My Super Sexy Spy

by Doyle, S.

  But the thing about all those guidebooks is that they were pretty bland. No real descriptions or heart. Just facts.

  So that’s what I wrote about. Places where I wanted to go. Only I wrote about them as if I’d actually been there. I would research the shit out of a city or area or town, use Google maps and images. It was almost like I was there.

  Walking the streets of places like London and Paris, San Diego and Seattle. I wrote about how those places made me feel, not only what was cool about them or what touristy thing a person should do there.

  I called my blog A Lover’s Guide to Travel. And the absolute most bat-shit crazy thing happened.

  It went viral. Not overnight or anything, but after a couple months I was getting hundreds of comments on each blog post. Then came the emails from people who wanted to pay me money to advertise on my site.

  Money. For writing about places I’d only researched. It was like the universe was trying to hook a sister up!

  I went from living on the streets to living in seedy motel rooms. To nicer motel rooms. To an apartment, and now, a condo. That I owned.

  Meeting Jared at a bar near his college campus, it felt like that was the next move. The next step away from the life I’d had and toward something that would look and feel normal.

  After a few years, it was almost like I’d never been there. On the streets. At all. Like I was a regular person who grew up in a traditional home. A woman Jared’s mother felt worthy of at least pretending to like.

  Only now he was my ex-boyfriend.

  The really horrible part about tonight wasn’t getting dumped. It was the guilt I felt at what I’d done to Jared. I did like him. I’d never not liked him. He was easy and comfortable.

  Jared was like a sweater in the winter. Warm and soft and fuzzy.

  Except my decision to date him had been practical, not emotional, and that was wrong.

  Maybe I was too broken. Maybe those months on the street, during which I’d had to be constantly hyperalert every second of every day, made it so I would never trust another human being again. That I would never open up, emotionally, to anyone.

  Because Jared was right about that, too. I worked solo. I didn’t really have any good friends. Any of the ones I’d had growing up, I’d had to scrape off or get sucked down into the gutter with them.

  I had advertisers who I dealt with and had casual contact with them.

  But really, there was only Leigh. Jared was right about that, too. She was someone I’d recently started chatting with online. A fan and reader who commented a lot on my blogs. One day I replied to her comment and we’d struck up one of those odd connections. Which led to the very existential twenty-first century question.

  In the age of the internet, could you consider someone you’d never met a friend?

  Not that I cared. Because what did it matter if I didn’t have people in my life? I wasn’t lonely. Should I have been lonely?

  That was the impetus for me deciding the last piece of putting my life back together was getting a boyfriend. Once I had that, then I could really pretend I’d made it through a shitty teenage experience.

  Only the truth was that hadn’t made me normal. It had just checked off a requirement I thought I needed in my life. Which meant I was still pretty broken. Having a meth-head mom will do that to a person.

  Okay, so maybe the whole Jared dumping me thing was another message from the universe. Maybe it was telling me I needed to change things.

  I glanced down at what I was wearing underneath the coat I hadn’t bothered to take off. Yoga pants, T-shirt and yes, I’d bothered to put on a bra.

  He was right about that, too. It was what I’d slept in the night before.

  Nothing was changing tonight though. I could deal with my not normal life tomorrow.

  Tonight, I planned to drink wine, curse Jared in my head, and remind myself that no matter what shitty stuff had happened to me today, I was still a million miles away from my worst day on the streets.

  I thought of someone who I could tell about my public dumping. Someone who might listen while I bitched about my now ex.

  Walking over to my desk I snatched my MacBook Air. My most prized possession. I’d started my blog on an old PC in a library, and with my first real check from advertisers I’d bought the Mac and with it, my independence.

  I could write anywhere, get free access to Wi-Fi at any Starbucks or Barnes and Noble. I could explore the world and tell people all about it from a shitty motel room with one window and a squeaky bed.

  I poured my glass of wine, sat on the couch with my laptop and opened up my latest blog post and read the last comment.

  LEIGH: You can’t be serious. You can’t say that bread is simply breadier in France.

  I smiled. Okay, she might not actually be a real friend, but she was something. Our back and forth messages had started when Leigh, after raving about a piece I wrote, would ask some questions, which forced me to do even more research to provide the answers.

  I never lied about being in those places…exactly. However, it was probably a given to anyone reading the blog that I was speaking from experience.

  From there the questions and answers changed to basic chit-chat. Eventually we became Facebook friends and messaged each other through direct messaging. Now Messenger was an app on my phone as well. As if we were texting, we talked a couple times a day.

  Opening our last chat, I tossed out a lifeline.

  ME: Hey, you around?

  Reading over our last conversation I realized it had ended a little abruptly. I’d told her about the book deal a New York publisher was offering. I grimaced at how curt I’d sounded.

  LEIGH: That’s amazing. A whole book written by you. You should be so proud.

  ME: I don’t know. They’re really bugging for pictures and stuff. Selfies with me around the world. They want me to grow my social media platform on Instagram and shit like that.

  See, with Leigh it was okay to curse. Okay to be myself.

  LEIGH: So? What’s wrong with that? You want to sell books don’t you?

