Friendly Fire

by Cari Z.

  It wasn’t just the sex either, as fantastic as it had been, that was making Lennox linger in Elliot’s mind. Fantastic sex was a given when Elliot made the effort, which he always did. So what if Lennox had been the toppiest person who had ever let Elliot fuck him? So what if he’d brought out a talkative side of Elliot that, more often than not, he stifled during sex? So what if he’d been ridden hard and put away wet and satisfied?

  It was how Elliot had felt when he was around Lennox that was hard to get over. It wasn’t often he didn’t have to put on a show; he tried not to with the people he really liked, or with his clientele. Authenticity was part of his brand, after all. But there were only so many smiles you could muster in a single day before they began to feel tired, only so many positive messages you could relay before you stopped considering them and just started saying them.

  For now though, he needed to be focused on other things: on his videos, on coordinating the Meetup, on covering up the dead snake in his trash with so much junk he could almost forget it was there. He needed to forget Lennox West, but he couldn’t.

  With Lennox, his playful overtures had been met, his flirtation had been matched, but Lennox hadn’t been calculating. It was clear from how Lennox had been around his daughter: earnest, funny, still trying to understand her when there was no way he could relate to the trials of a thirteen-year-old girl. He’d treated Elliot like that, and it had felt . . . good. Natural, easy. Even their argument hadn’t been much of an argument.

  Elliot had been prepared to make it easy for Lennox to leave―it was why he’d called the tow early. He’d assumed Lennox would want to get out of there as fast as possible, that he’d be uncomfortable with him, have given him up for a lost cause. Elliot hadn’t expected compassion, and he certainly hadn’t expected the offer of help at the very end. Elliot could handle a showdown, but what did you do when the person you were ready to brawl with forfeited the fight?

  You watched them walk away, apparently.

  It had been the right move at the time; Elliot was sure of it. He didn’t need to involve anyone else in his situation. Things would either get better, or . . . well. They’d get ugly, but he could and would take care of himself. The fact that he wanted to call Lennox now, not because he needed his help, but just to talk to him?

  That was problematic.

  Even running hadn’t distracted him. Elliot wasn’t one of those people who could run and zone out, hit his groove and follow it down a road for miles and miles. In all honesty, he loathed running so much that he had to focus on other things while he did it, so running was also when he got some of his best ideas for his podcasts. Running was supposed to be awful but productive, damn it, not awful and made worse by pining like an idiot.

  If he’d been a decent cook, Elliot would have thrown himself into a complicated recipe. Stuart called cooking the coq au vin of distractions, but everything Elliot could whip up was far from gourmet. He’d tried to work, but work failed to keep his mind off how much nicer it would be if the only other living thing in his house wasn’t a tiny dog who, while great for cuddling, wasn’t an ideal conversationalist.

  Elliot remembered a conversation he’d had with Willie about why she’d gone through five husbands. “I couldn’t stand any of them for long,” she’d said, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the warm California air. “But I could stand being alone even less.” Elliot didn’t think he was quite that bad. He’d lasted with Mischa for almost three years, after all. He wasn’t a misanthropist, but he also hadn’t had someone he could be himself with since Willie’s death. And before that, with his family . . . Elliot shook his head and checked his to-do list. There had to be something he could occupy himself with. Or someone.

  What the hell. He’d been meaning to call Stuart and check in on the menu anyway.

  The man picked up on the first ring. “Elliot! Hi! It’s so good to hear from you! I called you a few days ago but I guess you were busy.”

  Elliot smiled a little. Stuart reminded him of a puppy: tripping over his own ears as he tumbled from subject to subject but always coming back for a scratch under the chin. Elliot didn’t often need the adulation Stuart offered, but it was gratifying every now and then. “Things are very intense with the business right now. Speaking of that, did Serena get you the final numbers for the guests at the Meetup?”

  “Yeah, she did. Don’t worry, I’ve got the most amazing Super Bowl food that these people have ever tasted coming their way.”

