Who is Chloe Shaw?

by Aubrey Parker

  “Define notable.”

  “Names I’d recognize.”

  “I don’t know what you’d recognize, Chloe.”

  “Take a guess.”

  “Cole Ellison.”

  “I don’t know him. Who is he?”

  “Movie producer. They have no noted co-ventures, but were associated publicly through early social media.”

  “When?”

  “Twenty-teens.”

  “Like Anthony Ross.”

  Brad nodded. Chloe watched him, noting the nuances of his response. He was trying to guide her searches despite his prohibition from overtly doing so. Brad wasn’t a person, but he was learning from a person — in this case, mainly or exclusively Chloe herself. She could read people so easily — why shouldn’t she be able to intuit at least a little from a human-trained hologram?

  Brad’s eyes told her that this might be a loose end.

  “Who else has a similar connection? Other notable names, even if you don’t think I’d recognize them. Contemporary people in the vein of Spooner, Ross, this Ellison guy.”

  “Define in the vein of.”

  “I don’t know. People who ran in the same circles around the same time. High-powered people. Rich guys. Whatever.”

  “Nathan Turner. Onyx Scott.”

  “Is that the guy behind Forage?”

  “One of them. The other is Aiden Page, who I’d also list.”

  “I didn’t realize they were that old.”

  “They are. Forage used to be a search engine.” Then, clarifying probably because he knew Chloe wouldn’t recognize the term: “An independent method of searching digital content prior to Crossbrace.”

  “Who else?”

  “Caspian White, Ben Stone, Mateo—”

  “No way. Caspian White was around in the teens?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were all these guys tied to each other, or just to Spooner?”

  Brad gave Chloe a significant look: she’d asked the right question and scored a small hit. “They’re all associated with one another.”

  “They were one big group?”

  “Mutually associated,” Brad said, his voice careful.

  “All rich guys?”

  “Each had a documented wealth of at least one billion US dollars.”

  The way Brad said it seemed significant to Chloe. She made a mental note to run later searches, this time incorporating a new criterion: worth at least one billion US dollars.

  “Shit. An heir could really clean up in that kind of company.”

  Chloe had mostly mumbled it to herself, but Brad perked up.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe Mom was right to worry about me bothering him. With her telling her friends that Clive is my daddy — and with his friends all worth billions — if I told him that I wanted back child support …”

  Brad seemed confused. Genuinely confused.

  “What?” Chloe asked.

  “But you decided Spooner isn’t your father.”

  “I know. But he probably loved her once, right? I mean, they were together for years. He probably feels guilty that she raised me on her own. Maybe Mom even had him thinking he was responsible before they broke things off for good.” Noting his gaze, she said, “I was kidding, Brad. Forget I said anything.”

  But Brad was still eyeing her curiously. “I don’t understand, Chloe.”

  “Forget it. Just a joke.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s the premise of your joke. You don’t …” He trailed off. A goddamn computer, trailing off for dramatic effect.

  “What?”

  “Voyos call records show that they talked on and off in the year following your birth, before ceasing communications entirely.”

  “I know. So what? He let her down easy. But even Mom’s most casual comments can get their hooks in you — believe me, I know. I don’t have to see transcripts to know she was like, ‘So, Clive … the baby whose daddy you’re definitely not? I was showing her pictures of you. Telling her how important it was that she understand that you’re not her father, Clive. You have no responsibilities at all, Clive. I can handle things on my own, Clive. Even though I’m poor and you’re rich, and even though I know you feel no responsibility at all, despite the fact that we basically acted like husband and wife before you abandoned me.’”

  “He didn’t support her, Chloe. Or you.”

  “I know. He’s a stone-cold bastard. But I have to admire him, resisting my mom’s passive-aggressiveness.”

  Brad was shaking his head. “No, Chloe. You don’t understand. When you were looking through the records — when you saw that there was intermittent contact between Spooner and your mother for a while after you were born — I may have led you to a false conclusion.”

