Sticking to the Script: Cipher Office Book #2

by Romance, Smartypants

  He’d told me he loved me…and I believe it was true.

  He’d told me he loved me…and I’d never said it back to him.

  I brutalized the heart of the man I loved as a preemptive strike. What a fucking coward.

  Shakily I asked, “What am I going to do, Ern?”

  “It seems to me that the only thing to do is to finally tell the truth,” he said gently, grasping my hand in his. “Tell Quinn, tell Ken. Tell them everything and let the cards fall where they will. If the sky starts falling, Paulie and I will be here for you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  *DKM*

  I was pounding out the miles. Pushing myself harder and farther than I had since before the half-marathon. I was after the endorphin high.

  Not only did I want the high, I wanted the pain and soreness that would linger afterward. I wasn’t a masochist, far from it. I just took pleasure in feeling the resultant microscopic tears in my muscle fibers that I knew would heal and make me stronger for it. I liked knowing my pain was building me up.

  That which does not kill us makes us stronger. I wasn’t much for philosophy, but I had to admit, Nietzsche knew what he was talking about. I was going to be a stronger man for my pain and experience.

  At least my body was going to be strong. I needed to shore up my emotional strength. And as much as my runs were helping me feel physically stronger, they were also meditative. Some days I’d clear my mind of everything but the rhythm of my steps, the sound of my breathing or the beating of my pulse. Those were the days I could feel more at peace with the state of my life. Other times, my runs would pass in the blink of an eye because I had spent the duration mentally replaying scenes in my head—sometimes finding my way through my confusing feelings to a solution or acceptance. If it weren’t for my runs, I thought I’d probably be a basket case.

  Today, I was thinking about my mother. She’d called me the night before wanting to know about Steven, wanting to set up a meeting, offering to spend a weekend in Chicago so she could get to know him. I put her off by trying to steer the conversation to her and Dad, but she wasn’t having any of it. She only said that they were figuring out what comes next—which didn’t tell me a damn thing.

  I knew from Kari that when she’d gone to Mom and Dad to explain what happened between us, the whole story from a decade ago was revealed to Mom and she’d been livid. Kari said she yelled at both of them, then blamed herself for being out of touch with her own children.

  I felt bad. I knew I had no control over my mother’s reactions or emotions, nor had I any control over my dad’s. Not then, not now. But I’d always been inspired by my parent’s love for each other. The way they were together was the model I had for my imagined, perfect relationship. I supposed my ideal image of them was one that was childish and naive—blinded to reality. Obviously, if my dad couldn’t talk to her about his relationship with me, then all was not perfect in the Miles household. Maybe it never had been.

  I put my mother off and ended our conversation noncommittally. I couldn’t bring myself to admit we weren’t together—didn’t want those words said until I was convinced of the truth of them.

  I wanted to reach out. I wanted to see how he felt now that the dust had settled. I wanted to know if there was a chance for us.

  But every time I started, I stopped myself with the reminder that he’d pushed me away and he hadn’t bothered to call me. Calling him smacked of begging.

  Had he shown me, besides letting me sleep with him a few times a week, any signs of being committed? He hadn’t said he loved me, he wanted me gone, and hadn’t called to try to make up. So why did I hold on to hope?

  Because you know he cared, idiot, a voice in my head reasoned.

  I’ve never felt like this before. It’s addicting. You’re addicting.

  I remembered Steven’s words to me and the expression of wonder and happiness across his face. The memory felt like a physical blow. I had to acknowledge that Steven had felt more for me beyond lust. But was it love or a desire for long-term commitment?

  If you guys haven’t patched things up by Thanksgiving, take me home with you and we can set fire to the holidays. We’ll ruin all the holidays for years to come.

  I burst into unexpected laughter at the memory. He promised long-term with an offer of mischief and mayhem. God, I loved him. I missed his smile, his calm, his body, and his cute blindness.