  “Perfect.” It wasn’t as haute cuisine as Elliot had originally planned, but Stuart had talked him around to the idea. The Executive Meetup would be half conference, half Super Bowl party, with the game projected on one entire wall of the theater he was renting. It was the perfect thing for his local clients, and would give him the flexibility to leave when he needed to switch venues with few people taking note, as long as the game was good. “How about for the Black Box?”

  “Elegant but understated. I feel like we could have gone bigger with that one, though. I mean, you could do a five-course plated meal with the kind of money that—”

  “It has to be something I can handle by myself, remember,” Elliot said. “That means the food has to stand on its own merits, not rely on presentation to have an impact.”

  “I could help you serve it. I swear I wouldn’t say anything to anyone about who was there.”

  Coming from Stuart, Elliot actually believed it. But it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take. “You’ll be there to help me set up and take down, and that’s favor enough. I’ll make sure they know who the caterer is. Who knows? You might get some business from a few big names.”

  “Would you like to come over to my house for a tasting?” Stuart’s voice went bright and eager. “I could whip up a few of the dishes you approved for each event and you could see what you think about wine pairings!”

  And here was where things began to go sour. Stuart was Elliot’s most loyal client, and had been one of the first to sign on to the Charmed Life program, paying for all the bells and whistles. He’d come a long way from his early failed businesses, and the allegations of fraud that had gone along with it, into the upscale food empire he was building today. But he didn’t understand the line that existed between personal and business relationships, and it was a line Elliot wasn’t going to cross. He couldn’t afford to, with the extra attention―and scrutiny―Charmed Life was getting these days. “Thanks, Stuart, but I think we’ll save the tasting for the office. I need to get Serena to approve everything anyway. I’ll talk to you again later this week. Don’t forget to hit up the message boards, okay?”

  Stuart sighed heavily. “Okay.”

  “Bye, buddy.” Elliot ended the call, then set his phone aside. He was tired, slightly horny, and edgy as hell. Running had failed him, but he still hadn’t changed his sheets, so a nap wasn’t an option until he felt less lazy, and jerking off would only be frustrating. What could he do that would require all of his attention?

  The answer was obvious once he thought about it. Reinvigorated, Elliot let Holly out back for a minute while he shrugged his Burberry wool coat over his sweater. Elliot was a lot of things, but tolerant of the cold wasn’t one of them. He grabbed his leather gloves, let Holly inside, and armed the alarm, then headed for his Porsche.

  Elliot fired the car up and drove north on his small, two-lane road at double the speed limit. The sky was beginning to drop a few snowflakes here and there, and the ground was clear of packed snow. On a gray Sunday when the Broncos were playing, he wasn’t going to run into anyone on this route, and Lookout Mountain Road would connect with the interstate eventually, which he could take home. Elliot opened up the throttle and let his car go. He had fifteen miles of sparse residences, sharp turns, and the occasional deer to play around with. It was enough, finally, to get his mind off of Lennox.

  After a few minutes, his phone rang. Elliot checked where it was plugged in—unknown number. Brilliant: a telemarketer. He ended the call and kept goin
g.

  The phone rang again. And again. Elliot accepted the call on the fourth attempt, because someone so persistent obviously needed to be told no in person. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

  “But I’m interested in what you’re selling, Mr. McKenzie.”

  Elliot started in his seat. The caller’s voice was unnaturally deep; it was impossible to tell if it was a man or woman. “Who is this?”

  “That’s not important. What’s important is that you pay very close attention to what I have to say, because if I have to prove to you that I’m serious, you’re not going to like it.”

  “That’s an imprecise threat. I don’t have time for this.” He reached to end the call, but the voice broke in.

  “It looks like you do need proof, then. Go ahead, Mr. McKenzie. Try out your brakes.”

  It only took one tap for the numbing, icy terror to settle over his limbs and in the depths of his stomach. The brakes had stopped working. Or maybe they were working, just . . . not for him. He didn’t bother to test the accelerator; he was already heading downhill, speeding up would just make things worse. Elliot took a deep breath. “This is an interesting cry for attention. What do I have to do to get control of my car back?”

