“Is Doctor your first name?” I asked in a light, airy voice. It’s practiced tease I’ve spent years perfecting. You can’t tease too hard or else you’re rude and tone plays a big role in that.
He shrugged. “If that helps, but we’re not really here to talk about me.”
We sure as fuck-all aren’t there to talk about me you maggot-infested moose turd. “We’re not?”
“We are not,” he said with a shake of his head. Even that motion is gentle. It made me want to slap him. I could just imagine the way those round cheeks of his would bounce beneath his beard. It was an unrealistic desire. Striking someone was so far out of acceptable behavior for me that if Daddy ever did find out, I’d be on the next plane home, never mind the safeguards I had in place.
“We’re here to discuss your future and a group of individuals highly invested in a very special project.” He smiled at me, like that was somehow honest and open and not at all cryptic. Hell, it was downright creepy.
The turd in human skin was another political attack dog. It’s people like him that make Daddy so paranoid. Daddy was insufferable, that was on him, but assholes like this helped spur him to that.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we don’t have anything to talk about.” Because if I have to stay polite and sweet with you for a moment longer, I’m going to want to tear out your gallbladder, pulp it into jelly, spread it on toast and force feed it to you.
It was as if Dr. Cellulite could read my thoughts and found them amusing. He chuckled. “You don’t have to pretend with me, dear.”
Oh dammit, what was he getting at? “I’m certain I have no idea what you mean. I’m also certain you’re not supposed to be here.” I pulled out my cellphone. “You have thirty seconds to leave, or I’m going to call security.” I wouldn’t. It would be too scandalous without Daddy’s people here to keep it all hush-hush.
“Feel free.” He held his hands apart. “I’m here officially, and there’s nothing sordid going on.”
I lowered the phone, hating that he’d called my bluff. “What are you after? My father?”
He laughed. Actually laughed. It was intense too. Way too intense. He didn’t really think I’d said something funny. I couldn’t say why, but I got the impression that he was attempting to imitate humor and overacting. Weird. Also, again, creepy.
I’d met people who have trouble interacting within societal norms. Usually, it’s a lack in their upbringing, being out of practice with social skills, or some manner of obliviousness. That can be creepy. More often it’s just irritating. That’s not what it felt like with Dr. Warden. He felt genuinely creepy. There was something slimy lurking beneath that fluffy exterior and it had big, sharp teeth.
“My dear Ms. Church, neither I, nor the people I represent have the slightest interest in your father,” he said. “It’s you that’s caught our collective eye.”
“Why?”
He gave me a look over his spectacles. “Does the name Irwin Collier ring a bell?”
My stomach froze over. My mouth went dry. It was a struggle to get my words out, but I managed. I even kept my mask in place, my voice never slipping as I asked, “Should it?”
He leaned forward. “I would think so. You drove his Ferrari through the wall of his parents’ house. That was quite funny.”
That time, the smile that spread over his round face felt genuine. It was not an improvement. The German language has a word that perfectly described his smile: schadenfreude. It means to take pleasure in another’s suffering. I’d put good money on Dr. Warden turning out to be some special kind of sadist.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. Did I say it too quickly? I didn’t think so.
“Of course not,” Dr. Warden said. “But won’t you sit down and hear me out? I believe I can present you with a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
He was going to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse? He should have been in pinstripes and wearing a fedora. I almost checked to see if he had a violin case nearby for holding his Tommy gun.
I sat. Not in my usual chair. I’d sat in that chair over and over again, deliberately cultivating feelings of being safe as I made myself vulnerable. I didn’t feel safe, and I sure as hell didn’t want to feel any more vulnerable. I was sick to death of vulnerable. So sick my stomach twisted into knots of snarling bile. “What is it that you’re offering?”
“A way out, Miss Church.” The response was direct and fast. It also wasn’t what I expected.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
“My backers are offering you a means of supporting yourself, breaking free of your father’s control, and mastering that dangerous temper you work so hard to hide.”
Saying all of that out loud should have sounded stupid. Like a line from a Dollar Store spy thriller. It didn’t. Fatty was completely serious, maybe even earnest. He wanted me to take this deal, whatever it was, but he seemed intent on making sure I knew I’d get what I most wanted. My, oh my, doesn’t this candy bar look delicious, little girl? That’s the essence of marketing, after all. My roommate, Isabella, was majoring in it, and her homework assignments had been something of an eye opener.
“I’m going to need a lot more than that. Starting with who your backers are. Second, I need to know how they intend to give me what I want. And lastly, what specifically they are asking of me? You don’t tell me those things, I walk.”
“And then you can explain to the campus police why you aren’t here at your appointment,” Dr. Warden replied. “I may not be Dr. Thompson, but you need to be here for at least—” he checked his watch. The face of it is round, of course. “—another forty-seven minutes.”
Fucker. I readied a polite response, then threw it out a mental window to plummet to its metaphorical death. I couldn’t keep this up. More, I didn’t want to. I felt like I’d spent my whole life made of glass, and I was finally starting to crack and cut people with my edges.