  “What? That Clive’s the kind of man who could hear about a girl he spent six years with in need of help, and turn his back without flinching?” Chloe laughed, even though the hairs on her neck were already standing. “So, he’s a man. He found somewhere else to stick his dick — damn the delusional Nicole Shaw and her baby girl.”

  “No,” Brad said. “I mean that although they talked and exchanged messages after your birth, Spooner didn’t turn his back on you, nor did he ignore Nicole’s subtle pleas for help.”

  “You’re saying he offered and Mom refused?”

  Nicole Shaw had never been good at keeping her mouth shut and was even worse at playing humble. She was excellent at letting men pay her way, so the idea of her refusing assistance when a powerful man offered it? Laughable.

  “No, Chloe. That’s not what I’m saying.”

  It hit her.

  Chloe couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen the obvious truth before.

  Her mother had been distraught. Hurt. She hadn’t begged for support.

  “She never told him …”

  Brad nodded. “There is no evidence in public that she ever said a thing. The records show that he never returned to Voyos. As far as The Beam can tell, Clive Spooner has no idea you exist.”

  Chloe exhaled.

  It meant nothing, of course. But she still couldn’t help but feel her mother’s pain. Nicole had shared her life with this man for years — and, judging by the call records, had drawn that pain out for a while afterward, keeping her secret forever.

  “Oh … Mom.” Chloe felt like crying.

  “You’re wondering what kind of emotional pain could have compelled her to hide the truth, aren’t you?”

  Chloe looked up.

  “You feel bad,” he went on. “Don’t you?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  Brad stared meaningfully into Chloe’s eyes, speaking without a single restricted word. “Maybe you should go see her.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Chloe only realized that she’d fallen asleep when the buzz of the alarm woke her.

  In her dream, she’d asked The Beam who she was and learned disconnected bits of what struck her as a sad story. She’d dreamed of a feverish search. A manic, obsessed search, from which she’d barely allowed herself to rest. She’d determined her parentage had something to do with the famous Clive Spooner, though Clive wasn’t her father — a dreamlike conclusion if ever there was one. Clive didn’t know she existed. So Chloe decided to go visit her mother, to dig for more information.

  It had to be a dream.

  Except it hadn’t been, and Chloe fought for clarity now, her head full of cobwebs and her eyes blurry from exhaustion. The buzz came again, and only then did Chloe realize that she’d fallen asleep spooning a couch cushion on the floor and was now blinking around with a scrap of paper stuck to her face.

  She reached up, pulled the paper away. “Brad?”

  He winked into existence, looking down without judgment.

  “Who’s buzzing?”

  Brad’s software keyed to her apartment’s Crossbrace connection and illuminated a display. Andrew appeared on the wall. He was in the lobby, unaware of the camera’s eyes.
<
br />   A piece of her broke. Chloe remembered his call, and that she’d never listened to his message. Most of all she remembered the way she’d left him: still asleep, a carefully worded note on the nightstand. As if she were the john and he the prostitute, emotional words instead of money in her wake.

  Watching him, knowing the uncertain impatience he must be feeling, she tried to remember her words. The note had been meticulous, but she’d felt conflicted. Had it carried the proper tone? Was it sad, or sappy, or lovey, or cruel? Chloe, in her emotionally confused state, had no idea which it might be.

  Did she love Andrew?

  Or was she wary of his hidden intentions?

  Was Andrew telling her the truth about his feelings for her?

  Or were the reservations she’d sensed (that subtle holding-back) a sign that the doubts were about Chloe herself?

  Had he been telling the truth when he’d said that he didn’t care what she did with her body, as long as her heart stayed with him?

  Or was the question itself flawed? What did enlightened people care about love versus lust?

  She watched his video image, almost wanting him to look up. She needed to see his eyes. Chloe didn’t know if she felt odd about Andrew or if she suspected he felt odd about her.

