The Operator
Page 92
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“In a better place than you might think.” Clearly glad for the shift in topics, he resettled their dinner on his lap. “I checked out LB’s lab. It’s so far out of OSHA standards it’s scary, but making up more withdrawal preventative isn’t going to be a problem. Two days, maybe? It won’t be Evocane, but it will tamp down the withdrawal this time. I promise.”
“Thank God.” She eagerly took the fork he handed her, stabbing one of the ravioli and angling it in. The tart, acidic taste hit the sides of her mouth, and her hunger hit.
“There’s still nothing on Jack in the news,” he said as he unrolled one of the foil-wrapped breads. “But WEFT probably asked the cops to keep it out of the news.”
Her empty stomach growled, and she slowed. Eating spicy tomato sauce so fast might not be prudent. “They didn’t have much of a choice after I tangled them up on the interstate.”
Silas grunted in agreement, handing her the bread before unwrapping the other. She could smack LB for letting Jack go. He was an ass, but what he’d done was almost noble. They never would’ve evaded WEFT and the cops without Jack’s help. If she’d landed in custody, it might have been hours before WEFT gained jurisdiction and she got her Evocane fix—assuming they gave it to her. Jack had given her freedom and the chance to act.
Seeing her brooding, Silas leaned over their shared plate. “He did it,” he said as if reading her mind, “so you wouldn’t make LB lock him up. That’s it. Nothing more.”
“I suppose.” Peri stabbed her ravioli. “He didn’t scrub me, though.”
Silas’s frown deepened. “Don’t do this. Jack is in it for himself. He didn’t scrub you because he wasn’t sure he’d be around to sell you his song and dance.” He pointed his fork at her. “What does your intuition say about him?”
“You mean my hallucination?” she mocked, still not pleased Silas had put Jack there. “He hasn’t weighed in on it.” She ate half a ravioli. “He’s more interested in making Steiner the host of a game show than helping me figure anything out.”
Silas’s smile became odd. “Game show, eh?” he said as if that explained something. “LB put his chemists—and I use the term loosely—on the Evocane substitute. He thinks it would be better to wean you off it compound by compound instead of going cold turkey.” Silas hesitated at her fierce look, then added, “You scared a drug lord, Peri. If he thinks it’s unsafe, then it’s unsafe.”
Mollified, she returned to eating. “And you trust them to get the substitute right?”
There were only three ravioli left, and Silas set his fork down. “LB supplies the I-75 corridor. His crew stinks, farts, smokes, and has a shocking disregard for authority, but they know their product and what they’re doing. Any one of his chemists could work at one of Detroit’s research facilities but they have, ah, issues,” he finished uncomfortably. “Other than the stink, fart, smoke . . . thing.”
“That an East Coast drug lord is cooking my fix makes me so-o-o-o much more comfortable,” she said sourly, but there was a kernel of truth to it. She didn’t want the last three ravioli either, and she set the plate aside, leaning back against the headboard and tugging the afghan over her. “We head out tomorrow, then? Where do you want to go?” A solid day’s sleep might be possible in the depths of a drug lord’s den. Funny how that worked.
Silas scooted to the end of the bed, and her first complaint turned into a moan of pleasure when he pulled one of her legs out from under the knitted blanket and began to rub her foot. “I’m thinking Arizona,” Silas said, and her eyes closed in bliss. She’d forgotten that the Opti requirements for their psychologists included sixteen credit hours of massage therapy. “A ranch close to the border where it never gets cold,” he said as he found a trigger point and released her back. “You could raise quail.”
She opened one eye to find him half-serious. But she liked people too much to become a hermit. Slowly her smile faded. She was going to miss Detroit, the way the city had found a new greatness—an independent confidence, maybe—after being abandoned to those who were too poor or stubborn to move—like she was.
“Still holding your tension in your lower back, I see,” he said, running a firm thumb to the outside of her arch.
“Oh, God. Don’t stop,” she moaned as the pain evolved into relief—and then guilt. He knew how to make her feel good, and she’d done nothing for him but abandon him and ignore that he loved her. Being scared was not an excuse.
She must have stiffened because he sighed and let go of her foot. Her eyelids cracked, and she closed them again as he moved to the head of the bed, expression pained. “Move over,” he said gruffly, but it wasn’t as if she had a choice as he pushed her to the center of the bed, his bulk moving her slight frame easily. Jaw clenched, she scrunched down under the blanket. She could feel his warmth, soaking into her, and she avoided his eyes.
“Why are you so hung up on me doing anything nice for you?” he finally said.
“I’m not.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Is it because you think it’s the Opti conditioning? That they made you into a deadly but dependent princess who expected to be waited on all the time?” She looked away, and he made a knowing sound. “Peri, you broke that a long time ago. Well, most of it,” he added, and she grimaced at his chuckle. “You don’t need anyone. But that doesn’t mean I don’t need you.”
God, why is this so hard? “Silas . . .”
“No.” He put a finger to her lips, shifting to lie sideways beside her, propped up on an elbow. “You read your diary, right? The one I gave you?”
She nodded, thinking of it stuffed under the pillow. The love she’d had for him was obvious in the pages, and still, she’d destroyed it—for a chance at glory. “I did,” she said softly.
“Then why?”
“Because I don’t remember it. Every time you look at me, I feel as if I’m broken.”
He brushed the hair from her forehead and kissed it. “So?”
“So I don’t like feeling broken.”
“Everyone is broken.”