  “No threats in return? No begging me to restore your brakes to you? I’m impressed by your sangfroid. To the point, then. I want all copies of the Singularity patent information that you stole from Redback Industries.”

  “I didn’t steal any patent information,” Elliot said immediately. “Whoever told you that is lying.”

  “My own eyes can’t lie to me, Mr. McKenzie. Careful on that turn up ahead.”

  Elliot gritted his teeth as the Porsche roared into a sharp turn between two rock faces. The suggested speed was twenty-five; he was going almost sixty. The car hugged the road well enough, but it was starting to get slick out. Pushing in the clutch, he forced the car to downshift. The engine whined angrily at him.

  An old VW bus honked loudly as he darted around it, then leveled the car’s path out on the next section of road. He snapped, “I’m telling you, I don’t have any patent information. Is this Lehrer?”

  “You thought no one would notice, in the aftermath of everything that happened at Redback, the chaos of the trial? You thought you could steal the blueprints for the world’s most precise viral delivery system and nobody would be the wiser?” It shouldn’t have been possible for so much malice to come through a voice disguiser, but this person was communicating it loud and clear.

  “Well, I am, Mr. McKenzie. I know you’ve got them, and I know what your Black Box meeting is really selling. So don’t feed me a line about living a genuine life, because I am genuinely telling you right now: if you don’t return that information to Pullman, along with a very sincere apology, you might not live to regret it.”

  “What, the snake wasn’t enough of a warning, now you’ve got to threaten to kill me too?” Elliot demanded. He pushed hard against the shifter, trying to get down to second. Smoke from his grinding gears was stinking up the car. “Come on, c’mon . . .” He passed a cherry-red Corvette, narrowly missing its front wheels as he jerked his car back over into the lane to avoid the gravel truck heading up the canyon. And it wasn’t the only one. What was a road crew doing working on a Sunday?

  His speedometer read forty-five. Better, but not good enough. Still, if he killed the engine, gravity would slow him down pretty fast. He went for it, and waited breathlessly to see if it took. The engine turned off—perfect. He still couldn’t use his brakes, though, and if he stayed in his lane he would rear-end a ubiquitous Subaru filled with gawkers who weren’t even doing thirty-five. They had a BABY ON BOARD sticker on the back window of the car. But now he wasn’t going fast enough to pass the semi that was coming up the other side of the canyon. Elliot’s throat clenched.

  “No more games, Mr. McKenzie. I suggest you hand over everything you’ve got to Mr. Pullman before your Black Box meeting. If you survive this little outing, of course.” The call ended, and Elliot had only seconds left before he either hit the car ahead of him or pulled out in front of a semitruck.

  He went with the third option, and jerked his car over to smash its side into the rocky face of the granite hill that framed the road. The impact was like belly flopping into a pool from the high dive; he couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. The scream his car made as it scraped the bare rock stabbed into his skull like an ice pick through the eye. He was almost grateful when the car began to spin, then roll, and the noise finally stopped.

  Then his head hit the ceiling, and everything went black.

  Was this the third or fourth person to shine a fucking light in his eyes? Elliot wasn’t sure, but he was damn tired of it. It had been bad enough getting it from the paramedics who’d picked him up, and who had patently refused to listen when he said he was fine, no really, he’d walked out of the wreckage of his car with hardly a scratch on him! As if looking at the carcass of his Porsche hadn’t made him want to cry, he had to be subjected to the medical equivalent of musical chairs now?

  “You’re a very lucky man, Mr. McKenzie,” Dr.—his name tag was a little blurry, Elliot had to tilt his head to make it out—Chen said as he pulled back and finally, blessedly, turned the fucking light off. “Apart from the cut on your scalp, what seems to be a mild concussion, and a few deep contusions, I can’t find anything wrong with you. You’re going to be incredibly sore for the next week or so though, as your chest heals.” Right, where he’d slammed against the seat belt. “But overall your car did an excellent job of protecting you.”