“Blackmail? Really? Listen here, fucker, I don’t take kindly to threats and I think I’ve tolerated your bullshit long enough.” I could feel my face wrinkling with anger. Twisting into ugliness—Daddy had told me I was hideous when I let my anger show. I didn’t care. The taste of copper filled my mouth. I liked it. It made me feel powerful.
I had no idea whether the campus’s officers would care if I did leave. I doubted it. I didn’t doubt for an instant that Dr. Warden was a vindictive bastard who’d go that extra mile just to make my life miserable if I screwed things up for him.
Dr. Warden took the loss of my mask in stride, his tone never changing. “I’m simply making certain you are aware of the consequences of your actions. My people know things. It’s what they do. They want to know more. That’s why they’re conducting this study.”
Study? For some reason, the word calmed me. These were just a bunch of rich academics. Did they want me to fill out a survey? No, that didn’t make sense. More likely they wanted me to be some kind of case study.
“Less being cryptic, more giving answers,” I said, making a “get on with it” gesture with my manicured fingers.
“I cannot tell you who my backers are. I’m sorry, but it’s part of the deal. There’s a million non-disclosure agreements attached to this, including my being here.”
That explained the no-first-name thing.
“What I can tell you is that we are prepared to offer you much in exchange for relatively little,” he continued. “We have developed a videogame to help individuals like yourself manage their anger. The technology is quite advanced and still being improved, hence all the cloak and dagger shenanigans.”
I gave him a flat look. “All this so I’ll play a videogame?”
How stupid did he think I was? What the hell could be so special about a videogame? More, if he knows as much about me as I think he does, what the hell gave him the impression that I was any sort of gamer? The most I’d ever played was Candy C
rush on my phone. Videogames aren’t appropriate for the daughter of a senator and an heiress.
“Oh yes,” he said nodding. “Just as important, however, is the new technology for the game we need tested. You run some special tests by playing this game with our new platform, and my backers will make sure that you get exactly what you want. A new identity. A fresh start.”
This was such bullshit. How many people had he suckered into this already? “You must think I’m really stupid.”
“Not at all, Miss Church,” he said congenially, a cutting twinkle in his eye. “I think that you’re desperate.”
Chapter Three
The thing was, Dr. Tubbo was right. I was crumbling from within like a rotten fruit, all pretty on the outside, toxic sludge on the inside. I was poison. Dying day-by-day and ready to implode at any minute. As good as trashing Irwin’s house and car had felt, not to mention getting him arrested for it, I couldn’t afford another outburst like that. My life was already enough out of my own control without the fallout that would inevitably come of those sorts of outbursts. More, the Doc., who I doubted was a real doctor in hindsight, had offered the perfect incentive.
I wasn’t alone in wanting freedom. The desire for it is the foundation of my country’s entire national identity. If you were to listen to some of Daddy’s speeches, you’d think we were the only free land in the world. There’s more than a little irony there considering how tightly he worked to control me and Mom. She, at least, had enough control over the inheritance that had been left to her to retain some of her freedoms. It would have been nice if she’d thought to share some of that with me.
She hadn’t. I hated her for it. Don’t get me wrong. I loved her, too. I also loved Daddy. That didn’t change the fact that he was my enemy and that Mom should have stood with me against him.
What Mom did do, unintentionally, was teach me a valuable lesson: only power can defy power. The surest form of power is independence, which comes from control. Control your wealth, control your destiny. Failure to control your resources, including wealth and temper, meant being trapped by them and, in turn, whoever makes you dependent on them. Daddy didn’t know how hard I’d been working to not be his dependent.
It would take more than money though. That was only one of his levers. Daddy was a politician, well-connected with criminal resources. Simply not needing him wasn’t enough. Case in point, despite her personal wealth and Daddy’s philandering, Mom was still married to him. It was a great first step, and one I’d made great strides in. It wouldn’t be enough. Spring break had proven that.
I took Dr. Warden up on his offer.
I almost backed out when I learned the new platform for his game was an implant. The procedure was quick and painless. I don’t remember any of it besides that. They put me under during it. When I woke up, I had a pale scar at the base of my right palm barely a centimeter long, almost invisible against my skin.
I stared at it as I walked back to the house I rented out with my roommate. What exactly was it? The chip in my hand interacted with my phone, or any device with a screen really. I’m no engineer, but that seems kind of crazy to me. Like, next generation type shit.
A sudden shove knocked me off balance, and I staggered, nearly losing my book bag as I stumbled. I whirled on my roommate and snarled at her. “What the hell, Bella?”
Isabella grinned down at me. I liked the bitch. She was tough as nails and didn’t give a damn about my perfect princess persona. She let me be me, my angry, ugly self. Whatever I dished out, she could take and give right back. More, she made me feel safe. I knew it wasn’t real. A part of me wished that it was.
Isabella was a professional Mixed Martial Arts fighter. Tall, toned, and pretty in all the ways I wasn’t, Isabella blended extreme athleticism with femininity in a way that was damn intimidating. She also had a killer smile that lit up her whole face and completely disarmed you, which she had turned on me now.
“Chica, you need to lighten up,” she said. “You’ve been staring at your hand for like, five minutes now. You trying to read your own palm or something?”