  It felt good to smile, but it was bittersweet. I hadn’t intended for the run to turn into a self-therapy session or an excuse to indulge in my fixation with Steven. I’d put my earbuds in and set out to let the music be the only soundtrack to my steps. Up until now, the music had largely been ignored.

  “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails began and the synth beat matched my strides, the chords stirred me into an angry determination, the lyrics mirroring the dark, obsessive part of me that was mostly quiet and secret—the part of me that felt like something was wrong with me and Steven was the answer to making me better—less strange, less rigid. Making me better by taking me into his body and accepting, erasing all that was uncomfortable and awkward, letting me see myself through his eyes.

  I hated it. I hated the feelings the song evoked. There was nothing wrong with me. My existence wasn’t made valid by Steven’s acceptance.

  But wasn’t love so addicting? Didn’t the absence of it, once experienced, leave a putrid, festering hole?

  It was an addiction. My body and my psyche had been fine without that love, but then I had it, enjoyed it, relied on it and now was ill and suffering, worse off than I was before because it was gone.

  These were dark thoughts—ones I wasn’t going to indulge, so I slowed my steps to skip to the next track on the playlist on my phone. I had been making my way south from the river and was now at Monroe Harbor, approaching my usual entrance and exit to the trail on East Monroe and Lake Shore which meant it was nearing time for my cool-down anyway.

  I’d made excellent time despite the coolness of the strong wind coming off the lake. Autumn had begun, schools were back in session, so even though this was a Sunday, I hadn’t passed as many people as I usually did during my early runs. It was a signal that the weather changes were happening soon, and I’d have to switch to doing all my cardio at the gym.

  The thought made me depressed.

  In the quiet moment between songs, I heard a faint call—made more faint by the whooshing gusts of wind. My periphery was compromised by the sweatshirt hood I had pulled up and before I could ascertain the sound’s origin, I was rammed forcefully from behind.

  Someone large plowed into me, causing me to fall. I braced, doing my best to take the impact on my side and roll. My phone clattered to the pavement and my buds fell from my ears. I tore my hood off angrily as soon as I sprung up from my tumble.

  The blindsiding blow enraged me. “You limp-dicked motherfu—” I began, but stopped when I saw my assailant.

  King whirled toward me and backtracked from the momentum of his sprint. I had only a second to comprehend this was a calculated attack and steel myself for violent aggression when he reached behind him and removed something from his back pocket.

  I flinched thinking, gun, but with a flick of his wrist, a metal baton expanded from the handle.

  When I’d registered the weapon, I felt that choking, paralyzing fear disappear, allowing me to react swiftly, jumping back far enough to avoid his intended blow.

  He grunted as he swung wildly again, and I scrambled further out of his reach.

  “I’m going to—” Swing. “Break—” Swing. “Every bone in your face!” He said the last words with a guttural grunt of rage and exertion.

  He kept advancing and I kept retreating, each swing missing me by mere inches. I knew I couldn’t allow him to keep swinging. I knew eventually, he’d hit his mark and a blow from the baton, with the force he was using, would be devastating no matter where it landed.

  I jumped back as far as I could on the next swing, hoping it was enough
space to create my own momentum. I waited for another swing and as soon as the baton cleared its arc, I rushed him, attacking before he could wind up for another. My fist smashed into his face. I felt and heard the fracturing in his nose. He let out an agonized yell as our bodies collided and fell to the pavement. His body took the brunt of the hard fall and it rendered him momentarily winded and stunned. I used this advantage to wrest control of the weapon from his right hand.

  Just as I pulled it away, he recovered, and pain exploded in the side of my face as his fist connected soundly. The force of it moved me enough to allow him to dislodge my body from his.

  I held fast to the baton and rolled quickly to the side, trying to get to a standing position before he could. My head throbbed, but I managed to regain my feet and hold the baton up, poised in defense.

  He lumbered to his feet, his mouth open and emitting a pained wail. Blood was flowing from his nose so copiously; it was dripping to the pavement below. But despite the obvious pain he was in, he surprised me by stepping forward.

