Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

TINA

It’s nine at night, and Blake has gone to work, when my watch buzzes on my wrist. I glance down, expecting a calendar reminder. Instead, a little green notification appears.

Incoming call: Adam Reynolds.

I let those words fill my vision for a moment. Not because I intend to make him wait; it’s simply that for a second I freeze. Blake’s dad is a wolf, and I feel very much like the rabbit. The last time Adam and I talked, it didn’t turn out particularly well. But right now, the CEO of Cyclone—and the man who, incidentally, still thinks I’m dating his son—is calling me.

What can I do? I hit accept.

He appears on the screen: messy pepper-gray hair and beard scruff in need of a shave. His gaze fixes on mine.

“Tina.” His voice is just a little hoarse. He clears his throat and sniffs. “Is Blake there?”

“No.”

“Good.” He frowns. “Look. Blake’s a little distant right now. Is something going on with him?”

Something is obviously going on between them, but even I can’t tell what it is, and I suspect I know about as much as anyone on the planet except these two.

I shake my head. “I’m not talking to you about Blake.”

“Yeah.” He blows out a breath. “Probably just as well that you’re loyal to him. I just…” He pauses, tapping his fingers against his cheek.

“It’s not that,” I interject. “It’s just that you’re an…” I choke back the word I’d been planning to put in that blank. Last time was bad enough. “You’re a little intense,” I finish.

For a moment, he stares at me. Then, ever so slowly, he smiles. “Don’t start holding out on me now. I’m an asshole.” My surprise must show, because he shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve never claimed otherwise.”

I suspect this is as close as Adam Reynolds will ever come to apologizing for his behavior in that restaurant.

“Blake thinks you’re not an asshole.”

“Blake,” Mr. Reynolds says with a roll of his eyes, “is a ridiculously good kid. There’s a reason I’m a little protective of him. I’m always afraid people will take advantage.”

I don’t say anything. A little protective is what he is?

Despite my silence, he sighs and waves his hand. “Good point,” he mutters in response to the thing I didn’t say. “It hasn’t happened yet, and God knows if he were as naïve as I really feared, it would have by now. Of all the women he could have had, he did choose you.”

I think this is intended as a compliment.

“Still,” his dad continues. “I worry. Is everything okay with him?”

I have the distinct impression that even though Blake has never said so, most of his problems lie with this man. Somehow. Some way.

“This is a conversation you should have with Blake.”

He puts his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.” He doesn’t move for a few moments. And then—of all things—he sniffles. Unconvincingly.

“Mr. Reynolds, are you fake crying to try to get my sympathy?”

The hand lowers. He glowers at me—obviously dry-eyed. “Fuck me,” he says. “First, call me Adam. Mr. Reynolds makes me sound like some bullshit old fart. Second, I don’t fucking cry. I especially don’t fake cry. Emotional manipulation is for morons who don’t have the strength of will to get people on their side with reason. I have a cold.”

“Aw. Poor baby. You should get some rest.” I incline my head toward him, and then widen my eyes. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You can’t.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Yeah, yeah. My kid has good taste. I’m fucking things up for you. I hope it won’t be too much of a disturbance.”

“You know.” I swallow. “I think Blake gave you the wrong impression about us.”

“What, that he’s into you more than you’re into him? I got that from him.”

I swallow.

“That you need to be convinced? That he’s going to end up convincing you, no matter what you’re telling yourself right now?

I let out a breath.

“Exactly.” Adam points a finger at me. “That’s what I thought. My money’s on my boy. But hey, don’t tell me what’s going on. Who needs details? Surely not his own father. I’m not invasive.”

“Right. Calling me in the middle of the night when Blake’s not around isn’t invasive at all.”

He just snorts. “If I were really invasive, I would check the fucking logs. You and Blake are both wearing GPS-enabled devices equipped with 3-axis accelerometers and heart rate monitors. The whole fucking point is that we’re supposed to be able to detect exactly what you’re doing with every minute of your day. Every ounce of data you generate is getting dumped to Cyclone servers every midnight.” He rubs his forehead. “Sometimes I fucking hate myself for believing in privacy.”