“But my pieces don’t fit together anymore.” Unable to face him, she rolled away. Her chest hurt when he snuggled tight behind her. His arm draped over her, a taunting familiarness wisping about the edges of memory. Her eyes welled up, but she refused to cry.
“Thank God.” She eagerly took the fork he handed her, stabbing one of the ravioli and angling it in. The tart, acidic taste hit the sides of her mouth, and her hunger hit.
“There’s still nothing on Jack in the news,” he said as he unrolled one of the foil-wrapped breads. “But WEFT probably asked the cops to keep it out of the news.”
Her empty stomach growled, and she slowed. Eating spicy tomato sauce so fast might not be prudent. “They didn’t have much of a choice after I tangled them up on the interstate.”
Silas grunted in agreement, handing her the bread before unwrapping the other. She could smack LB for letting Jack go. He was an ass, but what he’d done was almost noble. They never would’ve evaded WEFT and the cops without Jack’s help. If she’d landed in custody, it might have been hours before WEFT gained jurisdiction and she got her Evocane fix—assuming they gave it to her. Jack had given her freedom and the chance to act.
Seeing her brooding, Silas leaned over their shared plate. “He did it,” he said as if reading her mind, “so you wouldn’t make LB lock him up. That’s it. Nothing more.”
“I suppose.” Peri stabbed her ravioli. “He didn’t scrub me, though.”
Silas’s frown deepened. “Don’t do this. Jack is in it for himself. He didn’t scrub you because he wasn’t sure he’d be around to sell you his song and dance.” He pointed his fork at her. “What does your intuition say about him?”
“You mean my hallucination?” she mocked, still not pleased Silas had put Jack there. “He hasn’t weighed in on it.” She ate half a ravioli. “He’s more interested in making Steiner the host of a game show than helping me figure anything out.”
Silas’s smile became odd. “Game show, eh?” he said as if that explained something. “LB put his chemists—and I use the term loosely—on the Evocane substitute. He thinks it would be better to wean you off it compound by compound instead of going cold turkey.” Silas hesitated at her fierce look, then added, “You scared a drug lord, Peri. If he thinks it’s unsafe, then it’s unsafe.”
Mollified, she returned to eating. “And you trust them to get the substitute right?”
There were only three ravioli left, and Silas set his fork down. “LB supplies the I-75 corridor. His crew stinks, farts, smokes, and has a shocking disregard for authority, but they know their product and what they’re doing. Any one of his chemists could work at one of Detroit’s research facilities but they have, ah, issues,” he finished uncomfortably. “Other than the stink, fart, smoke . . . thing.”
“That an East Coast drug lord is cooking my fix makes me so-o-o-o much more comfortable,” she said sourly, but there was a kernel of truth to it. She didn’t want the last three ravioli either, and she set the plate aside, leaning back against the headboard and tugging the afghan over her. “We head out tomorrow, then? Where do you want to go?” A solid day’s sleep might be possible in the depths of a drug lord’s den. Funny how that worked.
Silas scooted to the end of the bed, and her first complaint turned into a moan of pleasure when he pulled one of her legs out from under the knitted blanket and began to rub her foot. “I’m thinking Arizona,” Silas said, and her eyes closed in bliss. She’d forgotten that the Opti requirements for their psychologists included sixteen credit hours of massage therapy. “A ranch close to the border where it never gets cold,” he said as he found a trigger point and released her back. “You could raise quail.”
She opened one eye to find him half-serious. But she liked people too much to become a hermit. Slowly her smile faded. She was going to miss Detroit, the way the city had found a new greatness—an independent confidence, maybe—after being abandoned to those who were too poor or stubborn to move—like she was.
“Still holding your tension in your lower back, I see,” he said, running a firm thumb to the outside of her arch.
“Oh, God. Don’t stop,” she moaned as the pain evolved into relief—and then guilt. He knew how to make her feel good, and she’d done nothing for him but abandon him and ignore that he loved her. Being scared was not an excuse.
She must have stiffened because he sighed and let go of her foot. Her eyelids cracked, and she closed them again as he moved to the head of the bed, expression pained. “Move over,” he said gruffly, but it wasn’t as if she had a choice as he pushed her to the center of the bed, his bulk moving her slight frame easily. Jaw clenched, she scrunched down under the blanket. She could feel his warmth, soaking into her, and she avoided his eyes.
“Why are you so hung up on me doing anything nice for you?” he finally said.
“I’m not.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Is it because you think it’s the Opti conditioning? That they made you into a deadly but dependent princess who expected to be waited on all the time?” She looked away, and he made a knowing sound. “Peri, you broke that a long time ago. Well, most of it,” he added, and she grimaced at his chuckle. “You don’t need anyone. But that doesn’t mean I don’t need you.”
God, why is this so hard? “Silas . . .”
“No.” He put a finger to her lips, shifting to lie sideways beside her, propped up on an elbow. “You read your diary, right? The one I gave you?”
She nodded, thinking of it stuffed under the pillow. The love she’d had for him was obvious in the pages, and still, she’d destroyed it—for a chance at glory. “I did,” she said softly.
“Then why?”
“Because I don’t remember it. Every time you look at me, I feel as if I’m broken.”
He brushed the hair from her forehead and kissed it. “So?”
“So I don’t like feeling broken.”
“Everyone is broken.”
“But my pieces don’t fit together anymore.” Unable to face him, she rolled away. Her chest hurt when he snuggled tight behind her. His arm draped over her, a taunting familiarness wisping about the edges of memory. Her eyes welled up, but she refused to cry.