  The image blinked to black, timed out from Chloe’s inaction.

  She looked up at Brad.

  “I asked you a question. I didn’t ask you to turn on the video.”

  “Turning on video was an equivalent way to answer. It showed you who was buzzing, and his current disposition.”

  She’d only seen a bit of Andrew’s face, but Chloe could read his body language fine. He appeared to be worried. Concerned. Afraid that he’d done something wrong, probably minding the way Chloe had ignored then failed to return his call.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, Brad …”

  After a moment of silence, “I’m not ‘up to’ anything. I’m software.”

  Just like you didn’t wordlessly encourage me to keep investigating the loose ends around Spooner.

  What was he up to?

  A knock on the door.

  Brad had vanished.

  “Chloe?”

  Andrew’s voice. His timbre, the pause between his knock and speaking, the fact that he hadn’t yet repeated the knock. Chloe could hear his knuckles brush the Plasteel. He was hedging, his body close to the door, proximity dampening the usual echo.

  Subtleties. Nuance. Without a word, Chloe knew so much about Andrew in this moment — just like O’s prodigy always knew the nuances of the men around her.

  Stop analyzing him.

  Turn it off.

  Accept Andrew as himself, without your unfair advantage.

  But she couldn’t. Chloe needed to know.

  “Chloe, I know you’re in there.”

  And he did know. Chloe could hear his certainty. Maybe the same person who’d let him in from the lobby had also told him that Chloe was home.

  Maybe the “someone” who’d done both things had been her own traitorous porter.

  “Chloe? Please. I just want to talk.”

  Her heart was breaking. He didn’t need to say those words or adopt such an apologetic tone. Andrew had done nothing wrong. They hadn’t even fought.

  And yet, he sounded guilty.

  Why would Andrew feel that he’d done her wrong, and needed to “talk” … to right things between them?

  Guilt looped back and struck Chloe from her blind side.

  If Andrew felt guilty, it had to be because of something she’d done: something she’d said, something unintended in the tone of her note.

  She reached the door. Keyed the lock to open it.

  There was a pregnant second as they faced each other: Chloe inside and afraid to shatter the strange stalemate, Andrew across the threshold, unmoving as if for fear of shattering something fragile.

  I’m not mad at him.

  I’m not suspicious of him.

  I don’t want distance from him.

  This confusion is mine and has nothing to do with Andrew.

  I love him. And I don’t want to lose him like Mom lost Clive — or never had him in the first place.

  “Andrew, I—”

  He saved her the trouble of finishing her sentence. Cured her uncertainty. Closed the gap between wondering and knowing by shrinking the distance between them.

  He came forward in two big steps and wrapped Chloe in an embrace. His arms clasped her body to his so tightly it was as if he thought she might flee. He mashed his lips against hers like they were long-lost lovers who’d parted for weeks, months, years, decades.

  He was suddenly everything in all of her senses. Chloe saw the blur of his eyes as they closed to kiss her and felt the press of his full body against hers. She heard the small sounds of his breath, the dull thump of his pulse. She tasted his lips as his urgency moved to devour her. She smelled his skin and hair, a symphony of moments playing out in tiny scents that Chloe found herself able to categorize even as her heart gained speed: the pollen of free-growing stems he must’ve brushed on his walk over, the gel he’d used to shave while showering, the mist of petroleum from an ancient, unconverted truck that passed him on the street. He was everything. Everywhere for her.

  Chloe pulled herself back, succeeding only in gaining a half arm’s length. Andrew’s hands still gripped the small of her back, their hips pressed together.

  She leaned away and tried to find her center.

  Her breath had tripled in depth in seconds.

  Her heart was a hummingbird’s.

  Practically gasping as if from a sprint, Chloe said, “We need to talk.”

  “Not yet. Not now.”

  “It matters. Something is—”

  “It doesn’t matter enough.”

