Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

His face doesn’t change, not one iota. But for a second, his fingers tighten on his water glass. “Touché,” he says quietly. “Two-fucking-shay.” He blows out his breath.

For a moment, none of us say anything. Then Mr. Reynolds shakes his head. “You want Fernanda,” he says. “Do you even know what Fernanda is?”

“I didn’t even know there was a project named Fernanda.”

“Hey,” Blake says at his father’s raised eyebrow. “You know I don’t talk about this shit. Not even with her.”

“Fernanda,” Adam Reynolds says, “is your ticket onto the merry-go-round. Welcome aboard.”

7.

BLAKE

I follow my dad to the Cyclone campus. The ride is short—not even fifteen minutes. Just long enough for Tina and I to stew in uncomfortable silence. She’s no doubt replaying every word I said in the restaurant.

I’m doing the same thing.

Funny. I knew I was into her. My body responds to hers, and sitting so close to her in the restaurant, sitting a mere eighteen inches from her now, has given my body some really interesting ideas. Now, in the car, she’s twirling a strand of hair around one finger, playing with it.

I should tell her that I lied to my father, that everything’s cool. Instead, I feel like I just tipped my hand. To myself. Not that I’m hoping for anything as specific as what I told him. It’s just… I want. Watching her go toe-to-toe with my dad was a thing of beauty. I haven’t seen anyone take him down so effectively since Peter passed away. I want someone as directed as her to want me back.

But that’s straight-up fantasyland, right up there with the stupid idea my body has right now. Which, no, that wouldn’t work, because there is no room for me between her knees in this car, not unless we folded the seats down. But then, male hormones have never really cared about the limits of physics.

“You know,” she says, “it’s a good thing we aren’t actually dating, because if we were, I would break up with you right now.”

That’s right. There’s fantasy, and then there’s reality. The reality is that we’re not dating. The reality is that in three months, we won’t even be friends.

“Understandable,” I say. “I threw you to the wolves. In my defense, I know the wolf pretty well and my money was on you. My dad can come off as a little bit of a dick at first, but you just need to stand up to him and he backs down.”

“Oh.” There’s a dubious quality to her voice. “He’s just a little bit of a dick. Sure.”

“Really. He’s not that bad. Unless he wants to be.”

She gives me a sidelong look of deep suspicion. But I’m coming up to the Cyclone security gate, and that brings up a whole host of other memories. The sun is out today; it shines brilliantly in my eyes as the guard hands me a visitor’s badge for Tina. The gate arm rises and I drive in.

She lets out a sigh. “A little warning would have been nice. You’re a frighteningly good liar. Media training again?”

“Media training,” I agree, even though that’s a lie. “You’d be astonished how well I can lie. The only question is if you can keep up with me for another hour.”

I turn into the garage and find my spot.

She sighs. “So what’s the story? Did we argue in the car on the ride over? We would totally have argued, if this were real. Your dad has probably realized I’m not the ‘shut up and simper’ type by now.”

“Sure.” I glance over at her. “We argued. But I brought you around. I always bring you around. I’m good at that.”

The half-height garage walls don’t quite shield a wide green sun-drenched lawn on the other side.

She still seems a little out of sorts. “So we’re going to play it like we’re still good?”

“We kind of have to. If you fake-break-up with me, there will be no prototypes, and then this whole thing will be wasted effort. Do you think you can manage a little flirting?”

“I suppose.” She shrugs. “But I’ve never had any media training. I can’t guarantee the results.”

“That’s okay. I can lie well enough for both of us.”

She casts me another look—this one a little darker—as if I’ve said something wrong.

But she doesn’t understand the truth. I open the car door and step out into the cool air of the garage. She doesn’t understand how much I’m going to have to lie.

My dad built this campus when I was twelve, and in some ways, it feels more like home than the house where I grew up. The sun is out, spilling over a lush green lawn where a handful of engineers are out playing a game of Ultimate. The buildings gleam, pristine white stone contrasting with smoke-dark windows. I could join the Frisbee game. I could walk into any building, any room, and find something I’ve worked on. This place is a part of me. It almost feels like my bones and veins extend into the surroundings. I’m rooted here.

It feels like a trap built of sunshine and nostalgia. Every muscle in my body itches. I want to move, to run. But no matter how fast I go, I’ll always take it with me.