  “So it did,” Elliot said mournfully. The cut on his head had bled badly, but was small enough that it had been sealed with glue, not stitches. Thank God for that; the last thing he needed to deal with was a wound that everyone could stare at to go with the gaping hole in his self-confidence.

  “The police have already been here to take your statement?”

  “Yes.” And to administer a breathalyzer―the second one, actually, on top of the one he’d had done in the ambulance. No, he’d said, he wasn’t drunk. Yes, he’d lost control of the vehicle. No, he didn’t know where he wanted the wreckage towed yet.

  Elliot needed to know what had gone wrong in his car. It had been hacked, obviously; he needed to know how, but he didn’t want the cops involved any more than they already were. Word would go up the chain, he knew it; his sister would hear about his accident before the day was out. He let himself muse for a second on whether or not Vanessa would break her silence to check and see if he was all right. He could text her, and maybe she’d finally answer. He could call her, and maybe this time she’d pick up.

  But Elliot wanted to reach out too much for it to possibly be a good idea. He was so close to exonerating himself, to making up for ruining everything for her five years ago. He couldn’t falter now. He couldn’t bring her into this, couldn’t risk entangling her. Not until she won the election. He sighed.

  “Tired?” Dr. Chen asked sympathetically.

  “Very.” He tried to muster a smile, but it probably wasn’t half as charming as it should be. “I’d really like to go home.” Call a cab, get back to Holly—she had to be losing it now—and fall into bed with some over-the-counter painkillers. A night to remember.

  “I’d like to do a CT scan first, just to make sure there’s no brain damage. After that, though, you’re welcome to go home, as long as you have someone there to supervise you for twenty-four hours.”

  That didn’t sound good. “Supervise?”

  “You’ve been in a very serious accident, Mr. McKenzie. It’s only reasonable that you have a family member or friend stay with you to ensure you don’t suffer any complications. I’m prepared to make it a condition of your release,” he added when Elliot indignantly opened his mouth. “You can think about it while you’re in the CT.”

  Dr. Chen had vastly overrated the comforts of a damn CT machine if he thought Elliot was going to be doing any quality consider
ation inside of one, but it wasn’t hard to narrow down his options. The only person off the top of his head that he could think to call was Serena, but that would mean he’d have to explain to her what had happened tonight.

  Any other person, any other night, and Elliot would be able to bullshit his way through the facts until they believed it really was an accident. But Serena knew him, the real him, or as close as he ever got. She’d never buy that he’d been joyriding up Lookout Mountain and lost control of his car. And even if she did buy it, and agreed to stay with him for a while, what if something else happened at the house? What if Lehrer left the other half of the snake hanging out of his mailbox? What if things escalated further?

  Not to mention, he needed someone to look at his car and figure out what the hell had gone wrong. Hacking a car: that was the sort of thing that happened in spy movies, not in real life. Elliot almost wanted to check for tiny cameras. That had to be the concussion talking. But who could he go to that he could trust to keep quiet about it?

  “Call me if you need help.”

  Elliot groaned. A voice came in over the speaker: “Mr. McKenzie, you need to be quiet and hold still while the CT scan is going.”

  Elliot cut off his simultaneous urges to apologize and say, “Fuck you.” Oh god, he was going to be that guy, wasn’t he? The one who showed somebody the door and came sniffing back the very next day, looking for a favor from Lennox and his MIT friend. This favor might entail saving his life, but he felt like an idiot just considering it. You’ll feel like more of an idiot if you die out of stubbornness.

  Eventually he was let out of the machine and returned to the examination room. Dr. Chen joined him a few minutes later, and cheerfully pronounced him brain-bleed-free. “Only a little swelling, like we thought,” he said. “Hold still for a moment, please.” He injected him with a syringe so smoothly Elliot barely noticed it.