Chapter Nine #2
Spiker rubbed the back of his neck and refocused on his new wish list: stone and steel, one hell of a grill, and an ice chest within arm’s reach.
Andy opened a below-counter fridge, removed an empty, chilled tumbler, and handed it to Vanka. “Make introductions for me, Vee.”
Vee? He’d ask Vanka about that later, eyeing the familiar way she and Andy played off one another. Spiker focused on the empty tumbler in her hand, then followed her to meet the people she socialized with when they weren’t together.
“This is my friend Spiker,” she announced, then paired names to people. “That’s Morgan, Rory, Biyu, and Jay.”
The phrase “my friend Spiker” rubbed him the wrong way.
He shook it off and played his part. The group was easygoing and nothing like he’d envisioned.
Part of Spiker felt foolish for the assumptions he’d made.
Part of him felt duped. He wasn’t sure which one had a leg to stand on or would win out by the end of the night.
Vanka opened the ice chest and withdrew an unopened bottle of wine and a can of lemon-lime soda.
She reached for a hidden accessory drawer and removed a wine key, then stepped aside for Spiker.
He eyeballed the eclectic mix of beverage options and decided on a local pale ale.
Vanka uncorked the wine bottle and maintained small talk, sharing the same formulaic banter that he’d heard countless times before while they were on the clock.
Spiker made himself comfortable while she made herself a wine spritzer.
Though the conversation was one he knew by heart, there was something different that he couldn’t pinpoint.
That she made her own drink? That they weren’t subtly searching for a target or strengthening fictitious relationships to gain an upper hand?
Or perhaps he should consider the principle of Occam’s Razor. Given multiple possibilities, the simplest option was correct. He could come up with a long list of reasons that might explain what he couldn’t describe, but they all boiled down to a single bullet point: work.
This wasn’t work. Everything he knew about Vanka was. Even the times that they were between assignments and killing time, they had still been brought together by work.
Spiker uncapped his beer and took a long, cold drink as he studied the small group. Everyone had a secret. He knew Vanka’s, but what about this group? Morgan, Rory, Biyu, and Jay. The teacher. The banker. The cop. The hotel manager.
Each hid something from their neighbors, and more often than not, from the partners that they lived with day in, day out. No one truly knew another person, and that was the reason life maintained a snap, crackle, pop of excitement.
“Won’t be long now,” Andy called from the grill.
The kabobs sizzled as meat and vegetables seared against the flames.
The mouthwatering aroma of dinner filled the summer air before the grill lid shut.
He joined them on the patio and took an empty seat next to the teacher. “What’re we talking about?”
Morgan caught Andy up on everyone’s problems with the local sewer system, lamenting heavy rainfalls and a reliance on sump pumps as though the neighborhood might disappear from the map.
Spiker didn’t have neighbors. His home didn’t rely on the local government to regulate manufactured headaches, and he didn’t give a rat’s ass about overly developed suburban problems.
That was the beauty of his lake house.
Strategically, he had several ways to enter and exit the property.
If all hell broke loose in the world—total global collapse—he could rely on two natural water supplies plus a well system.
Unessential to survival but equally as important to his living standards, his dock sported jet skis, a flat-bottom pontoon fishing boat, and a performance speed boat that made the world turn into a sun-kissed blur as it hauled ass across the lake.
Yet he meshed into their debate on infrastructure and rezoning as though these were his neighbors, too. That was what he and Vanka did—seamlessly interface in any situation as though they were born into it.
He watched her sip from the wine tumbler and weigh the pros and cons of Jay’s argument. Was she acting a part? Absolutely. They didn’t know a true thing about her. Case in point—since when did Vanka pour wine and soda over ice and call that her drink?
Except, an obvious counterpoint couldn’t be ignored. This was Vanka’s neighborhood, too, and she had a stake in whatever was wrong.
Andy checked his watch and stood. “Duty calls—can you hand me a beer?”
Vanka was seated closest to the ice chest. In the midst of skewering a drainage option that had been put forth, she leaned over, quickly scanned the large selection, and pulled out a bottle with certainty.
She knew Andy’s beer of choice.
Spiker tapped his finger against his own sweating beer and watched Vanka hand the bottle to Morgan, who passed it to Andy without missing a beat. For a group of neighbors that didn’t purport themselves to be close, they had a distinctly intimate vibe.