  ME: I don’t do pictures.

  LEIGH Why? Are you ugly? Scars? Warts?

  ME: No, BITCH! I’m normal looking…well except my nose ring. I just hate the idea of promoting myself. The blog is about the places I write about. The location is the star…not me.

  LEIGH: Sure, but you like money, right?

  ME: I like my privacy better.

  That made me wince. Because it wasn’t exactly true. The real reason I didn’t want to do pictures and selfies of me traveling the world…is because I didn’t want to travel the world!

  Travel meant flying to places, putting myself out there. Leaving home for days and weeks at a time. Something that felt entirely unsafe.

  Traveling would also mean experiencing life instead of just writing about it.

  I sipped my wine and hated my self-doubt.

  My computer dinged with the notification of a message.

  LEIGH: Yeah I’m here. What’s up?

  ME: Just having a shitty night. Wanted to feel like I had a friend in the universe.

  LEIGH: Sorry you’re having a bad night. But I’m totally your friend. Internet friends are real. Just ask anyone else who has an internet friend.

  ME: I got dumped by my boyfriend of two years.

  LEIGH: Oh shit! Are you heartbroken? Do you need me to fly to Philadelphia so we can eat a tub of ice cream together and bitch about him?

  I smiled and took another sip of wine. See, there was someone out there who had my back. I wasn’t completely cut off from society. Take that, Jared!

  ME: No, I’m not heartbroken. Which probably makes me a crappy person. I just really liked saying I had a boyfriend. It made me feel normal about my life.

  LEIGH: What’s not normal about your life?

  No way was I telling her about my history. It would freak her out. I’d told Jared, because he wanted to know why I was twenty and still living in a motel room when
we met. At the time, he’d reacted with pity and that was the last thing I needed tonight.

  ME: Just the normal shit everyone probably has. Nothing extraordinary.

  LEIGH: Was he good in bed? Are you going to miss the sex?

  ME: I am NOT going to miss the sex. You want to know a secret?

  LEIGH: Always…

  I took another sip of wine. This was a step. This was an opening-up step that was probably going to leave me feeling totally vulnerable tomorrow.

  ME: I don’t really like it. Sex, I mean—so there, that’s not normal.

  Was there a little bit of a pause there? Was I imagining that? Hell, for all I knew she just went up to get a glass of water.

  LEIGH: My guess is that has everything to do with the person you’re having sex with—and not about you.

  ME: I’m not gay or anything. If that’s what you’re thinking. I like dicks. I really do. I just sometimes don’t see the point.

  LEIGH: Again—that’s about the guy dicking you. Not you.

  ME: Thanks. I can’t believe I actually admitted that.

  LEIGH: That’s what internet friends are for! Total anonymity while we confess our biggest secrets.

  I sent her a smiley face and said goodnight. Then I logged off, finished my wine, and got into my nice, soft, comfortable bed. And just like I did every night since I’d learned how hard a bench was, or a cardboard bed, or any of the other shitty places where I slept when I was homeless, I said a silent prayer to whatever gods watched over me back then to get me to this place.

  * * *

  The next morning I was working on a blog about Kyoto, Japan, when my cell phone started to ring. It was sitting on my desk and started to shake across the wood as it vibrated. I checked out the name on the screen and cringed.

  Did I want to deal with this now?

  Knowing how persistent she could be, I decided there was no avoiding it.

  I hit Accept and answered the phone. “Hey, Andrea.”

  “Oh good, I got you. Not sure if you would be around at this hour.”

  “Yep. You can usually catch me at this time.” Any time really. I was pretty much always home.

  “So, have you considered what we talked about last week? I think this would be a super huge opportunity for you.”

  Andrea was the editor from McMillan Publishing.

  “What you’re asking isn’t exactly easy for me,” I said, trying to be a little cagey.

  “What are you talking about? You’re a travel writer. You go places and write about them. All we’re asking is that you start taking pictures with you in the places you write about. A ‘where in the world is Beth Ryan today’ Instagram account that will explode in popularity. You in Paris, London, Rome. Eating pizza, meeting hot European men. We build your platform, then we turn that into a coffee table book that will practically sell itself.”

  Could I do this? Could I actually push myself to go see the places I’d only experienced through the internet? Maybe this was what I needed. Maybe this was the proverbial push out the door that would change my life.

  Because the truth was, I probably wouldn’t have done it on my own initiative.

  “Selfies, huh?” I said, no doubt giving her hope I was changing my mind.

  “We’re willing to go so far as giving you a travel budget as part of your advance. It probably won’t cover everything, but it will give you some cushion to really explore an area in-depth.”

  I glanced around my empty condo and thought about leaving it. Yes, it scared the shit out of me. But so had leaving my mom. And that had worked out for the best.

  I swallowed once then nodded. Not that Andrea could see.

  “Okay. You’ve got a deal. But I’m not using a selfie stick.”

  2

  The Next Day

  Beth

  I was walking home with a little extra bounce in my step. I’d done it. I’d gone to see a travel agent and I’d booked a two-week trip abroad. Three cities I hadn’t yet written about—Venice, Florence and Rome—and, finally, Paris, which I felt I knew already, but was going to now actually experience.

