Frodo rubs against Green, welcoming her to his humble abode. Satisfied his presence is known, he goes on his merry way to the other side of the room.
I’m about to kick him the fuck out when I notice something.
A small something. But still, a something.
“What the fuck if vat?”
Green laughs. “What?”
The cat’s fighting with Green’s jacket before pulling something out and pouncing onto it. He tosses it, then pounces, tosses and pounces. He’s found a new toy. I just hope it’s not expensive.
“That.” I stoop down and fight Frodo for the tiny gadget he’s found.
“Motherfucker.”
“What?” Green asks, yet again.
I put my finger to my lips, telling her silently to not say another fucking word. I show her the device someone planted on her at some point.
Hopefully without her knowledge.
This does not bode well, people. Not fucking well at all.
MY FATHER’S SON
FUCKING GADGETS.
At the very least, I can admit the world has certainly created some crazy ass technology as of late.
I own a few myself and haven’t gotten around to purchasing others. Apparatuses like the one I just found dangling from Frodo’s paw is roughly ten times the cost of anything I can afford without taking out a loan.
Meaning, of course, this is grade A, government-issued shit.
At least I know we know we’re on the right track. No way did some drug-addicted punk kill Donnie. Not that the flimsy ass theory wasn’t off the table already, but you know, facts.
Time freezes while I inspect it. Not much there, really. A micro-mic and a serial number I couldn’t read with the Hubble Telescope.
Across the room, Green’s mouth hangs open slightly. She reflects the shock and awe of discovering the tiniest of devices, which happens to hold the ability to hear the largest of moments.
Her reaction is enough to tell me she didn’t know it was in her jacket. I don’t need to ask.
Most likely, she’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking.
How much did whoever is listening hear last night?
Okay, any night, for that fucking matter.
I think back over the past week or so and try to pinpoint certain conversations that have gone on here. I have no idea when they planted the bug. Or who planted it.
She wasn’t wearing this jacket the night we had Chinese.
That’s one bit of good news.
And she hasn’t been here again until last night.
Does that mean it was Walker who put it on her?
Possibly.
Or maybe the “boss man” she suspects is involved with Anonymous, who makes me feel like an idiot every time I refer to him as Anonymous.
Jesus.
Well, I know that whoever they are, they didn’t catch anything pertinent being said or going on between Green and me last night, considering this thing was buried under the jacket, the purse, and the couch cushion. We’ve got that going for us.
Hopefully.
My mind whirls with thoughts of what they might’ve heard through the muffled shit. We could use this to our advantage.
A silent moment passes between Green and me. I give her a wink and a smile.
“So you really think I should take Walker up on his offer?”
It might not be him listening in, but I figure whomever it is knows him. Or maybe he’s just another piece to whatever puzzle is being manipulated lately.
If they want me to play, I may as well play. Right?
Win-win, as far as I’m concerned.
Green’s thrown off by the question, at first, but it doesn’t take her long to catch up.
“I do.”
“I wish I had your fucking confidence.”
“It makes sense.”
“Give me a reason, Green. Any reason why I should trust that guy.”
Her lips form a thin line. I’ve stumped her.
“Your brother trusts him.”
Damn. She’s unstumpable.
“You got me there.”
Nice touch covering Nick’s ass, but more than that, Walker’s.
Why would she wanna cover Walker’s ass?
Her mood lightens after that.
“Plus, you’d get benefits and stability, and─”
“I’m my own boss right now, though. Don’t forget that.” I can’t help but point out the one major flaw in giving in to this idea.
“No offense, Stiles,” she says. “But you’re kind of a shitty boss.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
I should be offended. Right?
“You work too many hours. You have no social life. You’re beat up, you drink too much, and that cigarette in your pocket makes me” —she pulls her eyes closed and makes fists with her hands— "crazy.”
“It’s a metaphor.” How does she not get that?
“Bullshit.” She’s serious, yet she laughs.
This woman.
She also might be getting to know me a little too well if you know what the fuck I’m saying here.
I drag a hand through my hair and land at the back of my neck, trying to stretch out the kinks that have formed. I blow some air out and stare down the small piece of machinery I’m holding.
Who are you?