  “I’ve been confused. That day in the park was maybe the start of it — or maybe not. Working at O, it’s like—”

  “I’m not here for the O girl. I’m here for the other one. The Chloe I love.”

  His last word gripped her heart.

  They’d talked in circles, but until now she’d had to wonder. Was he sincere? Chloe thought so, but there was something else. He seemed almost desperate. And if there were two Chloes, there could be two Andrews.

  This already seemed subtly new. As if he had confronted and conquered something. As if Andrew had found a way past shyness, humor, and self-effacement long enough to discover another man inside: someone willing to say what he wanted then fight to get it.

  She tried to form a response. Andrew’s lips took her again instead.

  Chloe wasn’t going to control this.

  She didn’t want to.

  She wouldn’t play demure or cede control.

  Instead, Andrew would take it.

  Her knees went weak — whether from exhaustion or confusion or passion or arousal, Chloe didn’t know. His grip on her lower back tightened, squeezing their hips tighter. She felt his erection: a Plasteel-hard presence nestled in the space between her legs.

  Chloe shifted to put its pressure where her panting desire wanted it most. She ground into him and he ground back. His lips were furious. Chloe’s nipples firmed, her whole body suddenly needing his touch.

  Too many clothes. Too much restraint.

  She didn’t want to understand. She didn’t want to discuss or analyze or protest or postpone. She still didn’t know how she felt and it didn’t matter at all. There was only need and Andrew’s press against her: his hard cock, demanding entry. Now there was only her craving for him. The wetness of her pussy, pounding with her heart, empty and wanting.

  Andrew gripped Chloe’s shirt with both hands. He took a few seconds to fumble with its buttons, then flared with frustration and yanked.

  Buttons popped; fabric tore. The purr was like whispers in Chloe’s ear, making her need him harder, making her want to thrust her hand into her panties and relieve the pressure.

  She pawed Andrew’s shirt off, then worked his belt,
buttons, and zipper.

  He pushed her back. More. Steering her toward the bedroom.

  She’d unfastened enough at his waist that his cock was poking out of his boxers like an arrow. She reached for it, craving its heat, but Andrew continued to nudge, his bulge ticking with throbs like a metronome.

  Why wouldn’t he let her take it? She wanted it in her mouth, practically down her fucking throat.

  Right now, he could do anything to her. She was his for the asking.

  “Take it off, Chloe. All of it.”

  She reached for Andrew again as they reached the bedroom.

  “Not me,” he said. “You.”

  Her fingers went to what remained of her buttons. The blouse was ruined; she stripped it away. It hit the floor. Her body yearned, nipples greeting the cooler air.

  Andrew was still watching her, undoing his own pants, dropping them and the rest to the floor.

  His hard, thick cock commanded her gaze.

  Chloe had never wanted anything more.

  She’d never needed anything more.

  “Now the rest,” Andrew said, his eyes hungrier than she’d ever seen them.

  Simple words. Simple commands.

  Chloe burned from the inside out.

  You’ve fucked so many times before. Get a grip so you can enjoy this.

  But this Chloe — the one Andrew was watching like a predator eyeing its prey — hadn’t fucked much at all.

  This was Andrew’s Chloe, and she had never belonged to O.

  Goosebumps claimed her.

  Chloe watched him, half afraid and one hundred percent aroused.

  “Panties off, Chloe.” His hand went to his cock. Stroking, he said, “I want to see your pussy.”

  He’d never been like this. Andrew was soft and sweet. A pussycat. But right now, Chloe didn’t care. She liked him this way. She was always in charge of sex; even when she submitted, Chloe was only playing.

  This was different.

  Andrew had her off-balance.

  And oh, fucking hell was it hot.

  She followed his command, now nude with her pink lips blushed and wanting, shivering.

  Not from the cold. From this … this something new.

  “Get on the bed. All fours.”

  Chloe turned, looking back over her shoulder, feeling the wetness between her legs, anticipation thick within her.