  I backed up, and nearly stumbled as my feet stepped off the concrete path onto grass. The near-fall made me angry with myself. What was I doing by retreating? I had the weapon, I had the advantage, yet he was advancing, and I was cowering away.

  What was the endgame here? Fend him off until someone noticed and called the police? If he was intent on violence, then I wasn’t going to be able to avoid it.

  I knew what the wild look on his face meant. He didn’t care that I had the weapon, he was singular in his rage and his mission. I’d seen this before and it had been frightening.

  Crack his fucking skull open.

  My hand tightened on the baton and I stopped backing away. I pulled back to swing as he neared, and he roared as he lunged forward.

  I let out a shout as I brought the weapon forward. But at the last possible moment, I pulled back and whirled to the side, dodging his attack and avoiding striking his head. I spun around and delivered a hard blow into the backs of his legs.

  Pain shot through my hands and arms from the force of the strike, and I nearly dropped the baton.

  King fell, screaming, face first into the grass.

  I turned to look for my phone, and found a jogger sprinting up to me. I opened my mouth to ask him to call 911, but he leaped to straddle King’s hips, and began restraining his hands with zip ties.

  When he finished, he stood up, faced me and panted out, “Dr. Miles, my name is Amid and I work for Cipher Systems.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  *Steven*

  Ken’s Sunday routine was predictable, and that gave me several options for my ambushing plans.

  I knew I could get up at five-thirty and wait for him to arrive at the Monument around six. This plan was good because it meant I could settle things earlier, rather than later—and if for some reason he didn’t run today, I’d realize it without too much standing around and waiting.

  The downside was that it would be pre-run. Post-run Ken was more agreeable. I felt like I might have had a better shot at forgiveness if I let him have his exercise first.

  Another option was hanging out in Buzzy’s until he came in for his coffee. This idea had merit because waiting in a busy coffee shop was a heck of a lot safer than the Monument at dawn. But I’d had to reject this idea because he didn’t always stop at Buzzy’s, and I couldn’t risk missing him.

  I decided that waiting at the fountain for him to finish was what I was going to do. This allowed me to arrive once the sun had come up, at least. Now that it was October, sunrise was later than it had been back in the summer, and even though there were still very few people out here at this time, I felt safer in the daylight. King or no King, I wouldn’t have felt great standing alone in the dark at the park, anyway.

  Unfortunately, waiting for Ken to finish meant I had to stand here for possibly up to two hours, depending on the length of his run, before I’d give up and go home. For all the thought I’d put into when I was going to do this, I’d neglected to dress appropriately and was in a thin, long-sleeved V-neck T-shirt and jeans. My only excuse was that I’d been nervous when I was getting ready and started sweating. Added warmth hadn’t crossed my mind. The clothes selection was entirely based on the one time Ken said my shoulders looked great in this shirt.

  So, here I was—bringing my shoulder A-game, trying to shield myself from the breeze by standing just behind the planter below the first pillars of the monument. Rather than being worried about being accosted by criminals, I was starting to worry I’d be mistaken for one. I was sure I looked suspicious and strange skulking behind the stone monument. I could just imagine having to explain what I was doing.

  Well, you see, officer, I’m just waiting here in the crisp, early hours hoping to ambush my ex-boyfriend in the hopes he’ll take me back. Totally normal behavior. Nothing to worry about.

  It’s fine.

  I’m fine.

  It’s fine. Over and over, I repeated it to myself. I wanted to believe it—tried to be optimistic—but I had resolved to go way outside my comfort zone and face my fears by confessing everything to Ken and Quinn. It was hard for me to believe that by doing all the things I was too afraid to do before I’d end up with a positive result.

  Paulie was sure Ken would forgive me.

  Ernesto was sure Quinn wouldn’t fire me.

  All I knew was that I couldn’t keep going the way I was.

  I needed Ken back in my life.

  I needed to feel like I was on solid footing again.

  I needed to be honest.