I snorted, not bothering to try and make it ladylike. Technically, we were out in public and maybe I should have been more careful. I didn’t give a damn. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to wear the comfortable clothes of most college girls and still stuck with dresses, but I had been able to allow myself to slowly relax, bit-by-bit since coming here. To me, Oxford and Ole Miss had come to represent the freedom I couldn’t find in Vegas. They were slowly becoming my real home, and, like Isabella, they let me be just a little bit more of myself.
“Or something,” I said. “What were you saying?”
Isabella rolled her eyes. “Me and some girls are going out tonight. Be good for you to get out of the house.”
I grimaced. “Can’t.”
I’d have liked to go, too.
Isabella frowned at me. “You’re going to burn out if you keep this pace. I get discipline, I really do, but you have to let off the pressure sometime, or you’re going to crack.”
Didn’t I know it. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much I could do. It wasn’t studying that was keeping me back. It was my commitment to Dr. Warden and his organization. Three months with a minimum of gameplay once per week.
I’d already logged in to play once and the experience was beyond disappointing. The game had me playing as some kind of giant snot monster attacking an alien city. Get this, the aliens had flying saucers. Talk about unoriginal.
But I had to play, that was the deal. Rather, that was the deal that would make absolutely sure that my name was never legally associated with anything that had happened to Irwin Collier in Las Vegas. If I wanted more, I had to play more. Real world rewards for in-game accomplishments was how Dr. Warden had phrased it. Special missions that could earn me prizes. Like a new identity.
I didn’t doubt his people could pull it off.
You don’t take over someone’s therapy sessions without some serious strings to pull, not even the free kind offered at a university to students. Nor do you give away tech like this to people of questionable moral character—namely myself—without some serious cash in reserves. The game might have sucked hairy donkey balls, but the implant in my hand that it used as its platform, that thing was fucking amazing. I just wished I knew why they wanted to put it into someone like me.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve got some breaks scheduled; this just isn’t one of them.”
It was sort of true. This evening originally had been one of my scheduled breaks. Isabella was right about needing them. I’m a dual major studying business administration and accounting. I was a natural at the former. Accounting though, would have kicked my ass if I didn’t spend as much time studying as I did. I was determined to graduate summa cum laude. There’d be more to do after, but combined with my two majors, I’d be both skilled and valuable. I’d be able to get work, build capital, and then start my own business where I’d have the control. All the control.
And if I had that and either a new identity or the means to keep Daddy from interfering in my life…I could push myself for that. I could push harder than anyone thought was possible.
So, instead of going out with Isabella and her friend, our friends I guess, though I really wasn’t close to any of them, I was in my room with my phone, ready to play another round of the game. It was called Kaiju Wars Online. I remember my first thought being that kaiju sounded like some Pokémon shit.
I changed into comfortable pajamas, stacked my pillows just so, and climbed into bed with my phone to log in. The app appeared on my screen with the monster face logo. My thumb hovered over the icon, about to click, when the screen lit up with my mother’s face and began ringing.
I scowled. What did she want? I debated not answering. There was still an acidic taste in my mouth thinking about how she’d ditched me for spring break.
With a sigh, I answered the call.
“Are y
ou alright?” Mom sounded out of breath. Had she been on the treadmill? She worked hard to keep herself in peak trophy-wife condition.
“Of course,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Weren’t you just in the hospital?” God, she actually sounded concerned.
“I was,” I said slowly. That had been a confidential surgery. I know because I’d had to sign so many papers my hand was cramping by the time they actually let me in to have the procedure. “But it wasn’t anything serious. How’d you hear about it?”
“I overheard someone telling your father they’d seen you leaving the hospital,” she said dismissively, like the fact that Daddy had people spying on my comings and goings wasn’t noteworthy.
I guess it wasn’t for me. No matter how commonplace, it made me shiver with a mixture of disgust and barely suppressed fury. Raising my voice at Mom, no matter how badly I want to, wouldn’t do anything but create trouble.
Mom continued, “Did you finally get a boob job?”
“God, no!”
“Good. After the fuss you made before, I was about to have my feelings hurt,” she said.
“No. No boob jobs. No Botox. No cosmetic surgery of any kind,” I told her.
“Thank God,” she said, sounding genuinely relieved. “You don’t want some no-name from Mississippi of all places turning you into Frankenstein.”
“Frankenstein’s creation, Mom,” I corrected her. “Frankenstein was the doctor.”
“Whatever, you know what I mean, smartass,” she replied. “What had you in the hospital?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I thought I had something wrong with my hand, but I didn’t.” I cringed. That was too much information. How was she always able to pull more out of me than I wanted to give?
She gasped. “What did you think was wrong with your hand?”
The best way to deflect Mom has always been to get her talking about herself. “How was Napa with Aunt Glenda?”
“Absolutely wonderful,” she said, and began gushing all about the vineyards and wineries they’d visited. She went on for about five minutes before saying, “But she’s having some arguments with that husband of hers. His ex-wife is having health problems and you know his good-for-nothing son’s in jail. Like, real jail this time.”
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