The kabobs didn’t take long. Andy hadn’t rejoined them on the patio before they resituated to the dining area, which could have fit a basketball team.
The man took his place at the head of the table.
Spiker sized him up as the other couples split to sit on either side of him, and he and Vanka split to face one another.
The guy fit the bill of a former Marine with a knack for asking intrusive questions without raising eyebrows among casual observers.
On one hand, Spiker respected that kind of talent.
He liked working with folks who could hide in plain sight.
But on the other hand, Spiker didn’t much care to have Andy Hall and his many talents living next door to Vanka.
“You’re in deep thought.” She offered to pass the fruit salad. A hint of concern flashed in her eyes, but she smiled. “Have some. It’s world-class, absolutely amazing.”
The corners of his lips curved at the compliment, their inside joke.
“Vee outdid herself,” Andy announced, and explained to the table how he and Spiker met and how Vee hadn’t shared her lip-smacking recipe with them.
He laid the praise on a little thick. Spiker managed not to roll his eyes or explain to his new friends that Vanka—not Vee—couldn’t cook her way out of a disaster if her life depended on it.
She read his nonchalance like a well-studied book, seeing annoyance with a smidge of regret he couldn’t hide from her. Vanka loved it, mouthing, “Karma.”
He smirked. “Doesn’t change the fact that it earned me a point.”
“Intentionally driving me crazy to score a point.” Vanka lifted one palm and then the other. “Living with the consequences for the rest of the night.” She shifted her hands up and down as though balancing a scale and failing. “I think that’s a win for me even though we’re all tied up.”
“What’d you say about being tied up?” Andy interrupted with a laugh. “Sounds more interesting than the sewer issues.”
“Hardy, har. I don’t think so,” Vanka chided.
Spiker forced a friendly laugh and decided to keep a closer eye on side conversations near Andy. That was Basic Protocol 101. Something he should’ve done anyway.
Today had been a long day. Receiving their assignment at Buck’s office seemed like a millennium ago. Same with their pitstop at the museum and his conversation with the bullied kid.
Spiker hadn’t said anything life-altering, but if someone had shared his earlier words, he could’ve made more sense of what had happened to him as a child. Bullies bully to normalize their pain. It’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth. They make others feel as bad as they have felt.
Knowing why won’t change a damn thing. Understanding why helps. Bullies thrive on reactions. Don’t react. Don’t pop. Don’t explode. Then find an adult who listens.
Not all adults do that.
Not all teachers do.
But someone will, and that person will help in a way that isn’t a list of pointless orders.
Be nice.
What’s the golden rule?
Stand up for yourself.
Stop being so sensitive.
Ignore it.
Kick some ass.
Spiker had heard every suggestion and tried them all.
In the end, he could only control his actions, and that had only been mildly helpful.
Nothing changed the day-to-day hell he endured.
Life only changed when he found someone who listened, learned to understand why people acted the way they did, and then smothered his bully with love.
Underneath all that anger had been a lot of hurt.
Crazy what a few kind words and a hug could do.
Spiker ran a hand through his hair and pushed away the drifting thoughts of dark bygone memories. What a hell of a year this day had been. Half the food on his plate was gone, mindlessly eaten while he had been decades away.
“Then our daughter walks in, sass-spitting teen that she is”—Morgan continued a story that Spiker hadn’t been listening to—“and tells her to grab the newspaper from the other room.”
“She returns,” Rory interrupts, laughing already, “with her just-purchased, hours-old cellphone and says something like, ‘oh-em-gee Dad, it’s the twenty-first century already.’”
“Dead serious,” Morgan cries, near tears, “he takes her new phone and fake-slams it against the wall.”
Rory pantomimes hitting an imaginary wall with one hand and slaps it with the other.
“‘Got it,’ he says, and cool as a cucumber, explains while wiping off the screen, ‘big, hairy spider.’”
Everyone laughed. Andy snorted. Morgan held onto the edge of the table as though it would keep her from falling off her chair. Spiker didn’t know the teen or her parents, but he laughed like the others and appreciated the good-hearted trolling of their kid.
Vanka caught his eye. Their scoreboard was a distant thought. She’d forgiven him for roping her into dinner with her neighbors after too long a day. They didn’t have to work the room or analyze intel, and despite their training, which had taught them to always be on guard, they had both relaxed.