line behind a quiet elderly couple.
A moment later, two women with young children broke the relative quiet.
Spiker glanced back and marveled at the National Mall.
Almost everything looked the same as it had when he was twelve.
At the time, he’d thought he might grow up to be an architect.
He hadn’t had the words to explain how the Mall’s tan gravel paths and expanse of green grass balanced the imposing, stark-white neoclassical buildings.
As an adult, he appreciated the balance but understood that he wasn’t meant to create and design spaces.
He didn’t search for a balance. He didn’t need it—at least not usually.
“Anyone over the age of sixty-five or with visitors under five,” a guard called from the top step. “New line starts here.”
Their line-mates left for the shorter line. The afternoon heat baked Spiker’s shirt against his back. He and Vanka stepped closer to the museum’s gates and the promise of air conditioning. After another minute, he could see the security checkpoint behind the large columns. “Progress.”
They climbed another two steps, and she asked, “With school or family?”
Spiker returned his attention to Vanka. “Hm?”
“Your eighth-grade holiday—school or family?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Little bit of both, I suppose.”
“What does—” The line surged again, and they stepped onto the shadowed portico.
Air-conditioning poured from the nearby doors.
Security guards gestured for visitors to prepare their wallets and bags for x-ray and then, seemingly based on how well Spiker’s line-mates followed directions, directed them to varying checkpoints.
Apparently, he and Vanka aced the visual rule-follower’s inspection and were pushed through the most expedient checkpoint.
“Be back in a moment.” Vanka gestured toward the sign for restrooms and stroller parking.
The crowd magically parted to let her pass. His eyes stayed on her until she rounded the corner. An elbow jostled him from behind. His first thought was of an amateur pickpocket. The elbow nailed him in the back again, and Spiker turned as the culprit launched away—but not from him.
His eyes narrowed. Three red-polo-wearing boys stood at the back of their group.
They faced one another like the points of a triangle, laughing in that cruel way that only middle school bullies could.
Spiker followed their gazes and stopped on one of their classmates.
Same shirt. Same shorts. Same shoes. Half their weight, if the kid was lucky.
The situation didn’t take a genius to decipher.
The closest triangle point called over to the boy, “We were just playing.”
“Won’t happen again,” another added, crossing his heart without the decency to stop laughing.
The third boy slapped the heart-crosser on the back, and they doubled over with laughter.
Spiker willed the boy to keep his chin up and ignore the bullies, but that worked about as well as overlooking the problem.
It was odd to see bullying from an adult’s perspective, especially when the nearby, responsible adults didn’t seem to notice.
Spiker checked his phone but didn’t find anything that could hold his attention.
Cruel laughter erupted again. Spiker wondered if the eat-shit-and-die look that he used at work was too much for prepubescent jerks. But he couldn’t have caught their eye if he’d tried. The bullied kid had taken a swing and been knocked to the floor. His triangle of tormenters was closing in.
Spiker growled under his breath, waiting for a teacher or chaperone to step in. None did. He counted to five and decided, Fuck it.
“Excuse me.” He peeled a bully back by the collar of his red polo shirt and stepped forward.
The smaller boy’s eyes widened, almost brimming with tears, pleading with Spiker to back away, silently screaming that Spiker would only make things worse.
That would be true if anyone but Spiker had stepped in.
Or, hell, maybe Spiker was wrong and too full of himself to know shit, and his arrogance would get this kid’s ass kicked later in the day. But not likely.
Spiker held his hand out to the boy.
A bully snickered. “Take it, baby—”
Spiker glared at the bully and killed the taunt, then he lifted his chin as if to say to the kid on the floor that everything would be okay. After too long a moment, he helped the kid to his feet. “Mind if I have a word?”
The boy didn’t say yes, but he didn’t turn away and yell something like “stranger danger.” Thank God. Vanka would kick his ass if he got arrested before she’d proven her point. Whatever it might be.
The bullies shuffled their feet, perhaps sensing they’d stumbled into a potential problem that might linger.
Would Spiker find a chaperone? A teacher?
Would they get detention? Or whatever else that might ruin their high?
Ignoring them wasn’t what they expected, but it was what they needed.
His attention stayed on the kid in front of him. “I just want a word.”
“Are you a chaperone?” His voice trembled.
“No.”
“A parent?’
Spiker snorted. “No.”
“Then why—”
He cleared his throat and took a knee in front of the kid. Eye to eye, Spiker explained, “I was the kid everyone picked on—”
The kid’s face turned scarlet, but embarrassment didn’t hide his disbelief.
He turned away. Spiker caught his wrist, knowing a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t touch a kid he didn’t know.
But he also had a thousand reasons to finish what needed to be said.
What someone should have told him when he was too small and too smart for his own good.
He jerked his arm away, eyes wide, but he didn’t leave. “What do you want?”
“To tell you what I wish someone would’ve told me.”
Vanka hadn’t worn the right footwear for a museum hop. She leaned on the bathroom counter to relieve the stress on the balls of her feet. She didn’t dare take off the heels and stretch her toes; she might not get the damn—albeit cute—shoes back on without risk of a blister.
She straightened up and washed her hands.
As the bubbles frothed, she inspected her reflection.
What had she done? The Smithsonian trip wasn’t the source of her uncertainty.
If anything, Spiker needed his world expanded.
The real problem had been her invitation, almost an insistence, that he stay at her house.
A woman reached for the soap dispenser. Vanka sidestepped, pulled from her thoughts. She checked her hair and tried not to overthink her motives as she dried her hands on the way out of the lavatory.
The click-clack of her steps echoed on the marble floor until she entered the fray of stroller parking, group rendezvous points, and crowds ready to leave or start their visit. A headache throbbed at the back of her neck. Why had she agreed to let Spiker join her at home?
Vanka caught sight of him, on his knee, in a deep conversation with a child, and she stopped as if a train conductor had pulled the emergency brake. Foot traffic skidded and split around her as though Vanka were a fork in the road.
Spiker’s deep, emotion-stained face and the wary-hopeful gaze of the boy held her still.
She waited until their conversation ended.
Then, with his head held high, the boy walked toward the gathered students.
Spiker stayed on one knee, watching, then dropped his head with a short shake and rose, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Someone jostled Vanka from behind, snapping her back into reality. She refocused on Spiker. He stood as though nothing had happened, near where they’d separated. His face remained blank, eyes focused on the mammoth elephant in the center of the rotunda.
Vanka approached, skirting between the large man who stood out in the crowd and the students who followed a tour guide toward Ocean Hall.
As though he sensed her approach, Spiker glanced over, not betraying what had occurred over the last few minutes.
His chiseled features retained their handsome, though disinterested, composure.
The steadiness in his dark gaze stayed on her without offering a clue as to what had happened.
Spiker was hiding something from her, and the unknown formed a knot under her sternum.