  Quinn was coming back from Boston tomorrow. I was going to tell him everything—from the first scuffle in the apartment, to enlisting Alex’s help investigating, to the unhinged greeting cards I’d been receiving. I had to give this burden over and ask for help.

  I hadn’t gotten any cards in the mail since Ken and I had split, and all last night I’d fought with myself over it. I was tempted to take the lack of communication as a sign that King’s torment was ending—and therefore no need to involve anyone. But I’d used that excuse several times before and it always started again. I also knew that if I wanted Ken back in my life, I was going to have to do it.

  At some point I realized I wasn’t going to tell Quinn about King just to appease Ken. I was going to tell him because I needed to do it for my own peace of mind. It had taken a toll on me, this secrecy and fear.

  I just hoped my relationship with Quinn would weather it. If not, I hoped I had Ken by my side to support and love me. If not…well, Paulie and Ern might have a sad, lost squatter sleeping on their couch for a while.

  After a time, I got lost in thoughts of Ken, wondering how he was doing, wondering if his trip to Cleveland was stressful, wondering if he missed me, wondering if he still loved me.

  And I wondered what his reaction was going to be when he found me here waiting for him. Would he turn on his heel and walk away? Would he tell me to leave him alone?

  I didn’t have any idea, and that worried me.

  My attention was snagged by a large figure emerging from the trees to the left. The way the man stepped forward with purpose and swiftness, immediately set me on edge. He was walking toward me, and it was difficult to make out much detail because the sun was behind him, casting his front in shadow. I could tell by his tall build, he wasn’t King, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a threat.

  Just as I readied myself for a confrontation, the man held up his hand and called out to me. “Steven!”

  I recognized the voice as Damon’s and held up my hand to shield my eyes against the sun to try to see his face more clearly. “Damon?”

  The guard loped up to me, a concerned expression on his face. “There’s a car coming for us in a minute. Dr. Miles was just attacked.”

  * * *

  “How far down is he?” I asked, scanning the trail as Josh turned the SUV onto Lake Shore.

  “Amid said they’re a quarter-mile north of Monroe,” Damon replied from the backs
eat.

  As soon as the words left his mouth, I saw Ken. I saw his blond mop blowing in the breeze as he sat on a bench near the harbor. “Stop!” I pointed to the right. “Park in the grass, park in the grass.”

  Josh turned and drove over the curb to maneuver the car between two trees in the sloping, grassy area separating the highway from the trail. Before he could come to a full stop, I was opening my door and hopping out.

  “Ken!” I yelled. He stood up from the bench and relief suffused me. He really was okay. I hadn’t believed Damon when he tried to assure me—the word attack evoking all sorts of horrendous images and ideas.

  But as I got closer to him, I saw the swollen state of his eye and the cut on his cheek. “Oh, no. No, no, no!” I grabbed up his hands in mine, afraid to hug him in case he was bruised anywhere else, and he let out a little hiss of pain at the contact.

  I looked down and saw his right hand was also bruising.

  I dropped it. “Shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I apologized frantically. “Where else are you hurt? Is it just your face and hand? Are you okay? Your cheek is bleeding! I’m calling an ambulance—you need to see a doctor. I know you’re a doctor,” I rambled as I pulled my phone from my pants. “But you still need to go. Even doctors need doctors, right?”

  “Steven,” he interjected. “I’ve called for emergency services already. They’re on their way.”

  “Oh, yeah, of course.” I slid the phone back into my pocket and stared at him.

  He raised his left hand to stroke my cheek with his knuckle. “Why are you so cold?”

  “Because of my shoulders,” I replied absently, examining his face. The small cut on his cheek and the swelling that was making his right eye puff up looked painful and I suspected it was going to be one hell of a shiner.

  His brow furrowed. “What?”

  I waved my hand dismissively, unconcerned with talk of my temperature. I wanted to examine him more—find out if he was hurt elsewhere. I looked over his body, from his shoulders to his feet and said, “I was waiting at the Monument for you.”