  With the expense money, the advance money on the book, and my normal savings I’d done it all first class. Flights, hotels. Nothing but the best. I mean, if I was going to attempt to break free out of the shell I’d formed around myself, why not do it in style?

  Turning a corner, I caught someone in my periphery vision. Six-feet, dark hair, black suit with a tie. Sunglasses. I’d seen him when I was coming out of the travel agency, too. Now, two blocks farther away and one block over, and he was still walking in my general direction.

  On the opposite side of the road, but still it felt too close. For the past few weeks I’d had that vague feeling of being watched. A feeling I’d told myself was based on my general paranoia. Now, I wasn’t sure.

  I kept my pace steady and, once I turned so I was out of his view, I stepped into the first store available. A small convenience mart that had a cashier and mounted camera behind the register in case of a robbery.

  If I was right and the guy across the street was following me, he would walk right by without realizing he’d passed me. I reached inside the satchel across my chest and wrapped my hand around the can of mace I always carried with me.

  The mace was the second thing I’d bought after my MacBook, and the moment I’d gripped it, I’d known a sense of security that had eluded me in the time I’d spent homeless.

  I watched as the suit blew by the store, and I could see by the kick in his step that he was startled to see I wasn’t ahead of him on the street.

  Pushing open the door, I pulled the mace out of my bag and came up behind him. This dude was following me, and I needed to know why. I was mostly a recluse these past few years, according to Jared. There was no reason anyone had to tail me, and nothing from my past should have found me after all this time.

  “Hey, asshole,” I called out as I came up behind him. “Anyone tell you stalking is a crime? Tell me right now why I shouldn’t call the fucking cops on you.”

  I was not going to call the cops. As far as I was concerned, they were still the enemy. But if I could scare this guy into thinking I would, then maybe that would be enough to shake him loose.

  He stopped walking once he realized I was behind him. He turned slowly with his hands lifted and spotted the can of mace held out toward him.

  “Beth, just wait a second,” he said slowly.

  That only got me angrier. “How the fuck do you know my name?”

  “Listen to me. I’m going to reach into my jacket pocket and pull out ID. Okay? I’m a law enforcement officer, and I was only following you because I wanted to talk to you.”

  I lifted my chin in consent. He took off his sunglasses and tucked them in the suit pocket, then pulled out a badge with an ID next to it.

  FBI.

  What. The. Fuck?

  “I was following you to get a sense of your habits before I approached you. Nothing creepy, I swear.”

  “What does the FBI want with me?” I’d been a nickel-and-dime crook years ago. Surely they were not coming after me for anything I’d done to survive so many years later.

  “We just want to talk to you. Do you have some time now? We could go back to your place—”

  “No way,” I cut him off. “Not unless you have a warrant.”

  He shook his head. “No, nothing like that. How about a cup of coffee?” He’d put his badge away and gestured toward the end of the street where there was a Starbucks on the corner.

  Curious, despite myself, I nodded. Putting my mace away, I followed him and took a table in the corner while he bought us two black coffees.

  When he sat down, I took note of his appearance. Military style cut hair, sharp jaw line, clearly fit without being bulky. He was handsome in the traditional sense and yet I was totally unaffected by him. The badge put him solidly in the not-my-type camp.

  “Talk. I’m listening,” I said, sipping my coffee even as I kept m
y eyes on him.

  “The truth is, you’ve been under surveillance for the past few weeks, Beth.”

  I knew it. My street sense for trouble was still apparently in working condition after being dormant for a few years.

  “Why the hell do I need to be under surveillance?”

  “We’re wondering if you’ve had any contact from your father recently.”

  I snorted with humor. Because of his continued use of the pronoun we. Like he somehow represented more than just himself. And because of his mention of my father.

  “Is this a joke?” I looked around the Starbucks like there were hidden cameras somewhere. “Am I being pranked?”

  “This is no joke. This is a matter of national security.”

  No. Fucking. Way. Then I tipped my head back and laughed outright. “Dude…”

  “Agent Davies,” he supplied. I hadn’t looked at his ID all that close as the badge had distracted me.

  “Agent Davies, I don’t have a father.”

  His lips smirked. “I don’t want to have to explain the birds and the bees to you, Miss Ryan, but suffice to say we all have a father.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Right, what I meant was I don’t know who mine is. Other than he was some old professor type who liked apple pie and liked to bang my mom who worked as a waitress at a diner that made really good apple pie.”

  “You’ve never had contact with him?”

  “No. I don’t even know his name. She never told me much about him. He was Italian, which is where I got my dark hair and that’s about it. He wasn’t in our lives.”

  The agent frowned. “And no one has approached you recently? Any one you’re not familiar with in your day-to-day life?”

  I folded my arms over my chest and gave him my best are-you-kidding-me-right-now look.

  “Apart from me,” he clarified.

  “Nope. I work from home and I have a pretty tight circle of people.” More like non-existent, but I was pleased to see I could still lie to the fuzz without stumbling. “No one has approached me other than you.”